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Monday, June 22, 2015

22 Born to Make the Kill

The gradual climb since they left Mojave had taken them through the Owens Valley and transformed the bleak desert terrain into a lush mountainous landscape with some of the tallest trees Tony could remember silhouetted on the western horizon against the full moon’s glow. When they reached highway 395’s Sherwin Summit just a few miles north of Bishop, it was still dark. Tony had found a side road where he pulled off to a wide spot on the shoulder. He switched places with Rudy, and for the next few hours, stretched out on the rear bench seat to sleep.

A couple hours after they left the turnout, Tony had followed the signs to a scenic view off the side of highway. The deep ravine made a perfect place to dispose of Natalie’s cell phone. He aimed for a granite boulder fifty feet below the highway’s edge and it shattered into pieces when it bounced off. Not even Bambi could phone home now, Tony smirked when the debris came to rest at the foot of a stand of Pinyon Pine trees.
Now, just before 11:00 a.m., he was back behind the wheel of his inherited 1965 Chevy Impala. Hank slept again in the passenger seat, and God only knew if Rudy slept or sulked under that gray hoodie. To fill the silence and keep alert, he lit another smoke and turned his thoughts backward.

After his Ma forced him out the door, he spent most of his time learning the politics of the street. By the time he was six, he could steal a kid’s lunch money—or his lunch—without the kid missing it until it was too late. Drugs seemed to be the next step and he had a syndicate by age twelve. He arrived home from school most days with blood on his clothes—always someone else’s—and was expelled at age fourteen for having one too many fights on the playground. When he spent his fifteenth birthday locked up in juvenile detention for a knife attack on a kid for no good reason—except he had it coming—it was a cake walk, in fact, the only cake he ever took pleasure in on his birthday.
By age seventeen, he traded knives in for guns. He made his first kill that year and began a rapid accent to the stature of Don in his old Jersey neighborhood. On his block in Newark, no one dared cross him as they feared his wrath, like so many before, would be tattooed permanently on their foreheads. Those lost souls had paid the price for disrespect, but Tony had never done time for any of those crimes. Murder cases with his signature had gone cold in two states, yet the cops had never tied him to a single one. Not even the one that took more than five years to execute.

Tony grabbed the Wild Irish Rose by the neck and emptied the last half on the head of the man sprawled at his feet. He flipped the empty bottle into the Hudson River. Nick came around fast and struggled for his hands to swipe at his eyes. But Tony had them tied behind him, so he shook his head and spewed the warm bum wine that had seeped into his mouth onto his shirt.
“What the hell!” Nick shouted. “Who are you damn it?”

Tony remained silent as he watched his old partner make pitiful efforts to change his lot. Nick leaned against a crate, and could squirm and swear and adjust his position until rats ate with forks, but in the end, all that wouldn’t cancel the payment due. The sound of waves’ lap on the pilings of the deserted dock was the perfect place to wrap up one final piece of business before saddling up for LA.
In the moons glow, Tony watched as Nick blinked and squeezed his eye lids tight as if ringing the liquid out. When he looked up to Tony’s face again, the spark of recognition ignited them.

“What the hell is this?” Nick shouted. “After all these years, you couldn’t just say ‘hello?’”
“The pipe across your skull was hello. D’ya think this some damn family reunion?”

“That my gun?” Nick asked. His eyes focused on the piece.
The panic in his tone was clear to Tony. Just the reaction he hoped for—panic, bargaining, groveling, whimpering—four stages of an unanticipated but prolonged violent death. “Didn’t think you’d mind,” Tony said. He raised the revolver to where the security light down the dock bounced off the silver barrel and held it three inches from Nick’s chest. “You won’t be needing it once we’re done here.”

“Wha … what you talking about, Tone? You haven’t been around in years, now this?”
“Five years. Five years and not a minute early, even with time served and good behavior.”

“We were stupid back then,” Nick said. He leaned forward and took the pressure off the back of his head. “High all the time, acting like gangsters.”
“We were gangsters,” Tony said, “but you gave me up over some whore?”

“She was no whore and you’d a done the same if I’d nearly killed your bitch.”
“Not only was she a whore but she was a junkie, Nick. She stole our stash more than once, stayed high and you gave her a pass every time.”

But then you raped and nearly killed her”.

“Just collectin’ what was due. As I said, she was a whore.”
“I should’ve wasted your ass then, but we were partners. You understand, right?”

“Yeah, I understand …, and I’ve paid my debt to society. Now you’re gonna pay yours.”
Nick shook his head and started to stand, but his legs strained against a chain wrapped around them and he gave up the effort. “No, Tony,” he pleaded. “You looking for an apology? Okay, look, I … I … I’m sorry, man.”

“Too late,” Tony said with an even tone and crouched down so his eyes were level with Nick’s. “It’s payback now.”
“No, Tone,” Nick broke eye contact and, looked across the river toward the New York City skyline.

Tony followed his eyes. The crescent of the waxing moon angled over Manhattan such that if it had held any luck, it had already spilled its gift over the city. There was none left for Nick.
_____
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