(For those of you who took me at my word that I would post a new, short story last Thanksgiving, my apologies. My family made it clear that if my focus drifted from them to my laptop, they would gut me and feed my entrails to a pig.)
Chad parked his
Prius in front of the motel. Ernie’s previous statement, Chad realized, proved
true. The motel did look like a great
place to buy meth, if Chad enjoyed that sort of thing.
He killed his
engine, stepped out of his car, locked it, made sure he locked it, and entered the motel’s lobby.
The stench of mold
and urine slapped him. A man with no fewer than fifteen facial piercings sat
behind a desk. A gumball machine offered faded gumballs that looked as if they
spent a long prison sentence inside the machine.
“Help you?” the
clerk asked. It sounded more like a grunt than English.
Chad showed the
clerk a picture of David. “Have you seen this guy?”
The clerk’s eyes
flickered towards and away from the picture. “You a cop?”
Chad shook his
head.
“Bugger off.” The
clerk redirected his attention towards a porno mag on his desk.
“He’s my brother,”
Chad said. “I need to know if he’s been here.”
“Then ask him.”
The clerk’s eyes never left his magazine.
“Can’t,” Chad
said. “He’s dead.” He waited until the clerk finally looked up at him with a
bored expression.
The clerk
shrugged. “What’s it worth to you?”
Chad forced his
thoughts from his overdue bills and eviction notice. “Fifty bucks?”
The clerk snorted
and returned to his magazine.
“Seventy.” Chad
wondered if his wallet even carried that much cash.
The clerk held out
his hand.
Chad opened his
wallet, counted his cash. Eighty bucks. He slapped seventy of it into the
clerk’s hand.
The clerk stuffed
the money into his pocket, continued to read his magazine.
Chad waited,
bounced on the balls of his feet. “Well?”
The clerk nodded
slightly.
Chad felt an urge
to strangle the punk. “So? Has he
been here?”
The punk turned a page in his magazine. He nodded again.
“Did he have
anyone with him?” Chad asked.
“You didn’t pay
for that,” the punk said.
Chad, for the
first time in his life, grabbed another human being by the neck. He jerked the
punk over the desk, glared fire into his face. “Answer.”
A fat, shirtless
guy with a baseball bat strolled inside through the front door. “We got a
problem, asshole?” he asked Chad.
Chad felt too
angry to feel afraid. He redirected his attention towards the fat guy. “If you
plan to take another step towards me, you better lube that bat first, because I
swear to God I’m gonna shove it up your ass.”
The big guy
blinked. He clearly never expected that
response.
Chad’s attention
returned to the punk—who now held a pistol.
The punk cocked
his weapon, pushed its cold metal against Chad’s face.
They stared at
each other.
“You want to deal
with me,” Chad asked, “or the FBI?” The words meant nothing, but he
hoped they would give the punk pause.
The punk paused. “Your
brother brought some whore here. Same whore every time.”
Chad forced his
face straight. He dreaded these words since he learned about this motel.
David cheated on
Melissa.
Don’t jump to conclusions, he told
himself. Just forget about it for now.
The pistol pressed against his head helped.
“Anything else?”
Chad asked. He wondered how he would leave. The guy with the bat blocked the
only door.
The punk grinned.
“The bitch was Russian. Nice ass.”
“That narrows it
down.” Chad said. His cellphone
rang.
Chad wished his
hand wouldn’t shake so hard while he placed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“It’s Ernie," his called said. "I
identified Valdus Qasim.”
Chad licked his
lips. “No. Keep your men back. I have the situation under control.”
He glanced from
Punk to Fat Guy to see if either of them bought the trick. They seemed to
consider it.
Ernie paused.
“What?”
“I said keep your
men back!” Chad roared over the phone. “I don’t want a fucking mess in here.
Understood?” Please get what I’m doing
here, Ernie.
Fat Guy and Punk
exchanged a concerned glance.
Ernie paused even
longer. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Chad?”
“Just tell me what
you learned,” Chad marched as if he didn’t feel the slightest bit threatened
(though his legs shook) towards the big guy and the door he blocked.
Ernie swallowed.
“O . . . kay. Valdus Qasim’s Russian mafia. Lives here in Fort Myers, Florida.
FBI keeps trying to arrest him, but they never can. Seems that witnesses
against Qasim disappear.”
Chad felt the
blood drain from his face. How much deeper could this rabbit hole go? What
awaited him at the bottom?
He stood
nose-to-nose with the big guy whose bat could crush Chad’s skull. “You gonna move
out of my way, you Snicker Pie-eating shit stain?” Chad felt impressed with
himself. His voice never even quivered.
The big guy stared
down at him . . . then stepped aside. “Don’t come back,” he whispered. His
breath reeked of weed and cheap beer.
Chad forced his
feet to carry him at an unconcerned pace towards his Prius. He climbed in and
locked the doors. “Sorry about that, Ernie.”
“Do you need me to
call the police?” Ernie asked.
Chad thought about
Detective Redwood. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Look. Chad. You
need to step away from all this. Valdus Qasim’s bad news.”
“I have to know
the truth.” Chad started his engine.
The big guy with
the bat trampled through the door and towards Chad’s car. His bat swung—Bam—and caved a portion of Chad’s hood.
Another swing smashed the windshield
into a latticework of broken cells.
Chad threw his
Prius into reverse, flew backwards out of the parking lot.
“What’s happening,
Chad?” Ernie’s concern pulsed from the cellphone.
The fat guy threw
his bat, which shattered Chad’s driver’s side mirror.
“Everything’s
fine.” Chad shifted to drive.
The punk raced through the motel door. He raised his pistol.
Chad stomped the
gas, blasted out of the dirt parking
lot. The air congested with gray-colored filth.
Bam. Bam. Crash.
Chad’s rear window
shattered. Glass poured across the backseats.
“Are those gunshots?” Ernie asked.
“Yes.” Chad flew
through a red light. A car honked at
him. “Where do I find Valdus Qasim?”
“You can’t be
serious,” Ernie said. “That guy’s dangerous. Stay clear of him.”
“I’m going to
ask him what happened to my brother. He has no reason not to tell me.”
“The hell he
doesn’t!”
“Just give me an
address, Ernie. Please.”
To be continued . . .
You can catch my novels, such as Daughters of Darkwana, on Kindle.
I publish my blogs as follows:
Short stories on Mondays and Thursdays at martinwolt.blogspot.com
A look at entertainment industries via feminist and queer theory, as well as other political filters on Tuesdays at Entertainmentmicroscope.blogspot.com
An inside look at my novel series, its creation, and the e-publishing process on Wednesdays at Darkwana.blogspot.com
Tips on improving your fiction writing Fridays at FictionFormula.blogspot.com
Movie reviews on Sundays at moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com
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