Black Cat Weekly #46

Chapter 5

byThe Sheriff’s Tale

It’s days like today I think maybe I need to hang up my spurs. Four shot up corpses in a Chevy Tahoe in a York County cornfield. The driver veered right off the road, drove straight over rows of corn to mid-field, then all hell broke loose.

The driver got it from behind. His brains are all over the windshield. The front passenger’s facing backward. Two bullets fired through the car seat tore her open. The pair in the rear were shot by someone up front.

Nobody’s talking. And no one’s got ID. It’s the most confounding thing I’ve come across in twenty-seven years of law enforcement.

The plates check out to a limited liability corporation with a connection to a Charlotte crime boss named Manuel Morales. He may be the corpse in the rear passenger seat, according to one of my deputies. The stiff next to him, in leather slippers and silk jammies, and sporting a Duke class ring, seems out of place. Looks like he lingered. Just one bullet in him, through the breastbone. Probably got his lungs.

There’s a ski mask and wadded up packing tape in the back compartment. No clue.

A damned fly’s l*****g at the mess on the windshield. If he could talk.

The Driver’s Tale

I didn’t even want this job. Camila said it’d be good for me. Show I was reliable. Professional. And since she’s been working for Boss for over two years, I figured she knew best. So, I said, “OK, I’ll do it.”

Some asshole lawyer Boss knew. He’d represented Boss before. Got him off on some stuff. But he screwed Boss and Boss was pissed. So, he and Camila were going to teach him a lesson.

All I was supposed to do was drive. Drive to the asshole’s house. Wait. Then drive wherever they told me after that. My sister said show up Saturday at seven a.m. at Boss’s bar, Puesto de Sol, on South Boulevard. “No ID,” she said.

So, I’m at Puesto at seven this morning. Camila’s waiting with Max, the bartender. We go out back to the alley, and there’s a black Tahoe all gassed up.

Max tosses me the FOB. “Don’t f**k up, amigo,” he says.

I get behind the wheel and Camila jumps in. We drive to Boss’s place in Second Ward. Camila goes to get him. He comes out and sits in the back.

“Buenas,” I say.

Boss nods, then Camila gives me directions. I shut up and do as I’m instructed. Quiet. Professional.

We drive east and south into some fancy neighborhood for rich people. We come to a giant three-story brick Colonial with black shutters. Boss says it’s the asshole’s place. He tells me to take a spin around the block. Boss and Camila scan the house and neighborhood. When I return, Boss tells me to stop on the street. “Don’t go in the driveway.” The dashboard clock reads 8:15.

Camila says to leave the car running. She opens the glove box and pulls out a Baretta and a clip. She locks and loads. Boss does the same thing behind me. Camila looks around once more, then nods to Boss. He pulls out two black ski masks, hands one to Camila, and they slip them on and slide out. They walk quickly to the front door. They don’t knock or try the doorknob. Camila just kicks it open. Damn!

As they’re going in, this shiny gray Touareg comes barreling down the street and zips up the driveway. It stops in front of the garage. A tall skinny kid climbs out with two cups of coffee in his hands. He enters the garage and goes through some door into the house.

I want to call Camila, but I can’t. No phone. She didn’t tell me what to do if a kid comes to the house. I sit in the car feeling helpless.

Bang! There’s a gunshot from inside the house. s**t, now I’m really nervous! I want to leave. Shift into drive and go. But that wouldn’t be professional. Or reliable. And I can’t leave my big sister behind. She never abandoned me.

I wait. I check the dashboard clock. My stomach hurts. We’re going to get caught! I listen for sirens.

An hour goes by. Well, five minutes, but it seems like an hour. Then out comes Boss. He’s holding a g*n to the head of some big white dude in his pajamas. The asshole, I guess. He’s got a ski mask over his head, so I can’t see his face. Boss walks to the car, pushing the masked dude from the back. “Open the hatch!” he screams.

Damn! I don’t know how! Quickly, I scan the dashboard for the rear cargo door button. Finding it, I mash it and hear a whoosh as it lifts. But Boss doesn’t take the asshole there. He walks him to the back door and yanks it open. “Get in!” he yells. The asshole stumbles in. Boss pushes him across the car, then climbs in behind him. The asshole falls into the seat behind me, and Boss sits next to him, pointing his g*n at the asshole’s chest.

Camila’s out, too. I hear her behind the car. She’s whispering. The hatch closes, and she runs around to the front and jumps in beside me.

The asshole’s whimpering. “Please, Manuel! Let’s talk this over.” Boss smacks his hooded head with his pistol.

“Shut the f**k up, counselor!” says Boss. “Shut up or I’ll blow your mouth off.”

Boss yells, “Drive!” I punch it. Immediately, I realize I’m making a mistake peeling out, so I ease off the gas.

“Stay calm,” I tell myself. “Be professional.”

I feel Camila’s eye’s burning a hole in my temple. We drive out of the neighborhood and Boss tells me to get on 277, then 77. We head south. We cross the state line. Then Boss tells me to get off the highway at the next exit. I take it, and we turn right. Then left. Then right. We’re in farm country. Corn and bean fields everywhere.

At a country road cutting left through two cornfields, Boss says take it. I drive down the dirt path with cornstalks towering on either side. Suddenly, Boss barks, “Go left! Here!”

“Into the corn?” I ask.

“Yes! Here!”

I brake and make a hard left. Another scorching look from Camila as the sharp turn tosses her against the car door. I drive into the field. Tall cornstalks slap the hood, then flatten as I push the Tahoe forward. The car is eating corn! I glance in the rear-view and see the rough path the Tahoe is making. Some farmer is going to be pissed!

Five hundred feet in, Boss says, “OK, stop!”

I slam on the brakes, and the Tahoe jerks to a halt. Everyone hurls forward. Again, Camila’s eyes! She spins around so she’s kneeling in her seat, facing to the rear. Her chest is against the seatback. She leers at the asshole. Her Baretta’s balanced on the headrest.

