Charlie Hustmyre: House of the Rising Sun

“That’s all right, Mr. Ray,” Shorty said. “Take your time, you don’t look too good.”

As Ray sucked in a lungful of damp air, he choked down a cough. Still, he wondered if there was enough room in this sardine can for him to reach his cigarettes. “You wouldn’t know it now,” he wheezed to Shorty, “but I used to run five miles a day, rain or shine.”

“Oh, I believe it, Mr. Ray. You still look in pretty good shape, but listen here. I know it ain’t none of my business what you folks do, but…”

Ray twisted to look at Shorty. “Yeah?”

“There was two men by here a little while ago asking ’bout you.”

The pain in Ray’s side, his burning lungs, both faded to nothing. “Who was it?”

Shorty looked away. “Ain’t really none of my bus-”

“Who?”

“Was Mr. Tony, and that other… that big fella. I can’t recall his name.”

“Rocco?”

Shorty nodded.

“What did they want?”

“Didn’t say, just wanted to know which car was yours.”

Ray glanced to the back of the lot and saw his Mustang. It was still there, same spot he always parked in. Backed up against the wall on the left side, ground level. Shorty’s parking lot was wedged between a pair of eighteenth-century brick buildings. Hydraulic lifts lined both sides of the lot so Shorty could double stack cars against the walls. Half the cars on the lot were Rising Sun employees.

“What’d you tell them?”

“I didn’t tell them nothing.”

“Shorty, I’m not blaming you for anything,” Ray said, meaning it. The old man was a friend. “I just need to know what you said.”

“I… I… had to show ’em.”

The booth’s windows had started to fog up. Ray wiped a hand over the glass. He scanned the entire lot. The rain was still coming down hard. There was nobody in sight. “Where’d they go?”

“I think they left.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No, sir,” Shorty said. “I had a car come in right about that time, and I didn’t see where they went. Time I turned around they was gone.”

Screwed into one wall was an inch-thick, two-foot-by-two-foot piece of plywood, painted black and laid out with a grid of numbered hooks, half of which had keys dangling from them. Shorty kept the keys to all the cars parked on his lot so he could shuffle them around and drive them on and off the hydraulic lifts. Rising Sun cars stayed on the ground just in case they were needed for a quick getaway. Ray pulled his keys down from one of the hooks, then slipped five bucks into Shorty’s hand as he patted the old-timer on the shoulder. “Thanks,” he said. Then he stepped out of the booth and loped across the lot to his car.

The newspaper was a wet gob by the time Ray reached his Mustang. He tossed it onto the hood of the Lincoln parked next to him. Then he unlocked his door and slid behind the wheel. As he hunched forward, aiming the key at the ignition switch and tugging on the door handle, Ray felt the door jerked out of his hand.

He turned and saw Rocco peering at him through the open doorway. In his huge right fist he gripped a big black pistol, a Glock. 45 by the look of it.

Rocco grinned. “Say good-bye, Raymond.” Then the. 45 dropped out of sight, and Rocco’s left hand came up holding a small black gun, one Ray didn’t recognize.

Everything slowed down. Rocco’s finger tightened on the trigger. Squeezed it back. There was no chance to get away. Not even time enough to duck. No possibility of Rocco missing. Ray had a flash realization: it’s over. Everything. No worries. No guilt. No nothing. He almost welcomed it. Then he realized that Rocco’s stupid, grinning face was going to be the last thing he ever saw. He opened his mouth to curse his cruel fate.

Something shot out of the end of the barrel, but it wasn’t a bullet. It was a stream of liquid that filled Ray’s open mouth, splashed into his eyes, and squirted up his nose. He gagged on it and almost vomited. Instinctively, Ray shut his eyes, but it was too late to protect them from the burning liquid, and although he couldn’t see, he could still smell, and he recognized the acrid stench for what it was-urine.

A squirt gun filled with piss.

Ray’s hands jumped to his face and wiped frantically as he tried to clear his vision. He kicked out with his left foot but only managed to bang his shin on the door. A voice, a voice he recognized, said, “How’s it taste, Raymond? I didn’t know you were into golden showers.” That name again, Raymond. God, how he hated that name.

By the time Ray managed to force his eyes back open, Rocco had taken a step back and had the Glock. 45 up again, pointing it at Ray’s head. Behind Rocco, Tony Z. stepped out from the front passenger seat of the Lincoln and popped open an umbrella to shield him from the driving rain.

The two of them stood staring at Ray. At Rocco’s feet lay the black plastic squirt gun. Tony held the umbrella over his head but wasn’t sharing any of it with his sidekick. Rocco, the big dummy, just stood in the rain getting soaked. Ray waited, both hands on the steering wheel, griping it tight, his knuckles feeling like they were going to explode.

“Did you like our little joke?” Tony said.

Rocco chuckled.

Ray said nothing.

Tony grinned. “I wanted to get your attention, Raymond.”

“My name is Ray.”

Tony shrugged. “Whatever.”

“You got my attention. What do you want?”

“When Mr. Messina asks you to do something, you don’t think about it, you just do it.”

Ray felt a drop of urine run down his cheek. He grabbed a hand towel he kept wedged between the console and the driver’s seat and wiped his face. “I thought that’s what he had guys like you for?”

“He wants you to handle it.”

Ray tossed the towel onto the passenger seat, then looked at Rocco, at the rain soaking his clothes, the big fat drops splashing off the Glock. 45 in his hand. Turning to Tony, Ray asked, “Why me?”

Despite the rain, Tony was still managing to look cool, the umbrella protecting his gel-slick hair and silk suit. “Since it’s your mess, it’s only fair that you have to clean it up.”

“I’m not the dumbass who left three hundred grand up there.”

“You let four assholes with guns come into our-”

“With guns is right, Tony. What the hell was I supposed to do? Stick my finger in my pocket, tell ’em to freeze?”

Tony jabbed a finger in Ray’s face. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to relay a message. You either find these assholes or you die in their place.”

Rocco chuckled again.

“We’re not talking about four douche bags who were looking for a Seven-Eleven to knock off,” Ray said. “They knew exactly what they were doing, and they’re not going to stick around afterward. That crew is long gone by now.”

“You better hope not.”

“What makes you think I can find them any better than you can?”

Tony shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Then why-”

“I told you, this is what Mr. Messina wants.”

Ray stared at Tony, his slicked hair, his Italian suit, his Bruno Magli loafers.

Why do these wiseguys need a broken-down ex-cop and ex-con doing their dirty work for them. Unless…

“You screwed up, didn’t you, Tony? It was you who left all that money in the counting room. What happened? Were you upstairs knocking off a piece of ass when you should have been taking care of-”

“Shut up!” Tony snapped. He shot a glance at Rocco, then nodded at Ray. Rocco stepped in quick, lowering the pistol as he swung his left fist at Ray’s face. Seeing it coming, Ray threw his hands up and leaned back. He got one hand in the way, taking some of the power off Rocco’s punch, but not enough as the goon’s brick-size fist caught him in the mouth.