Authors: William Vitka
11.
Kieron puts the Yankees cap on when he hits the street. Pulls it low. He knows the shrink’s building has a camera, but he doesn’t care.
So he stepped out? So what?
He walks like he doesn’t give a fuck. That’s a key aspect.
No panic. No stressing out.
Cops look for certain people cuz certain people always
look
guilty.
But Kieron thought about this. He planned his route so it would seem like it made no sense. In case cops wanna to try and track him afterward. Connect him to the scene.
He didn’t plan on letting the old woman’s building know he was there anyway.
He thinks about the petty shit from ten years ago. Little thefts from apartments with open windows. Low fire escapes. Dumpsters leading up to the second floor. The best were those alleys under the buildings. Where recyclables and garbage go? That stuff was always perfect. Half the cameras he saw down there weren’t ever connected to anything.
And it ain’t like he’s got a cell phone anyone can track.
Boon of poverty.
The shrink’s office is shoehorned into a red-brick building at 2nd Ave and East 6th Street. He walks east. Crosses and wanders into a bodega screaming VILLAGE MAGAZINE CIGAR & GOURMET FOOD on its yellow awning.
Kieron doubts that last part is true.
He gives the dude behind the counter a nod. Opens up the fridge in back. Pulls out a little bottle of Poland Spring. Walks up to the counter. “Hey.” Kieron looks past the Indian register jockey, examining cigarettes.
He hasn’t had a cigarette in three years.
The fuck are you doing? The longer you look, the longer the dude behind the counter is looking at
you
. Idiot.
Kieron says, “Pack of Lucky Strikes.”
Dude behind the register says, “$16.50.”
“Holy shit. How much are the smokes?”
“$15.50. Water is a dollar.”
“Fuckin mayor. Glad I quit.” Kieron grins. Puts a twenty on the counter.
Register dude slides the coffin nails and a receipt to him.
Kieron says, “Thanks.” Slides the receipt into the front pocket of his jeans.
Outside, he hails a cab. Tells the driver, “Fourth and Loisaida.”
***
The cab driver asks him if he wants his receipt.
Kieron says, “Yeah.” Doesn’t want it rolling around the floor here.
He takes it. Steps out of the taxi. Crumples the paper. Stuffs it into his jeans with the other.
Kieron lights a Lucky Strike. Embarrasses himself with some initial coughs. Then gets over it.
Cuz he’s gotta be cool, y’know.
He walks, nice and calm, up to 6th. Looks and sees the old lady’s place standing next to a church. Iglesia Pentacostal Sarepta. Whatever. It’s a dump. First floor belongs to an auto shop. Next to the auto shop is a tunnel full of trash and recyclables leading into the apartment building.
Perfect.
Kieron flicks the Lucky Strike into a gutter.
He walks past the one camera the building has over the front door. Circles around and hops over a short fence guarding the steps, out of the camera’s view.
Kieron saunters down to the tunnel arch. Like he doesn’t care. Cuz that’s important. To always bullshit. Not look like anything’s wrong. He
supposed
to be here.
He takes a few steps. Sees the door on his left. He slides the rubber gloves on. Tests the handle.
Locked.
He looks down and sees a doorstop keeping it open. Cuz of course there are gonna be tenants who just wanna run downstairs in their underpants and toss out some shit without needing to worry about their keys.
Christ. He’s not even thinking. Not observing at all.
He bites his upper lip and pushes the door.
It opens.
Idiot
.
“Idiot
s
,” he corrects himself. They left the damn building open.
Nobody ever lost a bet underestimating people’s average intelligence.
He slips inside. Lets the door thump against the stopper behind him. He takes the gloves off. In case someone’s walking around.
It’s one thing to pretend you’re a tenant nobody’s ever seen.
Another to be that guy wandering around with creepy rubber gloves on.
He hops up the stairs. Makes as much noise as possible. He wants people to hear that he doesn’t care. But he keeps his hands in his jacket pockets. Doesn’t want to touch anything.
Second floor. He takes a look around. Doesn’t see or hear anyone.
Peeks quick around the stairwell corner for cameras. Nothing.
He pulls the gloves back on. Walks to the end of the hall where the old bird’s joint is.
He squats. Lifts the WELCOME mat in front of the door.
Fuckin key is right there.
He wonders if maybe the old lady is out walking her dog.
So he looks at the mat for impressions shoes might leave. Or dirt. Stomps. Scrapes. Anything that might upset the fabric so maybe he can get an idea of when she left.
Nothing. Shit’s clean.
So let’s do it.
He puts the key in the lower lock. Feels and hears the pins chewing on the grooves. Turns it. Slow.