I sit absolutely still and stare forward. I clench the steering wheel in a death grip. I say nothing. I don’t even turn off the engine, until Boss yells, “Shut the f*****g car off!”

I don’t want to be here! I look out the windshield and think about other things. I think about mami. She wouldn’t like this. She’d say I should be roofing houses, like papa. That’s what I did until Camila got me this job. It was good work. Hard, and dangerous. And low paying. But honest. Roofers don’t wind up in cornfields with gangsters and kidn*pped people.

But I did what my sister wanted and quit roofing. She said I could make more money and maybe make something of myself in this job. If I did good, Boss would reward me. Give me more responsibility. Then, maybe I could afford to marry Maria and give my son a better life.

But here I am. Sweating. Panting. My heart’s pumping in my chest. And that smell! Did somebody piss themselves? And fear. I smell that, too. Mine? The assholes? Who knows? But it’s there. A rancid, electric stink.

Boss yanks off the asshole’s mask. “You think you can disrespect me? Just because you’re a big-shot lawyer? You think you can treat me like s**t? Huh?”

The asshole answers. “No, Manuel. I meant no disrespect. I just couldn’t pay you up front. I’ve had some unforeseen financial set-backs. Some things at the firm.” So polite!

He talks on and on. Boss screams, then starts yelling at the asshole.

I stop listening. I can’t hear anything anyway. My pounding heart is about to c***k open my chest. I think about Maria and my baby boy. Still asleep in bed. I think about standing on a pitched roof hammering in shingles. The only thing you have to worry about is falling. Now I’m a*s-deep in a k********g and God knows what else! Something terrible happened back at that house. I know it.

Boss is furious! “How dare you raise your voice to me, you son of a b***h!” He starts screaming so loud and fast I can’t understand.

I don’t want to hear anymore. I just wanted to leave. Fling open my door, jump out, and dash into the corn. But I sit still and stare forward, gripping the steering wheel and clenching my teeth.

“Please make this be over!” I silently beg God or Satan or whoever will listen. “Please make this stop!”

BANG! Something slugs the back of my head. My body flings forward into the steering wheel. Blood—mine?—splatters the windshield in front of me and a spiderweb fracture spreads from a single hole in the glass.

I really didn’t want this job.

The Assassin’s Tale

It was a mistake coaxing my kid brother to drive on this job. He wasn’t ready. Too green. Not that he did anything wrong. But if he hadn’t been here, he wouldn’t be dead.

Boss told me about the job on Thursday. He said it had to be done Saturday morning. Said some big shot lawyer f****d him over he needed to be taught a lesson. He said we’d go to his house early and catch him in his pjs, then cap his wife and grab the lawyer. Very simple. I didn’t need to know any more.

Boss wanted Alonzo to drive, but I asked if we could use Tomas. My hermanito had only been working for Boss for a few months, but he was doing good, and I told Boss he was professional and reliable. Boss wasn’t sure. Then he remembered Alonzo had a job in Atlanta Saturday, so he said, “What the hell. You and Tomas get the car at Puesto on Saturday morning, then come get me at my place in Second Ward.” I smiled and thanked Boss for his consideration.

I found Tomas eating lunch at mami’s. When I told him about the job, he wasn’t excited. He seemed nervous. I got a little pissed. “Brother, this is your chance to show Boss you are professional and reliable. If you do this job well, Boss will remember. He’ll know you’re ready for greater things. That’s how you move up. That’s how I did.”

Tomas nodded. He said, “I know,” but he looked down at his shoes. He wasn’t happy. He was quiet. He’s always that way. So moody. Then, he looked up at me, smiled, put his right hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, Camila,” he said. “Thank you for everything you have done for me.”

I wrapped my arms around him. “Of course, little brother. I love you. I just want what’s best for us.”

I know he was happier when he was roofing. The pay sucked and the work was hard. But it was what papa did, and it was honest. Mami liked it, too. She was proud of Tomas. Unlike me. I was the bad child. The drop out. The s**t. Never mind I got better grades than Tomas in school, or that I made the money that paid mami’s rent after papa died. No, Tomas was the angel, and I was the little w***e. I guess her opinion will never change now.

But my little brother thought I was the best. He loved me. He knew I quit school and went to work for Boss to support the family. Because after the drunk driver killed papa there was nothing. No paycheck. No insurance. No worker’s comp. Somebody had to do something.

I’m not proud of everything. But I did what had to be done, and after a year on my back and selling pills on the street, I got a chance to prove I was more than a dope-dealing w***e. When I capped that lying thief’s a*s who’d been stealing from Boss for years, I got noticed. And promoted. After another year of taking care of Boss’s dirtier problems, he started calling me La Sombra, the Shadow.

So, early Saturday morning, as I meet my Tomas at Puesto and we pick up the Tahoe, I know what my job is. There’s a piece in the car’s glove box, and I know what to do with it. I don’t know many details, and I’ve told Tomas even less. “Wait in the car and be ready to drive,” I tell him. “And no ID.”

Tomas understands. He asks no questions. Not because he’s a professional and knows not to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. But because he’s terrified. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t even want to go. But he is going, and he’ll do his job. For me.

We leave Puesto and drive to Boss’s place. He’s in a quiet mood. He tells me the lawyer’s address, and I tell Tomas. Boss sits silent in the back seat, staring out the window. I know not to talk to him.

We drive silently to the big shot’s house in Myer’s Park. After we cruise around checking things out, Boss has Tomas park on the street next to the driveway. I feel Thomas’s fear, but he says nothing and acts professional.

I open the glove box. I take out the polished black Baretta and full clip. I check the action, then lock and load. Boss does the same in the back seat with his own piece. I look into Tomas’s eyes. “Leave the car running and be ready to drive as soon as we come out.”

