One to Go (7 page)

As he'd done every few minutes for the last week, he checked his phone again, hoping for another sign from Chad. Nothing. He cleaned himself off and took a quick shower.

Needing to dress in dark clothing, he put on black slacks. He didn't have a black shirt, but did possess a black jacket that would serve the purpose. The night before, he'd used cash to buy a pair of cheap rubber-soled black shoes at a discount store. The only black shoes he owned were dress wing tips, hardly appropriate foot attire for an aspiring serial killer about to launch his career. He stuffed a black Redskins baseball hat, black winter gloves, sunglasses, and the star of the show—his Ruger GP100—into a small, paper grocery bag. After downing a quick shot of Jack Daniel's to steady his nerves, he exited his apartment and walked ten blocks before hailing a cab.

“Drop me off near the intersection of Florida and Benning Road.”

“Goin' to 3D?” asked the driver, an elderly black man.

“The movies? No.”
Who knew there was a theater showing 3-D films in that rough section of town?

“Not movies. 3D. Third District, police.”

Wonderful. His carefully devised plan would begin with a visit to the cops. An image flashed in his mind of being a highlight on some late night host's “Stupid Criminals Files.”
So, this guy, Tom Booker—you're not gonna believe this—he starts his murder spree by askin' to be dropped off at the police station! Yuk, yuk, yuk. Looks like Mr. Booker got booked! Yuk, yuk, yuk
.

“Just head up to that area, and I'll tell you where to let me off.” The driver shrugged, giving the impression he'd seen it all before and couldn't care less.

Tom put on his glasses and hat, then told the cabbie to pull over at the intersection of Florida and Maryland avenues. He got out and walked north on Florida, looking for the used-car lot he'd scoped out the previous evening. The tattered sign had read: “Happy Cals, We Rent Cars To.” Apparently, spelling was not Cal's strong suit.

After a few blocks, he spotted the string of lightbulbs drooping from bent poles demarcating Happy Cal's car lot from abandoned warehouses on each side of the business.

When he reached the lot, it looked like no one was there. He made his way to the dilapidated trailer in the back of the lot, took a deep breath, and entered.

A middle-aged black man sat behind a tiny desk watching a portable TV that might've been new in the Carter administration. A tarnished nameplate on the desk read: “Happy Cal Smith.”

As soon as Cal saw him, he tensed up. Probably not too many young white guys popping by at night wearing sunglasses. The man's eyes were red, and he appeared to be high on something other than life.

“How's it goin'?” asked Tom. “I understand you rent cars.”

Cal relaxed, revealed two gold teeth with a wide smile, and extended his hand. “You come to the right place. I'm Happy Cal.”

Tom purposely didn't offer his name.

“So what you got to rent?” he asked.

“Pretty much anything on the lot,” said Cal. “What you lookin' for?”

“I saw a black Lincoln Town Car out there. Looks to be about ten years old.”

“Oh, she sweet, ain't she? Let's go take a look.”

“Does it run?”

“Of course she run. As I said, she a sweet ride.”

“Don't need to take a look. One day. How much?”

Cal made a show of looking through a stack of papers. “Well, as I said, that car there, she in great condition. Could maybe let her go on a twenty-four hour rental for 100 bucks.” His voice raised at the end, signaling that the price quote was more of a question, as in, “Is that too much, because if so I can come down a little.”

“How about $500 and we dispense with the paperwork.”

Cal gulped. “Five hundred, yeah maybe I could work that out. But how do I know you'll bring it back?”

“Two things. First, if I don't, you report the car stolen from your lot, file an insurance claim, and end up better than when you started. Second, I'm giving you my word.”

Cal thought for a moment, then nodded. “Cash?”

“Of course.”

Happy Cal's view of what constituted a sweet ride didn't necessarily coincide with Tom's. The Lincoln swayed so much on a curve, he had to practically come to a complete stop prior to navigating even the most gradual of turns. The interior smelled of cigarettes, maybe weed, and there was a suspicious-looking dark stain on the gray leather passenger seat. On the positive side, it had heavily tinted windows, and on a straightaway, could move out quickly.

Tom drove into Southeast and pulled over onto a dark street under a broken streetlight, then stepped out and scooped some muck from the gutter. After smearing the wet grime over both license plates, he got back into the car and drove slowly past Jabazz Elementary. He had great memories of his years teaching there. The faculty was welcoming and the kids amazing. Though most
came from Section 8 housing and, sadly, would struggle in the face of teen pregnancy, poverty, drugs, and violence, at the elementary ages they were still full of life and promise.

He turned left on E Street, past Marion Park, and approached Washington Terrace, a run-down group of dirty, red-brick garden apartments. He knew the dealers would be out—they were as much a part of the scene as the dying trees and broken streetlamps. Small potatoes, he suspected the cops mostly left them alone.

Three guys sat on a half wall next to steps leading up to a patch of dirt that at one time might've been a lawn in front of the first building. They were drinking some kind of booze from a crinkled paper bag and passing a roach back and forth. Hopefully, they would be high enough so their reflexes would be dulled.

Tom pulled over half a block away, and put on his gloves. Damn, the fingers were thick; he hoped his index—
trigger?
—finger would fit through the trigger guard. Why didn't he buy a new pair of gloves? Why didn't he try on the gloves first to see if he could fire the gun?
Shit
.

He removed the Ruger and tried the gloved finger. It fit, but only after he jammed it through. He tucked the gun halfway under his right thigh.
I need to turn around right now. This is insane
. He thought of Janie.
Scratch one
. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His whole body shook.

He took a deep breath, pulled his hat down tight, and slowly drove forward.