The latch clicks back.
He pushes the door.
It glides open.
Kieron stays outside. Waits in case there’s a yip or a yap. Waits in case some old voice starts asking who’s there cuz, man, that’s the last thing he needs.
Nothing.
Not even a hint of dog smell. Or cat. Or anything.
He looks behind him. Nobody around. He takes his boots off. Enters. Closes the door. Leaves his boots there inside. Gentle. No reason to give the cops prints on the carpet. No reason to let the neighbors hear someone stomping around.
He walks, sock-footed, through the apartment.
Definitely an old lady’s.
The furniture is sparse. One couch. One comfy chair. But fuckloads of pictures of grandchildren. On top of the fridge is a big bowl full of candy. Sweets for the little sweet ones.
Bedroom has to be where the jewels are.
With gloved hands, he opens her drawers. Drawers under those photos of her and some long-gone husband. Long-gone cuz there ain’t a hint of masculinity in the place. The happy half-dead couple beams happiness up at him while he loots.
He stops himself and realizes: This ain’t someone who hides their stuff.
She’s an old woman. Wants to be able to wake up and put on her diamonds. Not someone who wants to root for shit. He creaks open the nightstand right next to the bed. Where she can wake up and grab what she wants.
Jewelry box is there.
So’s the bauble.
Necklaces. A coupla bracelets. Some rings.
Fuckin. Shiny.
He grabs the goods and stuffs it all into his socks. Slides the drawer shut. Tip-toes his way back to the door. Picks up his boots. Closes the door behind him.
He waits till the door lock catches. Pulls the key out. Lifts the WELCOME mat back up and looks for the little indentation where the key had been. Puts the key back there.
He’s just so clever.
He makes his way back down the stairs.
Waits till he’s in the alley before he puts his boots back on.
Just in case.
So maybe someone went in.
But they didn’t come back out.
He tightens the laces on his boots.
Wanders out to the street like it’s no fuckin thing.
Few thousand in his socks. The rocks pinching his ankles.
No fuckin thing.
***
He takes another cab back to the shrink and he’s got ten minutes before the door opens.
Aaron walks out. Catches Kieron’s eye.
Kieron smiles. “So what’s she telling you about me now?”
Aaron says, “Nothing. She’s a craphead.” He jumps into his father’s arms. “Can I be tall
and
make a spaceship?”
“You can do anything you want to.” He rubs his nose against Aaron’s. “I promise.” He glares at Sharon and says to Aaron, “Come on. You got LEGOs waiting.”
Aaron holds his hands out.
Kieron puts him up on his shoulders.
***
Kieron walks up to THE THING. Raps on the bar window.
Lizzy turns her head. Waves.
Kieron mouths:
Thank you.
Gives her a thumbs up.
He unlocks the front door to his building. Dips Aaron’s head under the frame. He climbs the stairs. Regrets that he doesn’t exercise more.
***
Aaron works on the engine assembly for his ship.
Kieron stuffs the rocks from his socks into his underwear drawer.
Gonna need to find a pawnbroker.
He walks into the living room. Says to Aaron, “Sarah’ll be here soon. You all right, bud?”
Aaron looks up at him and smiles. “I’m great, Dad.”
Jesus. Kid hasn’t said that in a while.
Aaron gets up and wraps his arms around Kieron’s waist.
Kieron brushes Aaron’s hair back and plants a kiss on the boy’s forehead.
Aaron kisses Kieron’s cheek.
Kieron doesn’t even remember when
that
happened last.
***
Kieron pats Lizzy’s shoulder as he slides past her behind the bar.
She turns and smirks at him. “Only a half hour late.”
“That ain’t so bad.”
“And I got your tips.”
“Well I think you made out pretty good then.”
“How’d you make out?”
“Lizzy, I just can’t wait till I can tell that shrink to go fuck herself.”
***
The Russian thugs end up back in the bar around nine again.
They order vodka shots. Both seem pissed off.
Kieron listens while he’s not listening.
Boris says, “I don’t fuckin know. It’s all just gone.”
Fearless Leader says, “Can’t be just
gone
.”
“Well, it fuckin is.”
“Gone
where
?”
“Maybe she took the stuff with her, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Yeah. You don’t know. Guess you don’t know shit.”
Kieron fights a smile.
***
Kieron locks up.
Takes a trip down to the furnace in the bar basement.
He tosses in the surgical gloves and receipts.
***
There’s Sarah on the couch again. Book in her lap.
She looks up. Says to Kieron: “How’d the day go?”
Kieron grins. “Know what? Not bad. For once... Not bad.” He slips his arm around her waist. Plants a peck on her cheek. “Not bad at all.”