Boss pulls ski masks out of his jacket and tosses one to me. I scan the street once more, then slide on the mask and climb out. Boss exits with his mask on, and we hustle up to the entrance of the lawyer’s house. I know not to mess with the handle, and when I reach the door, I rear back, lift my right leg, and kick as hard as I can next to the doorknob. The door bursts open.

You never know what’s going to happen when you bust into a place. Sometimes there’s a guy waiting with a g*n pointed at your face. But I figured this fat cat would still be asleep in his king-sized bed early on this Saturday morning. I’m surprised to find him and his skinny-b***h wife in the kitchen area when we storm in.

Boss moves quickly to the lawyer, seated at his breakfast table, and points his pistol at his chest. Wifey’s on her Peloton just off the kitchen, racing to nowhere in her Lululemons. She stops pedaling and screams as I quick-step up to her, Baretta pointed at her pretty ponytailed head. I get about five feet away and fire one round. BAM! Her little mouth forms an O-shape as the back of her head explodes against the drapes behind her. She shuts up, and her body goes limp. She slides off her stationary bike like vanilla pudding.

As I’m deciding whether to put another round in her, I hear a gasp coming from the kitchen. I turn to see some lanky kid standing there holding two Starbucks. He must have come in from the garage. The cups drop like they were knocked from his hands. Coffee splatters across the kitchen floor.

Boss slams the lawyer’s head on the kitchen table, then swivels his g*n to the kid and screams, “Get him!” I leave the b***h and move. The kid’s in shock and just stands there as I get behind him and put my Baretta to his skull. “Tie him up,” orders Boss.

I yell at the petrified kid, “Tape!” He stands there. “Tape! Where’s some goddamn tape?” I smack my Baretta barrel against his head. He snaps out of his shock and twists his neck to look at me. He lifts his right hand and points a boney finger at a drawer near the refrigerator. With my g*n against his skull, I grab his left arm and yank it around his back. We slowly walk backward to the drawer he fingered. Releasing his arm, I yank it open. Scotch tape, masking tape, and a wide roll of clear mailing tape. No duct tape. Damn. I grab the mailing tape, push the drawer closed, then thump the Baretta barrel against him again.

“Get on your knees,” I tell him. He hesitates, then drops. “Don’t f*****g move.” Quickly, I tuck my Baretta in my waistband, pull both his arms behind him, and force him to intertwine his fingers. I wrap mailing tape around his wrists and hands several times, tightly binding them. I bite the tape and tear it from the roll, then pick up the Baretta and press the barrel against his skull.

Boss grunts, “We can’t leave the kid.”

I nod.

Boss puts his mask over the lawyer’s head and stands him up. We’re out the door and in the Tahoe in less than a minute. Boss pushes the lawyer into the back seat behind Tomas, then sits next to him. I climb in up front beside Tomas, who’s scared shitless.

The whiney lawyer tries to talk to Boss, but he shuts him up after a b***h slap.

Boss says go. Tomas peels out, and I give him the stink eye. He slows down. Boss has Tomas head south on the highway, and we drive for about half an hour until we’re somewhere in South Carolina. Boss has Tomas get off the highway, then make a series of turns until we’re driving through farm country on a dirt road. Boss orders Tomas to drive the Tahoe into a f*****g cornfield. Husks and corn ears fly everywhere as Tomas plows into the field. Then Boss says, “OK, stop!”

Tomas slams on the brakes. I fly out of my seat. I cut my eyes at him again. Climbing back up, I flip around onto my knees so my chest is pressing against the seatback. I stare at the lawyer as Boss rips off his mask. My Baretta’s in my right hand laying on the headrest. The lawyer’s scared. He’s breathing funny. It smells like he’s pissed his pajamas.

“You think because you’re some big-shot lawyer you can disrespect me?” asks Boss. “Think you can treat me like a piece of s**t?”

The lawyer’s panting. “No, Manuel, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just couldn’t pay you up front.” Then he starts talking about his problems and financial difficulties. Like Boss gives a s**t. He tells Boss, “I’ll have liquidity when the settlement comes in. Then I can pay you what we agreed.”

I cut my eyes to Boss. Rage colors his face red. “What we agreed upon? That deal’s dead, counselor!” Boss howls, “You’re not in charge here! We’re not operating under your terms! In case you missed it, my associate here just killed your wife back at your McMansion.” Boss stops talking to let his words sink in.

I stare at the lawyer with my stone-cold killer look. I angle my Baretta so its barrel is pointing at him. He starts to hyperventilate. I expect him to start crying now that Boss has mentioned his dead wife. But no. He just wheezes like a squashed accordion. I can almost see his little lawyer wheels whirring away in his brain, trying to figure out his next move. This guy’s a bastard! His pretty wife is bleeding out on the floor of their home, but he’s not giving her a second thought. I may be a cold-hearted b***h, but I ain’t got nothing on this SOB.

Boss tells him the price has gone up. Something about it being a million now, instead of 500K. The lawyer gets agitated and raises his voice. He tells Boss he can’t pay that much. That the agreement was for half a mil. He needs the rest to pay off his debts.

Boss is super pissed. “How dare you raise your voice to me!” he screams. The lawyer clams up.

Boss asks the lawyer something about his kid. The lawyer nods and says his life’s insured for a million dollars.

“Well, then, we’ll cap him so you can cash in on that policy, too,” answers Boss, smiling like he’s solved the lawyer’s problems.

“Are you crazy?” screams the lawyer. “You can’t just kill my whole family! How stupid are you, Manuel? If you do that, the insurance company will never pay either of the claims. It’s too suspicious. I’ll be in litigation trying to get that money for years! You’ll never see a dime!”

