Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

I poured coffee. Drank. Thought. Frowned.

Soon Mercury would come for me. Or maybe he’d send men. And if he found me like this, beat up, one handed, I’d be toast in two seconds flat. I wouldn’t catch him by surprise again, and I wasn’t good enough to take him straight out. It hurt to admit that, but, again, I was facing reality. Beggar Johnson paid top dollar for his hired killers. The plan: pack up and run.

I rolled the plan around on my tongue and swallowed it. Digested it.

Okay. Enough with the horseshit. It was go time.

I wasn’t going to bother going back to my apartment for my packed suitcase, but Ma’s spare luggage was too flowery. I found a Nike tote bag in Danny’s closet. I had a few articles of clothing around Ma’s house, some T-shirts and jeans. I twisted the silencer off the.32 automatic and packed both along with the knives. I threw in the empty.410 pistol and kept the loaded one in my pea coat in case I wanted to shoot down a jumbo jet.

Now I had to make things permanent. This wasn’t a vacation trip I was leaving on. Ma wasn’t coming back. I wasn’t coming back. I never wanted to be within Beggar’s reach again. I wanted to go someplace nobody knew me. The big start-over.

Finish.

Shopping.

At Joey’s Gun & Outdoor Supply, I bought a hundred rounds of.32 ammunition and a black leather shoulder holster. I didn’t see any kind of holster which could possibly accommodate the Minelli revolvers, but I got a hundred.410 shells. I pondered over the various kinds of shot, wondering at the different patterns, maybe something good for blasting away into a crowd, but I decided I didn’t know anything about it. Besides, I liked the way the enormous lead slugs tore through everything in their paths.

My next stop was ABC Liquor. I bought twelve bottles of the absolute cheapest and most alcoholic brandy they had.

My hand hurt. I broke a pain pill in half. Took it dry.

Thirty minutes later, I was half-loopy but still able to function.

Supermarket: Candles. Kitchen matches. Charcoal lighter fluid. Rubbing alcohol. Cigarettes.

I took all my shopping back to the house. I found a dusty ashtray under the kitchen sink, cleaned it, and put it in the living room on the lamp stand next to the empty liquor cabinet. When Dad had been alive, it was kept full of Cutty Sark. I lit three of the cigarettes and set them in the ashtray to burn. I opened ten of the brandy bottles and emptied them onto the carpeting around the lamp stand, poured a trail to the drapes, dumped the remains into Dad’s chair. It was old and would burn well.

I pulled my car out of the garage and parked it on the street. Back in the garage I dumped the bag of old rags under the barbecue grill. I emptied the charcoal lighter fluid onto the rags, let them soak. I relocated anything even remotely flammable next to the grill. I thought about the Halloween costumes Danny had when he was a kid but was sure they’d been thrown out long ago.

In the kitchen, I turned on all the stove burners.

I was using my injured hand too much. I took the other half of the pain pill.

Upstairs I made sure I had everything I wanted, went downstairs, put the Nike tote in the trunk of the Buick.

Back inside: I threw an apron and two hand towels on the stove burners. Into the living room, struck a fistful of the kitchen matches and scattered them on the carpet. The brandy caught. I watched for a moment as the flames spread, crawled toward the curtains, leapt up the wall.

I grabbed the National Geographic with Amber’s number on the cover. I also found the jacket I’d worn home from the hospital and grabbed it too. An envelope fell out of the pocket. It was the piece of mail that had been in Ma’s mailbox. I stuck it in my back pocket.

I left the house through the garage, paused to drop a match on the rags.

I got in the Buick and drove a block away, parked, got out of the car, and watched.

It wasn’t much of an arson job, but I’d avoided using gasoline or something else obvious. Maybe it would pass muster. Maybe not. Ma was insured.

It didn’t look like much at first, but then the smoke came. Some windows popped out. Flames lapped from within. I couldn’t have explained to anyone why this was a good idea, but I knew it was. Fire, the great cleanser. Pushing me forward, burning bridges behind.

Neighbors came out of their houses. I didn’t wait for the sirens. I cranked up the car, drove.

I’d been fucking up in every direction, starting with the stupid way I’d handled the Rollo Kramer job and what I’d done with Sanchez. What I was doing now might not have been smart, but it was decisive. Permanent. No going back. Stan had always said lead, follow, or get out of the way, but do something . I laughed at the burning house. This was something all right.

I took another pain pill.

Maybe I hadn’t done a damn thing right, but I was sure as hell giving myself a clean slate.

And Ma was better off in Michigan. The house wasn’t safe anymore. I didn’t want her there by herself. And it was full of papers, photo albums, a trail. I couldn’t have anyone coming after me or using Ma to try to find me. Maybe my solution was a little harsh.

I giggled.

A song running around my brain, the one ’bout the lion sleeping in the jungle.

The pain pills, I realized. I was off my rocker.

The Tokens, that was group. “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” I hummed it loud.

I put about five miles between me and the fire, then pulled into a gas station to fill up. I reached into my back pocket for my wallet and came out with the letter. I took a good look at it for the first time. It didn’t have a stamp or a postmark. There wasn’t even an address, just CHARLIE SWIFT on the front in block letters. I tore it open and read.

Mr. Swift,

You’ve made things very difficult for me and my friends. I want those accounting ledgers, and I want them soon. Your brother wouldn’t cooperate, but the young lady was more forthcoming. We convinced her to tell us everything she knew. We know the ledgers are in a locker someplace. Call me at Jeffers’s home and tell me where, and I promise no harm will come to young Amber. I don’t know what she is to you, but I believe she’s very important to your brother. Try anything foolish, and you won’t see her again. Believe me, Swift, I’m at the end of my rope, so don’t push me. Just do what you’re told. I’ll be waiting for your phone call.

– Tina

My heart dropped into my stomach. I ran to the car and got the National Geographic with Amber’s phone number. I found a pay phone quickly and dialed. Sixteen rings, no answer. I looked her up in the phonebook, scribbled down the address.

I fractured every known traffic law getting to Amber’s apartment complex. Her place was on the second floor. I ran up the stairs three at a time. A yellow strip of police tape stretched across her door. I tore it down and went inside.

Inside, a few sticks of furniture overturned. A dark stain in the center of the carpet. The place was small, so I went through it fast. Nobody there. I sat on the couch, flexing my sore hand and thinking hard.

I picked up the phone and called Burt Remington. His answering machine came on after four rings, and I hung up without leaving a message. I tried him at the police station, and the operator put me through to his desk.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” said Burt. “Did you know your brother’s in the hospital?”

“He’s alive?”

“In bad shape, but yeah.”

I melted against the couch with relief. “What happened, Burt?”

“It was at his girlfriend’s place.”

“Amber,” I said. “I’m here now.”

“You’re not supposed to be there. It’s a crime scene. It’s sealed.”