12.
Saim Dajani pants. Not quite out of breath. Close though.
People shooting at you has that effect.
He hides behind a blue Honda parked at St. Marks and 2nd Ave. He thinks it’s an Accord. Not a lot of time to check when he was trying to keep his balls intact.
Bullets from one of the crook’s AK-47s
ping
and
pang
around him. He ducks near the car’s trunk.
NYPD brass is gonna love this.
Another
gunfight.
But this ain’t in the mouth of an alley with a clear target. It’s more confusing than that.
So, three assholes walk into a bank...
Joe’s across the street. Ducked behind another mid-entry car. One of Ford’s attempts to make it look like they give a shit about fuel economy.
Joe screams at civilians nearby while they scream at nobody in particular: “Back. Everybody back.
Back
. Can’t you people see there are
guns here
. Get to cover.”
...And those three assholes decide they’re gonna rob it...
Saim shouts: “I don’t think the new gun laws are working.” He pulls back the slide on his Glock. Makes sure there’s a bullet ready to go. 9mm ammo goes fast and punches clean holes. But if these fuckers are high on something... He wishes he had a .45. Something that’d stop a bear.
...And the three of these fuckers are swinging guns, thinkin they’re hot shit like in some movie. Just gonna shoot up the cops and make some magic getaway...
Saim keys his radio. “Joe. Watch for a pickup car. Just in case.”
“Roger.”
Saim clicks the radio over. Tells the precinct: “We have three armed. One outside. Two inside. Possible hostages. Heavy fire. Requesting backup.”
Saim hears the AK
click
empty.
Bastard who’s been shooting is outta ammo.
Saim stands. Careful to keep the car between him and the bank in case some asshole inside tries to take a shot at him.
The gunman’s young. White or Hispanic. Got one of those dumb skeleton bandanas tied around his throat. Not even over his face.
Saim tells the dumb gunman: “This doesn’t have to get worse. Put the weapon down. Let’s talk like grownups.” He aims the Glock. “I mean, you don’t
want
to die, right?”
The gunman stares at him. Wild-eyed. Reloading.
Guy doesn’t have a mask on. Just that panicked look.
Dude doesn’t give a shit who sees him.
Saim says, “Don’t do that. Do not put more bullets in that gun.”
The gunman slams a fresh magazine in. Primes the rifle.
Idiot
.
Saim fires three times. Two bullets hammer the asshole in the chest. The third’s a little high and tears a canal outta the guy’s neck. Blood gushes bright red. A spray under high pressure.
Saim’s not sure what arteries he hit.
The gunman gets a confused look on his face. Maybe a sneeze coming on. Then he flops over. Gasping. Leaking.
Saim sees blood pool around the gunman.
Then the red trickles over the curb into the gutter.
He wishes they had a squad car and weren’t just walking a beat. They’d be able to grab some shotguns from the trunk. Firepower comes in mighty handy when you’re approaching a couple batshit robbers.
Specially after you just killed one of their own.
Saim keys his radio. Tells the precinct: “One suspect down. Approaching the bank. Where’s my goddamn backup?”
Joe jogs to Saim’s side next to the car. “Nice shooting, cowboy.”
They stay low. Huddle down near the wheels.
The radio squawks: “Additional units five blocks away.”
Joe says, “Five blocks?”
Saim says, “We’re fine.”
“Wait for backup?”
Saim considers it. “We got innocent people inside with a coupla high-caliber loons. Who knows what they’ll do. No. No we are not waiting for backup.”
Joe smiles. “Fuckin A.”
“Hey, if this all goes to fuck?”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you were the little spoon.”
Asshole. “Okay, you take right side behind the concrete. I take left. Those big panes of glass on either side of the front doors? Knock em out. We wanna maintain firing position and not get cut up from shattered fragments.”
“If they do fire on us.”
“They will
probably
fire on us.”
“What about the people.”
“Well, don’t shoot
them
.”
Saim and Joe crouch-run to their places. They nod to one another. Use the butts of their guns to pound the windows. The glass cracks in spider webs.
Two thunderous shotgun blasts from inside finish the job.
Saim and Joe duck behind cover as the weakened windows explode outward.
And that’s followed by cries from the civilians inside.
Saim rolls his eyes at Joe. Mouths:
If they do fire on us.
Joe shouts, “Hold your fire.”
Saim peeks around the corner of his cover. Sees one asshole with a sawed-off pump shotgun standing over a woman prone on the ground. Sees the second asshole behind the teller windows with a pistol—looks like a Beretta—shoving money into a duffel bag.