Well, that did it. Arguing with Boss is bad. But calling him crazy and stupid crossed a line. Boss cuts him off with a scream. “f**k you, Counselor! How dare you talk to me that way!” He starts mixing Spanish and English and other s**t I’ve never heard. He holds his pistol like he’s going to shoot the lawyer, then smashes the barrel into the lawyer’s mouth. He pulls it out, then slaps the lawyer upside his head.

I’m not sure what happens next. I think he hits the lawyer so hard it jars his trigger finger. BAM!

My heart stops. For a second, I think Boss has shot me. Then I look to my right and see Tomas fly forward into the steering wheel. The back of his head looks like cherry Jell-O. The windshield’s painted in b****y chunks. Boss mutters, “Oh.”

Without thinking, I jerk my Baretta off the headrest, level it at Boss’s chest, and squeeze off two rounds. BAM! BAM! His body blows backward into his seat. His eyes are as big as Bitcoins, and his mouth opens like an egg as he stares at me in shock.

“You b***h,” he whispers.

I give Boss my death stare. He’s just blown my kid brother’s head off! My sweet little hermanito. Sitting there minding his business, trying to be reliable and professional. Boss has killed him. Snuffed out his young life. Now Tomas’s little son has no father. And mami’s heart will certainly break.

Better take Boss’s g*n. I wouldn’t want big-shot lawyer getting any smart ideas. I bend to reach for Boss’s pistol.

BAM! BAM! Two hammer blows come through the seatback and drive into my chest. The force knocks me off my knees and my back slams into the dashboard. I look down. Blood pours from two cup-sized holes in my shirt. Boss f*****g shot me! He’s back there double-tapped and dying, but the grizzly old asshole still has enough to pop two into me!

My plug’s pulled. I’m draining out. I look over at Tomas’s b****y head smashed against the steering wheel. He’s gone. I’m about to join him. I need to make sure Boss joins us, too.

I’m still gripping my Baretta. Slowly, I lift my arm. Concentrate! I need to put one in Boss’s head. Finish him. But my vision’s blurring. My strength’s gone. The damned Baretta feels like an anvil. My arm starts jiggling. My aim’s off. I need to fire before I can’t. BAM!

The Boss’s Tale

That little b***h. Stone cold La Sombra. But I’m not really pissed at Camila. I mean, hell, who wouldn’t have done what she did? After what I did.

No, it’s MacGowan. The counselor. This is his fault. I should have told that son of a b***h no way when he came to me with his little problem last month.

Missing client funds, he said. Yeah. More like stolen client funds. The bastard was stealing from his clients and was about to get caught. I guess his fancy tastes outstripped his ability to pay for them. Dumbass. As he told me all this, sitting in the back booth at Puesto de Sol and drinking my booze he says, “Manuel, I need your help.”

I’m thinking, “How the hell can I help you? You’re supposed to help me. That’s what I’ve been paying you for all these years. Help me hide money. Help me clean money. Help me get charges dismissed. And, when everything else fails, help me get acquitted. And for all that help, I’ve paid you a mint. That’s our relationship. You help. I pay. How can I possibly help you?”

He tells me. Cap his wife. Anne. So, he can collect on a five-million-dollar life insurance policy he has on her.

“What’s in it for me?” I ask, hoping to God he doesn’t think I’d do this as a favor.

“Half a mil,” he answers, calmly.

Half a million dollars isn’t bad. It’s certainly well above the going rate for wife capping. But there’ll be a lot of heat on whoever does this. This ain’t any old wife. This is the spouse of prominent criminal defense attorney Lachlan “Luck” MacGowan, Junior. To me, he’s just counselor, but to the Mayor, City Council, and the big wigs in state government, when word gets out that Luck MacGowan’s wife has been murdered, there’ll be a massive dragnet to catch the killer. So, half a mil’s probably a fair price for such a dirty deed.

“OK, counselor,” I say, “but that’s payable up front. I don’t want any connection to that insurance payout.”

He says he’s got funds set aside that won’t raise suspicions. Figuring he has more reason to keep the payment untraceable than me, I don’t question him.

We shake hands, and he goes back to his high-rise law practice.

A week before our go-date, the counselor’s back at Puesto. “Change of plans,” he says. Some financial emergency has occurred, and he had to use his money cache to cover it. He can only pay $50,000 now, but once the insurance money comes in, he’ll give me the half mil.

I stare at him in disbelief. Does he really think I’m going to buy this horseshit excuse? Does he really think I’m that stupid? That I got where I got, with people trying to kill me or jail me every day for twenty years, by being stupid? I almost beat him to death right there. But I think better of it. My dad always told me never to act out of anger, and sometimes I follow that advice.

“f**k you,” I say. “We have a deal, and you owe me five hundred grand. Now.”

The counselor gets all highfalutin and says I’m being unreasonable. Unreasonable! He then calls the whole thing off. Says if I can’t consent to a little contract modification then it’s canceled. He says he’ll figure out another way to solve his problem that won’t involve me. He tells me he’s very disappointed in me.

Fuck his high-hat attitude. It’s his mess. I agree to handle it for him. Then he changes the terms at the last minute, and I’m the one to blame? I don’t think so. I think maybe he needs a little lesson in respect.

Two days later, I get with Camila, my best asset for s**t like this. She’s totally professional and ice cold. I call her La Sombra. The Shadow. She’s been with me a couple of years now. Started out hooking and selling Oxy on the streets. But she proved her mettle, and I’ve been using her for my pain-in-the-a*s jobs ever since.

I give her the bare bones. Asshole lawyer. Wants his wife dead for insurance money. Ripped me off. So, we need to do the job on the missus, then snatch the lawyer for a little chat.

I tell her we’ll do it on Saturday, early in the morning, when the counselor’s still in his jammies. A quick in-and-out. Me and her.

She nods. Laser-focused. A total pro. She asks, “Who’s driving?”

I tell her Alonzo. Her chiseled face softens, and she eyes me and asks, “What about Tomas? Could he drive on this one?”

