Life sends you subtle clues sometimes. Not always. When a rocket propelled grenade blew up the rear wall of the motel and a world renowned mobster grabbed a hold of his foe, Brandon Vickers got a clue and left the scene running. Junkies run away from places all the time. Even the fat ones. People of Baltimore see that kind of scene all the time. What they don’t often see is Salvatore D’Ambrosio blowing up a motel and beating up a dude with the butt of a gun. The escape plan might have been straightforward, but it was safe and sound. Run in a straight line and hide in the first spot.
The place he found was a 7-11 convenience store that had a Middle Eastern looking clerk tending the place as if nothing happened outside. For a split second, Brandon had wondered how many bombs this man had heard detonate in his lifetime. Back when he was in Iraq for security work, he used to be woken up at night by deflagrations while the neighbors were barely turning over in their sleep. This was a terrible thing, getting used to bombs.
“Hello, hello sir” said the clerk, trying to reach for Brandon’s attention.
Brandon acknowledged him with a quick nod and suddenly remembered that he had an emergency phone number in his pocket and a handful of change he was given for troubleshooting purpose. He had no idea who he was going to call, but he had to give it a shot. What else was he going to do anyway? He dashed towards the counter.
“Sorry man, can I…I…use the…ph…ph…phone?”
As he was saying this, Brandon smiled interiorly because he sounded a lot more like a junkie now that he was nervous and stuttering. He needed the stress in order to perform.
“Yes, yes sir, of course. In the hallway, in between the two bathrooms.”
“Thank you”
Brandon turned the corner and immediately ran for the phone, scared that somebody would magically appear from the toilet door with an unexplainable urge to call his sister and tell her about life, philosophy and whatnot. When his fingers wrapped around the telephone handle, the cool breeze of relief wash over his body. He had to dial the number three times in order to get it right.
“Hello” said an unknown voice.
“It’s Vickers”
Brandon was never given a code name or anything like that.
“What’s up?”
“The girl is with D’Ambrosio again. He came in with a rocket launcher; he blew up a whole motel.”
“What?”
“Yeah! What did you wanted me to do, you guys didn’t even give me a weapon”
“What about Hollins?
“Who the fuck is Hollins?”
Brandon felt a cold shiver at the base of his skull. He had never felt such a sensation on that part of his body before, but he knew what the cold steel of a gun felt like. The way the gun was firmly applied against his cervical spine, without any shakes or hesitation, Brandon felt his life at an inch from being over.
“Where’s. The. Fucking. Girl” a voice said, calm and self-assured.
For another blink of an eye, Brandon wrestled with the idea of saying the truth, whoever that guy was. He left the phone cord hanging, both guys heard the voice on the other and saying: “Hello? Hello? Shit.” Brandon took a deep breath and decided that the truth was the safest way to put things out, no matter what duty called for.
“You know the blown off motel? You know that cloud of …of fire? Well, that’s Sal…D’Am…brooosio. He took the girl…and…and left.”
“Sal’s not answering his phone, neither is Gino or Ludwig. I think you’re full of shit.”
“Fuck” said Brandon, “where does that put us?”
The man put the gun against Brandon’s spine and said: “Slowly turn around and listen to what I say. If you’re very collaborative, I will spare your life and maybe help you get off the hook.”
Brandon listened and turned around slowly. Inside the 7-11, blocking the door, was a tall blonde man with the expression of a Hindu cow on his face. The clerk had lifted the bulletproof window and was now eating his lunch and admiring the show. He would tell this story for years and years, to his children and grandchildren in this Middle Eastern storytelling fashion that Brandon came to appreciate. What he didn’t appreciate though was to be caught in between an armed man and a psychopathic looking guy, in a surefire collision course.
“Fuck”, said the guy behind him, sensing the impending threat.
He let go of Brandon’s spine and wrapped an arm around his throat, pointing the gun at the man blocking the exit. “Sweet, I’m a human buckler now” Brandon told himself. Looking at the hand that pointed the gun from behind him, he realized that the man was black and wearing a Gucci shirt. He had that awkwardly pleasing smell of perfume to him that didn’t fit the situation at all.
“I don’t care who the fuck you are dude, but get off my way and you’ll be bullet free.”
The man didn’t answer. He just kept starting down at Brandon and his kidnapper.
“GET THE FUCK OFF, ARE YOU DEAF, STUPID OR BOTH?”
“You’re. Not. Going. To. Do. Anything” said the unknown man, with a chopping tone.
The man fired a bullet, which left the blond stranger unimpressed. He fired then another round, then another, and another. The man didn’t fall. Brandon’s mysterious kidnapper laughed for only reaction and said: “ Fuck, you have to give me your Kevlar dealer’s phone, this is some serious shit you’re wearing man.”
The stranger started walking forward.
“I. Have. One. Question” he said with the same strange rhythm.
“I don’t know you and I don’t know shit about you” the kidnapper answered.
The stranger grabbed the gun from the kidnapper’s hand and broke his wrist. Like that. Without any apparent effort. The kidnapper fell on the ground, screaming and holding his hand that was hanging limb, in a bizarre, unnatural angle.
“Not. You. The. Fat. Boy.”
Brandon felt his heart stop right in his chest. He had never seen that guy in his life. He seemed younger than him and despite his threatening look, his orange Baltimore Orioles shirt and his sweat pants gave him an otherworldly look given the circumstances. Government people or mobsters don’t dress like this. Even broken-wrist man (who was huge) wasn’t that white thrash looking.
“Fat. Boy. Tell. Me. Where. Is. Walter?”
“WHO THE FUCK IS WALTER, WHY THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW”, said Brandon, surrendering to panic, having completely forgotten about the surveillance videos.
“O.K. Tell. Me. Where. Is. Mason. Then?”
“WHO’S MASON, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”
The stranger grabbed Brandon by the throat and lifted him up against the bathroom corridor wall.
“You’re. Not. Useful. To. Me. Alive. Aren’t. You?”
The stranger’s grip was very strong. Brandon had been grabbed by the throat before, but never lifted up like this. As his feet left the ground, the sky become dark around him. Brandon closed his eyes, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much, that there would be something on the other side. The grip stopped hurting after a while. Brandon thought that life was leaving him, but his neck was still hurting. Pain meant he was alive.
The convenience store was plunged in the dark and the stranger was wobbling around like a drunken man. He made a quick dash for the door and disappeared. The big black man was standing next to him trying to pop his wrist bone back into place and muttering to himself: “The fuck is going on? Sal never told me about men made out of steel, what the fuck?”
“You’re OK?” asked Brandon.
“I’m not, but I’ll survive. I need to jet man. I’m LeShaun.”
“Brandon”
“I know”
Brandon felt stupid, like pawns feel in the middle of a chess game. LeShaun left through the back door and Brandon dashed through the front. The clerk looked at him with a bite of pita sticking out from his mouth. Outside, the stranger was nowhere to be found, but Brandon could notice en electric line post had crashed into the ground from across the street. A car had slammed into it. Brandon decided to go take a peek at who was the driver. He had this terrible feeling that he knew who had caused that. That he knew who had saved his life. The electrical field was dissipated as the current was probably cut for a whole city block.
The windows of the car were tinted but Brandon was resolved to confirm the identity of his savior. He opened the door. The lifeless corpse of Harry Mason fell down the car and hit the ground with a limp thud. His forehead was caved in from a brutal impact and a safety bag malfunction. Lying there was a man who died for a cause, and that cause might just have grabbed Brandon by the throat two minutes earlier.
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