There’s a security guard on the floor. Sprawled out. Blood next to him. Can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. But he ain’t moving.
Saim can see ten more customers face down on the floor.
He says, “This is the NYPD. Who should I be talking to?”
Joe cocks an eyebrow at him. Hisses. “You pass certification for hostage negotiation when I wasn’t looking?”
Saim shrugs. “Kinda making it up as I go.”
“Captain’s gonna be thrilled.”
Shotgun asshole shouts from inside, “I’m the one you talkin to.”
Saim says, “You the brains?”
“I’m the brains.”
“Funny. Doesn’t really seem like a brains kind of operation.”
Saim thinks:
They get pissed, they might make a mistake. And we still gotta get the pistol asshole out from behind that bulletproof teller glass.
Saim shouts in: “You fuckers so smart, why you rob a bank without masks? And you have one guy outside just opens fire on cops? That’s just... You’re living in a fantasyland. He’s dead by the way. Your buddy.”
Pistol flinches behind the teller glass. “He’s dead?”
Shotgun says, “Shut the fuck up.”
Pistol says, “They
killed him
, man.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Then to Saim: “You don’t let us out, we gonna start shooting.”
Saim says, “That would be very, very stupid. You’re already on the hook for attempted murder of a police officer. Times two, as there’s two of us out here. Plus the guard on the ground.”
Shotgun says, “You’re gonna do what we tell you to do.”
“Your buddy out here? You see what he got for his troubles? Motherfucker’s rotting in the street. You want that? Do you guys
want
to stay alive, or do you
want
to end up dead shitting and pissing yourself?”
Pistol screams. “You fucks! That’s my brother.
That’s my brother.
”
Saim grips his gun. “Was your brother.” Trolling these violent assholes now.
He motions for Joe to get ready to shoot.
Backup arrives behind Joe and Saim.
Joe tells the three squad cars that show to hold back with his hand.
Saim says to the assholes, “Your brother’s worm food. I thought I was talking to the brain. Why’m I talking to you?”
Pistol throws the teller up against the wall. Wags a finger at her.
Don’t move.
He drops the bag of money. Storms toward the door. Comes out from behind the bulletproof glass.
Saim says, “Pistol.”
Joe says, “Shotgun.”
Pistol says, “You’re talking to me cuz—”
Shotgun says, “You moron don’t—”
Pistol stomps his feet toward the door. “You killed my fuckin brother.” Gun out. Ready to fire.
Saim and Joe step out from cover.
Joe puts two in Shotgun’s chest. The guy
oofs
and tumbles backward.
Saim fires once. Pistol’s forehead implodes. The back of his head pops. Thick ropes of blood. Splinters of bone. A modern art painting gone horribly wrong.
Saim and Joe walk into the bank, guns up.
Joe says, “Clear.”
“Clear.” Saim holsters his Glock.
The hostages get up. Run.
Saim kicks the Beretta away from Pistol’s body. Looks at the fingertip-sized entry wound. “Why? Why are you so
dumb
?”
Joe kneels on Shotgun’s chest. “That hurt?”
Shotgun says, “Yeah that fuckin hurts.”
“Good. You realize that bulletproof vests stop the bullet but not the impact, huh?”
“I think my ribs are broken.”
“Good.”
***
Later, Saim tells the shrink: “The guy with the AK-47 was firing on me. I asked him not to reload. Not to fire. I told him there was another way out.”
Shrink says, “He didn’t agree.” She doesn’t look up from her notes and all those NYPD files on Saim.
“No, he didn’t.”
“So you killed him.”
Saim cocks an eyebrow. “Yes. I killed him. Three bullets. Two in the chest. Third went high and hit him in the neck.”
The shrink nods without saying anything.
Then after a few seconds, she says, “Why did you approach the bank without backup?”
Saim keeps his cool. Wants to pop off, but doesn’t. Quite. “I
told
the precinct I was. We had to get in there. People’s lives were at stake.”
“And then?”
“And then I took the steps I thought were necessary to resolve the situation.”
“According to eyewitness reports, you antagonized the suspects.”
Saim groans. “I wanted to make them angry so they’d make a mistake.”
The shrink finally looks up from all those stupid fuckin papers. “The suspects could have opened fire on customers in the bank. They could have killed one of the hostages. Or more than one. There could have been fifteen civilians dead because of you if that had happened.”
“Except it didn’t.”
“But it could have.”
Saim furrows his brow. “I went with my instincts. They proved to be right.”
The shrink crosses her arms. “What are you going to do when your instincts are wrong?”
Saim shrugs. “I don’t know. But if they ever
are
wrong, I’ll probably be outta your hair for good.”