“No,” I tell her. “Your brother’s too inexperienced, and I need someone reliable.” I know she’s trying to help him out. Tomas seems like a good kid and all. But not this job.

Her softer look falls away and the ice queen gaze returns. Then I remember Alonzo can’t drive because he’s going to be in Atlanta picking up some product on Saturday. I need him doing that more than I need him driving. So, I change my mind and tell her Tomas can drive.

Immediately, her eyes brighten. She even smiles! “Thanks, Boss. Thanks for giving Tomas the opportunity. He won’t let you down.”

I tell her to be at Puesto with her brother at seven a.m. on Saturday. Max, my bartender, will let them in. He’ll have a car ready. Once they get the car, I tell her to come pick me up at my place.

Back in stone cold mode, La Sombra nods, tells me she’ll see me Saturday morning, then leaves. I don’t have to tell her not to carry ID. And she knows a piece will be waiting for her in the glove box.

Saturday morning at half-passed seven, La Sombra’s knocking on my door. As we walk out to the Tahoe, I give her the counselor’s address. She climbs in up front next to Tomas, and I take the seat behind her. Tomas looks back smiling and chirps good morning. I freeze him out with a stare, and he sobers up. He’s nervous. I need him to get himself under control.

We drive to the counselor’s house. No talking. I don’t like chit-chat. As buildings glide by, I think about calling it off. Maybe I should take a pass on this thing with the counselor. He’s an arrogant asshole who tried to screw me, but maybe this is one battle I shouldn’t fight. What would my dad say? He’d tell me it wasn’t worth it. “Let this one go, Manuel. Too risky.”

But dad was never more than a minor league thug. He spent more time in Polk Correctional in Butner than he did on the outside. If I’d followed his path, or taken his advice all the time, I’d never have become a player in this city. No, s**t like this needs to be dealt with head-on. Assholes like the counselor need to be confronted. I can’t let him get away with disrespecting me. If that got out, I’d look weak. And I can’t afford to look weak.

We arrive at the counselor’s McMansion. Tomas drives around to scope out the block. Everything looks nice and sleepy in Myers Park. Tomas parks next to the counselor’s driveway, and La Sombra lectures him about keeping calm and being ready to go as soon as we come out. Then we lock and load, mask up, and head to the front door.

I don’t have to tell La Sombra nothing. She kicks in the door without hesitation. I always dread trying to find people once I’ve kicked down their door, but I’m pleasantly surprised to see the counselor in the kitchen and his wife in the next room. I make for the counselor, seated at the table in his jammies. La Sombra walks right up to wifey and blows her head off. Blam! Stone cold, that’s my girl! I’m thinking this job can’t go much smoother, then Splat! I turn to see some string-bean kid frozen in the kitchen with coffee from two Starbucks cups splashed over his shoes. He must have just come back and walked in on us. I assume he’s the counselor’s snot-nosed whelp. I smack the counselor’s fat head against the table-top and tell La Sombra to get the kid.

La Sombra moves like a cat across the room and takes control of the brat. She finds some tape in a drawer and binds his hands behind his back. I tell her to handle him, and I jerk the counselor up to move out. I slip my ski mask over his head backward to blind him and push him out the front door.

With La Sombra following, we move quickly across the lawn to the Tahoe. I scream at Tomas to open the hatch, then I jerk open the back door and shove the hooded counselor into the car. He stumbles in. I push him across the back compartment to the bucket seat behind Tomas. Then I step in and slam the door. La Sombra closes the Tahoe’s back hatch, then runs around and jumps in next to Tomas.

The counselor’s pleading like a b***h. I pistol whip him and tell him to shut up or I’ll blow off his head.

Tomas looks like he’s going to puke. “Drive!” I yell, and he jerks the shifter into gear and peels out. His sister cuts him a look like she’s going to shoot him, so he eases off the gas. The counselor’s wheezing is driving me nuts!

We’re near 277, so I tell Tomas to take that and then get on 77 heading south. Since it’s Saturday morning, traffic’s light and we move quickly out of town, across the state line, and into farmland. I have Tomas get off at the next exit, then make a few turns, which gets us driving down a country road flanked by tall green cornstalks. As the fields fly by, I get inspired and yell, “Turn left here!” Into the damned corn. Nervous little Tomas hesitates, but I tell him, “Here!” He slams on the brakes, makes a sharp turn off the dirt road, and suddenly we’re driving through a cornfield! I figure the tall stalks will give us a little privacy.

Once we’re well into the field, I have Tomas stop. The Tahoe is covered with leaf blades and tassels. I j******f the counselor’s mask. He’s sweaty and breathing raspy. I smell piss.

“You think you can f*****g disrespect me, huh?” I ask him as I stare directly into his eyes. “Treat me like s**t because you’re some big-shot lawyer?”

The counselor couldn’t be more deferential. “No, Manuel. I meant no disrespect. I just couldn’t pay you the money up front. I’ve had some unforeseen financial difficulties and I had to spend what I had to cover them.”

I can’t listen to his bullshit. I don’t care. The more he talks, the angrier I get. He thinks he’s going to talk his way out of this. He tells me how once he gets the money from the wife’s insurance policy, he’ll pay me what we agreed upon. I explode.

“You’re not calling the shots, counselor! My associate here just capped your wife! She’s f*****g dead! So, I’ve fulfilled my end of our contract.”

La Sombra’s spun around in her seat and she’s leering at the counselor with her cold dark eyes. I tell the sniveling counselor, “But the fee isn’t a half mil anymore. It’s a mil. Payable now.”

Despite his obvious terror and the angry welt growing on the side of his head where I smacked him, the uppity counselor still wants to negotiate.

“I can’t pay that, Manuel! We agreed on half a million. If I pay you a million, I won’t have enough from the settlement to cover what I owe.”

I stare at him. My rage is consuming me. He’s still trying to be in charge. Still trying to negotiate. He just doesn’t get it.

