Dan O'Shea - Penance

“Bullshit,” said Jones. The guy stopped and looked at him, waiting. Jones couldn’t think of what else he wanted to say.

“As difficult as it may be to rebut that well-reasoned argument, Mr Jones, allow me to continue. You are, of course, free to disagree, this being America and your rights being of such paramount concern to me.” The guy stopping for a second to give Jones this cold smile just in case Jones didn’t know bullshit when he heard it. “As I said, I considered Mr Hampton to be an honorable adversary. I do not extend that opinion to you. You, sir, are not an honorable man. You associated yourself with Mr Hampton for the social cachet attached to the movement. You found that being a revolutionary afforded you a degree of respect not attendant to your former activities as a thief and small-time criminal.”

Jones put up his hand and opened his mouth as if to interrupt, and the white guy stopped, raising his eyebrows. But Jones could think of nothing to say.

“Yes, quite,” said the white guy. “As I was saying, you attached yourself to the movement not out of any real sense of injustice or commitment but simply for your personal benefit. What I am now going to propose, Mr Jones, is that you act again for your personal benefit.”

The white guy stopped and looked at Jones expectantly. Jones was pissed, this guy basically calling him a Tom. Jones wanted to scream, get pissed. Mostly he wanted the guy to be wrong. But Jones knew he wasn’t.

“I’m listening,” said Jones.

“Excellent, Mr Jones. No tantrums, no half-hearted protestations of bravery or character. Straight to business. You show a very clear grasp of your circumstances. Let’s consider them in particular. At this moment, you have two options. I can wash my hands of your situation and return you to the kind ministrations of the gentlemen who brought you in here. I don’t believe they will kill you in custody, as this evening’s events have created sufficient concerns of a legal nature, but I do believe they will conduct a rather energetic interrogation, which will eventually compel you to confess to some charge along the lines of attempted murder of a police officer, as it is important to the officers just now that someone go on record as having shot at them first. You’ll spend what will likely be a very short life in prison. Does this align with your perspective?”

The man stopped again, the same expectant look, like he actually wanted to hear what Jones had to say. Jones nodded.

“Then our opinions of your situation coincide. Your second option is this. You walk out of here now, with me. You will be released back into the wild, as it were, as a hero, the only man to escape the ambush of Fred Hampton, the only witness who can bear the truth to his brothers. No one else will believe you, of course, because the police will swear you were never present. But amongst those of your race, you will be a new hero. You will use the status this grants you to ingratiate yourself to other radicals in the city. From time to time, I will reach out to you, and you will inform me as to their activities and their intentions. In exchange, I will ensure that you do not become a target of Chicago’s finest and that you live in a style you had not heretofore imagined possible. What say you?”

Jones thought about it. Sell out himself and his brothers for a get out of jail free card and a pile of cash. But the fact was, he’d been selling out himself and his brothers for a couple of years just for the occasional piece of pussy. Figured with the new rep and the new dough, he’d still get the pussy.

“Guess I say yes,” said Jones.

When Fisher got to the door, he saw that Jones had remembered his instructions. Jones held one finger to his head and pointed to the room in the southwest corner. Simba was in the back room, alone. Jones held two fingers to his chest and pointed to the room in the front of the building. Two more were up front. And then he pointed to the corner of the small foyer inside the back door. The black Converse All-Stars Jones had worn to Lynch’s house earlier, and to Stefanski’s house before that, were on the floor. Fisher nodded and then tilted his head toward the open door. Time for Jones to go.

Fisher stepped aside to let Jones pass. As Jones cleared his right shoulder, Fisher’s right arm flashed around Jones’ neck and his left hand clamped to his own right wrist. Fisher tightened the bones in his arm against Jones’ throat, squeezing the ceratoid artery, choking off the blood to Jones’ brain. He held the position until Jones passed out then slowly slid Jones to the floor. He pulled the Walther out of the holster, got Jones’ prints on it, put it back. He picked up one of the All-Stars and dropped it outside the door. He wanted to make sure at least one of the shoes was found in good shape.

The two guys in front had the couch turned to face the front windows, small black and white TV on a coffee table in front of them, late night movie on, something with a mummy. Guy on the right was bigger, almost a head higher on the couch than the guy on the left, real broad through the shoulders.

“Egypt in Africa, right?” the one on the right said.

“Yeah,” answered the other guy.

“Then I’m pulling for the mummy.”

“Mummy gonna lose, fool.”

“Hey, mummy’s a brother.”

Fisher slid out his sap, a leather tube filled with sand, less than a foot long. Two quiet steps, his arm already swinging, the sap catching the big guy just behind and below the right ear, the guy slumping forward, out cold. Fisher’s arm moving right through, banging the sap hard off the other guy’s forehead. Fisher’s arm shooting past, then swinging back backhanded, catching the smaller guy again on the side of the head, the guy not out but stunned, dropping off the front of the couch to his knees. Fisher swung his leg up, rolled over the couch onto his feet, stepping around behind the guy just as he started to open his mouth to yell. Fisher locking the chokehold on him, pinning his voice in his throat, squeezing him out of consciousness. Fisher propped him back up on the coach, next to the big guy. One more good whack with the sap, behind the ear, to make sure he stayed out long enough.

Fisher walked back to the corner room, slid the door open, could see James on his side in the bed facing him, blanket half off, his smooth chest rising and falling in the light from the kitchen. Fisher stepped to the bed and sapped him hard, twice, then rolled him off the bed so he’d be under the window. Then Fisher picked up the.45 automatic from the nightstand next to the bed, grabbed both pillows, wadded them tightly against the muzzle of the.45. He fired three shots through the window into the wall of the garage at the back of the property near the alley, and two more into the edge of the window frame. More noise than he’d like, but with the vacant lots around the building, it should be OK. He put the gun down on the floor, put Simba’s hand over it.

He returned to the front room, found a heavy-framed.38 revolver on the couch next to the big guy. He still had the pillows from the bedroom and picked up the small pillow from the couch as well. These guys had the front windows open, so he didn’t have to shoot out the glass. Fisher emptied the wheel gun through the pillows and the screen, making sure he hit the tree out front and the car parked across the street. Other guy had a.45. Fisher took five shots with that, hit the wall inside the window, put one in the front door. Three more holes in the screen. He dumped the two guys on the floor by the window, stuck the guns in their hands. Then Fisher shut the windows. Holes in the screen wouldn’t make sense with no holes in the glass, but the windows would be gone soon. In the meantime, he needed them to hold the gas in.