When he pulled over in front of the three men, none of them moved. A part of him hoped they'd just sit still. A large part of him. As soon as one approached, he'd open the window, shoot one bullet into the man's head, then take off down E Street before the others could react. He was hoping that the soon-to-be dead guy's friends would assume Tom was a contract killer enforcing revenge for a past insult. While this assumption was based on a long string of movies and TV shows rather than personal knowledge, he was reasonably confident the two companions wouldn't call the cops. At least not right away.

Protected by the tinted glass, he studied the faces of the three men. All wore hoodies, but Tom was close enough to see their features. Two appeared to be in their early thirties, the third, maybe late teens. Did any of them deserve to die? He'd convinced himself that if they dealt drugs, they'd probably either murdered somebody or were accessories to murder. Even if not, their drugs were ruining lives. Didn't they deserve to go to hell? Certainly, more so than an innocent child.

One of the men stood up and approached the car. It was the kid.
Shit
. Tom wedged his finger through the trigger guard. The boy stood next to the car and bent down, his face inches from Tom, separated only by the tinted window. God, the kid was really a kid. Maybe fifteen, sixteen max. Why couldn't one of the others have come over?

Tom steeled himself. Everybody knew kids younger than this guy killed for sport. He was probably in a gang. Tom slowly pulled the gun out from under his thigh, then pressed the automatic window button.

Nothing happened. He pounded the button as hard as he could. Nothing.
Sweet ride, my ass!
He saw the door handle jiggle. The kid was opening the door. Tom hadn't bothered to lock the doors. Okay, as soon as the door opened a crack, he'd fire into the kid's chest. Maybe shoot twice to make sure. Bang, bang, just like on TV.

The door pulled open a few inches. Tom raised the gun, but the kid couldn't see it. Good, let him go quickly, without a last moment of fear. Just a quick
pop, pop
—you're opening the door to a car, then you're walking through the gates of hell.

Without the filter of the window tint, Tom was able to look into the boy's eyes. Big, brown, long lashes. Soft, like a deer.

“You lost, mister? Lookin' for the Southeast Freeway?”

The kid's voice was friendly, and higher pitched than Tom expected. His expression so—
innocent?
No matter. This kid or Janie. He had no real choice. Even if the boy hadn't killed anybody yet, there was a strong likelihood, growing up here with
the odds stacked against him, it was only a matter of time. Hell, by taking him out now, he was probably saving a life. More than probably.

He raised the Ruger, needing both hands to reduce the shake. For the first time, the boy saw the gun. His eyes widened in fear. For a split second, their eyes locked. Tom's finger tightened on the trigger—then stopped.

Shiiiit!

He tossed the gun on the passenger seat, yanked the door closed, and peeled off down E Street.

Slouching against his trailer, smoking a joint, Happy Cal looked surprised to see Tom as he pulled in.

“Hey, you rented it for twenty-four hours, and there ain't no refunds.”

Tom didn't bother to answer. He grabbed the paper bag off the seat and walked north toward New York Avenue. Along the route, he ditched his black jacket, gloves, and hat in a dumpster. He was unconcerned about the danger of the neighborhood; in fact, he hoped someone would try to mug him. His pal, Mr. Ruger, would take care of things, and his victim problem would be solved. As luck would have it, he reached New York Avenue unscathed, and flagged down a cab. Tom not only needed a drink, he felt a sudden urge to be among people. Normal people.
Normal
. On the drive to Adams Morgan, he was tempted to ask the cabbie to stop at one of the many seedy bars along the route, but held off until the taxi was heading down Columbia Road.

“Drop me at Napoleon's.”

When he entered, the place was still jammed, normal for late on a Friday night. He spotted Zig sitting on his reserved stool in the back of the bar. Tom's seat was taken by Marcie, and when the crowd parted, he saw Jess standing with the two of them. She spotted him and waved him over.

“So, you don't answer my calls?” Zig asked.

Tom had forgotten he'd turned off his phone. He checked it and saw that Zig had called him twice and texted
him once. “Sorry, been working at home and didn't realize the phone was off.” He waved at Argus, who drew a Stella from the tap and set it in front of him. He drained almost all of it in one swig.

“Thirsty?” asked Jess.

He nodded, finished the rest, and waved for another.

“You sick or something?” asked Marcie. Tom looked at her quizzically. “You look a little pale.”

“Wan,” Jess observed.

“Definitely wan,” added Zig.

Tom realized he should've gone straight home. Maybe he could play up the sick thing.

“Actually, think I may've caught a bug.”

Immediately, the three of them dramatically stepped back from him.

He forced a laugh. “I'm sure it's not a big deal. Been feeling chills.” He held up the bag. “I stopped at the drugstore for a few things, and thought I'd duck in for a beer to kill the germs.”

“You need to take care of yourself,” said Jess, showing genuine concern. “You're wearing yourself down, working so hard. Listen to your body.”

“Good advice. Think I'll head back and kiss the sheets.”

“If you want some company, I make a mean chicken soup,” said Jess.

“Don't want to infect you. How about a rain check?”

“You got it.” She gave him a tight hug. “Need to visit the little girls' room.” She and Marcie worked their way through the crowd toward the restrooms.

“I'm out of here,” said Tom.

As he turned, the paper bag bumped against the edge of the bar with a heavy
clunk
.

“Pretty heavy medicine,” said Zig.

Before he could react, Zig snatched the bag from Tom's grasp and peeked inside. His eyes widened. He immediately closed the bag and lowered his voice.

“Okay, what gives?”

“Too many stories on the nightly news about drug violence in the area. Just being careful.”

“I don't suppose it's registered.”

“Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.”