“What about your boy, counselor? Got an insurance policy on him?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do. I maintain a one-million-dollar policy on Tres’s life.”

“So, how about I cap his puny a*s, too? Then that extra mil should solve all of your financial problems, right?” My eyes bore into the counselor’s forehead.

By putting his son’s life on death’s altar alongside his wife’s, I expect him to finally accept how serious I am and come up with a plan to pay me now. Strangely, it doesn’t go like that.

“Manuel, are you crazy?” he screams. Kill my whole family? How stupid are you? Don’t you realize that if you do that, the insurance company will never pay on either claim. They’ll say it’s too fishy. They’ll deny coverage. And I’ll be in litigation with them for years! You’ll never see a dime.”

Stupid and crazy? Nobody calls me stupid and crazy. My body trembles. I can’t concentrate. I’m furious! I squeeze the Glock in my right hand hard enough to crush it. My index finger’s on the trigger. I might just kill this bastard right now. Instead, I haul my right arm back and punch his mouth with the Glock’s barrel. The counselor’s teeth c***k and his lip busts open. Blood spurts across my hand.

“f**k you!” I scream. “Nobody talks to me that way.” Then I haul my arm back again, still gripping the pistol, and whip the counselor’s face. But my hand’s twisted. When the Glock smashes his cheek, the force snaps my wrist, which points the barrel at an odd angle and makes my trigger finger twitch. BLAM!

Tomas lunges forward in his seat. What’s he doing? Has he lost his nerve? His head slams into the steering wheel and then I see the windshield painted in blood and brains. s**t! I’ve shot the kid through the back of his head! I stare at the mess, hoping maybe it hasn’t happened. No, it has. I let out a moan.

I turn to La Sombra, who’s staring at her brother’s b****y head. This isn’t good. Before I can do anything, she rips her eyes away from her dead brother, straightens her right arm, points her Baretta at me, and BLAM! BLAM!. The force knocks me back into my seat. I feel the lightning blasts of two bullets drilling through my body. Pain hasn’t even registered, but I know the b***h has killed me.

Before my strength bleeds out, I swing my Glock forward and fire twice. The bullets rip through the seat and into La Sombra. She flies backward like a horse kicked her. Her back strikes the dashboard with a wet thud. I got her good.

I’m done. I drop my right arm and the Glock falls out of my hand onto the floorboard. I don’t have it in me to look at the counselor, but he isn’t making a sound. Up front, Camila’s groaning. Straining. She lifts her right arm, the Baretta drifts as her hand shakes. It’s all she can do to haul that damned g*n up for another shot. But if she’s trying to put one more in me, her aim’s way off. The barrel’s pointed at the quaking counselor. She squeezes the trigger. BLAM! La Sombra!

The Counselor’s Tale

This is humiliating. So ignoble.

An hour ago, I was reading The Observer, enjoying a lazy Saturday morning. Well, maybe not enjoying the morning. Things have gotten a tad messy. Between the missing client funds, and then the little kerfuffle with Manuel, I wasn’t exactly relaxing. But I was safe in my home, calmly trying to solve life’s dilemmas.

Tres was home from college for the weekend. He arrived unexpectedly Friday night. Apparently, he was caught in the dorm with beer. He’s charged with an Honor Code violation. He asked me to help him prepare for his upcoming disciplinary hearing.

I warned him about this kind of thing when he left to start his freshman year. “Be careful,” I told him. “Don’t get caught breaking the rules.” Now, barely into his first semester, he was in trouble.

I had no sympathy, and neither the time nor the inclination to mollycoddle him. “Reap the harvest, young man,” I told him. “Reap the harvest.”

Anyway, I’m sitting at the kitchen table reading about the Afghanistan disaster when c***k! the front door explodes. Anne, spinning away on her Peloton in the next room, screams. Two hooded, black-clad intruders burst through the opening. The larger one approaches me brandishing a pistol. The smaller one walks up to Anne, still seated on her stationary bike, a pistol aimed at her head.

BOOM! A g*n explodes. My heart stops. Have I been shot? Then I realize it’s Anne. She slumps and falls off her Peloton, the back of her head b****y slop.

I’m next, I know it. I shut my eyes, then I hear the slosh of liquid splattering on the kitchen floor. I pivot to see Tres standing behind me, his mouth open and his outstretched hands still grasping for the coffee cups now lying on the floor.

My assailant slams my head on the table. “Get him!” he screams. I recognize Manuel’s voice. The smaller intruder, the murderer, races to my petrified son.

“Tape!” screams the murderer. A woman. “Where’s some goddamn tape?”

Tres is not moving fast enough.

With her g*n to his head, the murderer walks Tres backward to our whatnot drawer and opens it. She grabs a roll of two-inch-wide clear mailing tape, knocks Tres to his knees and binds his hands behind his back.

Manuel jerks me to my feet. I’m in pajamas and slippers, but I doubt he’ll allow me a moment to change.

Manuel rips off his mask and pulls it backward over my head so I can’t see a thing. Standing behind me, his g*n to my head, he vice-grips my shoulder and pushes me toward the front door.

I stumble blindly, trying to keep the pace. My brain whirs. What am I going to do? What has Manuel in mind? Anne’s dead, and of course I’ll pay him the agreed-upon fee once I collect the insurance settlement. But clearly, he’s unhappy. Perhaps if we can just calm down, something can be worked out.

We’re in the driveway now. A car door opens. Manuel shoves me and tells me to climb in. I crawl into the vehicle, and Manuel follows, pushing me into a bucket seat on the driver’s side of the car. He takes a seat next to me and shuts the door. I hear noise in the rear of the vehicle, then the front passenger door opens, and someone climbs in.

I’m gasping for breath but manage to engage Manuel. I beg him to listen to me. Let me explain the situation. However, this only further enrages him.

“Shut the f**k up, counselor, or I’ll blow your mouth off!” he howls and slaps the side of my head. I cease with my entreaty and soil myself. Disgusting.

We’re moving. At some point, it seems we get on a highway. After half an hour or so, Manuel tells the driver to get off at the next exit. He has the car make a series of turns, and I hear the unmistakable sound of tires rolling over unpaved road. Manuel suddenly orders the driver to turn left. The car turns abruptly. We’re off the road. We bump along and something thumps against the side panels. It sounds like little hands patting the car. Manuel orders the driver to stop.

Manuel pulls the suffocating mask from my head. We’re in a cornfield. Tall green stalks surround us.

Manuel sits to my right. His pistol points at my chest. In the front passenger seat is a fierce-looking young woman. The murderer? She’s flipped around in her seat leering at me. She holds a pistol, balanced on the headrest. I can’t see the driver. He’s focused straight ahead and doesn’t look back.

Manuel excoriates me. How dare I disrespect him. How dare I treat him so poorly. I adopt my most obsequious attitude and tell him I meant no disrespect. I explain my rather severe financial circumstances and the unforeseen setbacks I’ve experienced. I tell him I fully intend to comply with our agreement, and I’ll pay him as soon as the insurer settles on Anne’s policy. I’m about to explain exactly how I’ll handle this when Manuel explodes. God! He’s so mercurial!

“Shut your goddamned mouth!” he yells. “You’re not calling the shots here!” Then he tells me that his fee has doubled. He wants one million dollars.

“What?” I screech. “A million? I cannot afford to pay you that.” I explain that if I give him that much of the insurance settlement, I won’t have enough to cover my other expenses.

Then Manuel asks, “Do you have a policy on your boy?” And I tell him that I do hold a one-million-dollar policy on Tres.

“So, maybe we’ll just cap him, too. Then you’ll have enough to pay the mil.”

I’m incredulous. “Are you crazy? How stupid are you?” I explain that if he kills my son, in addition to my wife, the insurance carrier will smell a rat and deny both claims. I’ll have to litigate the determinations for years. Meanwhile, my problems will not get solved, and Manuel certainly will not be remunerated.

Before I can finish explaining the monumental folly of his double murder plan, Manuel’s mercury blows up his thermometer. Apparently, suggesting he might be crazy and stupid crossed a line. He smashes my mouth with his pistol. My two front teeth snap, and my lip splits and gushes blood. Looks like I’ll have a maxillofacial bill to pay now, too. His rage has no limit! He c***s back his hand holding the pistol and strikes the side of my head. The second blow twists his wrist, and I feel his index finger jerk. BOOM!

The concussion of the pistol’s discharge sends shock waves through my body. I go limp, thinking I’m dead. As I realize, again, that I’m not shot, I notice Manuel’s g*n pointed toward the driver, who’s slumped over the steering wheel. The back of his head is red goop.

Manuel grunts. Then the murderer up front swings her pistol to Manuel’s chest. BOOM! BOOM! She gets him twice. Manuel’s blown backward into his seat. Somehow, he manages to lift his right arm, push his pistol against the seatback, and fire. BOOM! BOOM! Two rounds tear through the seat into the murderer’s chest. She slams into the dashboard with a look of shock.

I exhale like a whale’s blowhole. I’m alive! Then the murderer gasps. Slowly, she raises her right hand. The one holding the pistol. What’s she doing? Her eyes are unfocused, and her arm is wobbling. The g*n barrel points at Manuel’s head, then lifts to the car’s ceiling. Then it drifts down toward me.

No! Not me! Don’t shoot!

BOOM!

The Son’s Tale

What a week.

It started with the disciplinary action at the dorm. My roommate and I used his fake ID to get a twelve-pack and a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and we invited the two cute Alabama girls from across the hall to join us and watch Netflix. I guess my RA saw us. On Monday, I get a notice that I’m up for an Honor Code violation and must appear before the Honor Council in a week. So, on Friday, I decided to make the two-hour drive home for the weekend to see if maybe Dad, the big-shot lawyer, could help me prepare my defense. I got in Friday evening, and after catching up with Mom, I go with Dad into his study.

“Reap the harvest, son,” he said. “You got yourself into this, you can deal with the consequences.” No sympathy, but really, I didn’t expect any. My relationship with my father has pretty much sucked my entire life. I’m sure he has his perspective, but as I see it, the day I was born my dad laid down a series of unreasonable expectations, never helped me with anything, then was full of disapprobation—his word—when I failed to achieve them. Nothing I did was good enough. And then, when I didn’t get into Duke, his alma mater, and decided to attend Furman, he couldn’t have been more disappointed.

“Furman? That’s where rich kids go who can’t get into Duke. But I suppose that’s the best you can manage.” What an asshole! At least Mom understood. She was proud of me and always encouraged me.

“Don’t listen to him, Tres,” she said. (They call me Tres because I’m the third Lachlan MacGowan, and tres is Latin for three. The s is pronounced like a z.) “Your dad and I both know how hard you worked. Furman is a great school! Your dad just had his heart set on you going to Duke. He loves you just as much as I, and we’re both proud of you.”

Mom. Dad’s apologist. Always covering for him. His absences in my life. Lacrosse games, piano recitals, Scout meetings, doctor appointments, award ceremonies, homecoming, prom. On and on. Dad was around so little in my life, I’m surprised he felt he knew me well enough to be disappointed in me. But Mom was always there.

After Dad left me to the wolves at the Honor Council, I kissed Mom and went to bed. I tossed and turned, worrying about Monday, only managing to fall asleep late into the night. I awoke at the c***k of dawn, my nerves in high gear.

Downstairs is quiet. Mom and Dad are still in bed. I need coffee, but all I find is Mom’s pumpkin spice. Yuck. I need to get some fresh air anyway, so I grab my wallet and keys and head to my car. There’s a Starbucks in a strip mall half a mile from the house. Hell, there’s a Starbucks half a mile from anywhere, right? I fire up the Tuareg and head out. The line’s not too bad, given it’s early on a Saturday, so within fifteen minutes, I have my venti Pike Place Roast with sugar and a little two percent. I get a pumpkin spice for Mom, thinking she’ll appreciate it. f**k Dad.

Within thirty minutes of leaving home, I’m rounding the last turn to the house. A shiny black Tahoe with tinted windows is parked on the street just outside our driveway. I figure the driver has either pulled over for some reason or is visiting our neighbor. I zip by it and scoot up the driveway to the open garage door. I jump out, grab the coffee cups, and head into the garage. Just as I push open the door and step into the kitchen, KABOOM! A gunshot! I freeze, look around, and see Mom sliding off her Peloton to the floor like a sack of flour. Her head is a b****y mess. Standing before her is a masked figure in black clothes with a pistol still pointing at Mom’s body. I’m too scared to scream. The Starbucks cups drop from my hands like bombs leaving a plane.

Someone booms, “Get him!” Then there’s a g*n to the back of my head and a woman yells, “Tape!” In seconds, my arms are bound behind my back and a black ski mask is yanked over my head. I’m pushed through our house and out the front door. I blindly shuffle across the lawn, urged along with a g*n barrel against my skull.

My knees strike a car bumper. That black Tahoe? I’m shoved into a cargo hold and forced to lie on my side curled up like a fetus. My arms are killing me! The woman whispers, “You make a sound, you move, you even try to take off your mask or loosen your hands, and I’ll blow your f*****g head off. Got it?”

I nod, not wanting to break her first rule. She gives my head a shove into the carpet, then the rear hatch shuts.

The car peels out. “Who are these people? Dad’s clients? Why’d they shoot Mom? Where are they taking us? Are they going to kill Dad? Me? Why?”

Dad’s here. He’s close. I hear his wheezing.

Eventually, I think we get on a highway. It’s a long drive. A man’s voice says, “Get off at this exit.” The voice gives the driver more commands. “Turn here. Right. Now turn left. Right up here.” We’re on a dirt road. Tires gobble up rocks. Then, “Turn left. Now!” The car jerks left, and I hear the clunk and scrape of something beating against the skin of the Tahoe. We’re going slower now. Clunks and squeaks.

“OK. Stop!” yells the voice. My body aches from lying curled up on the floor with my hands taped behind my back. I’m drenched in sweat. The mask is a furry wet animal smothering my face. I try not to breathe loudly. Jesus Christ! What is going on?

I hear the voice. Something about disrespect. “Just because you’re a big-shot lawyer.”

Then, Dad. “No, Manuel. I meant no disrespect. I just couldn’t pay you up front. Unforeseen financial difficulties, and…”

Wait. Dad’s in on some deal with these monsters? He owes them money? What the hell?

Then the voice. “Shut your goddamned mouth! You’re not calling the shots, counselor! Your wife’s dead. I’ve fulfilled my end of the contract.”

Mom was supposed to die? And Dad knew? He contracted for it?

The voice again. “The fee isn’t half a mil anymore. It’s a mil. Payable now.”

Then Dad. “I can’t pay a million, Manuel! We agreed on half a million. If I pay you a million, I won’t have enough to cover my other expenses.”

Dad’s going to use the insurance settlement on Mom’s life to pay this monster for killing her? This was all planned? Dad set this up? He killed Mom?

The voice again. “Well, what about your boy, counselor? Got anything on him?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I maintain a one-million-dollar policy on my son’s life.”

“So how about we cap his a*s? Then you’ll have an extra mil to solve all your problems.”

Now I’m on the agenda? For more money?

“Manuel, you must be crazy. Kill my entire family? Are you stupid? Do you not realize that if you do the insurance company will suspect fraud and they’ll never pay either of the claims? They’ll say it’s too fishy and deny coverage. I’ll have to sue them, and I’ll be in litigation for years! You’ll never see a dime!”

Nice Dad. Your only objection to these monsters killing me is you won’t get the money. “f**k you!” The voice. I guess Dad pissed him off. “Nobody talks to me that way! Crazy? Stupid?” I hear smacking. Dad whimpers. The car is rocking. KABOOM! A gunshot! I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. Silence. No, utter stillness fills the car’s cabin. Then, the voice. “Oh.”

Instantly, KABOOM! KABOOM! Two gunshots in rapid succession. Something slams against the seat in front of me. Seconds later, KABOOM! KABOOM! The car rattles again.

I remain motionless. I don’t breathe. I almost pass out. I hear wheezing. Dad, I guess. But nothing else. Then, KABOOM! Now, gurgling. Someone’s struggling to breathe.

A minute goes by. Two. Nothing. No movement. No more gunshots. Slowly, I pull my legs tight against my chest and work my taped hands over my feet. I bring my hands to my face, push up my mask, and chew off the tape. I’m ruining all that dental work my folks paid for in middle school. I gnaw through strip after strip and free my hands. I rip the sweat-soaked mask from my head and inhale deeply. I toss the ball of chewed up tape and the sweaty mask to the floorboard.

The Tahoe stinks. Gunpowder. Blood. Death. And piss. I need to get out. I roll to the hatch and try to open it. There’s no lever. I sigh, and reluctantly move forward. As my head crests the seat back, my eyes are slapped with horror. The driver’s slumped against the steering wheel, his face splattered across the windshield. A young woman is sprawled next to him in the front passenger seat, her back against dashboard, her chest painted with blood. Crimson droplets drip from her half-open mouth. Below me, in the right rear passenger seat, a man lies dead, his eyes wide open, blood soaking his shirt.

There’s a wet bubbling sound. Below me to my left is Dad, his back against the door, his chest wet and red. b****y spit bubbles rim his lips. He’s breathing shallow. He sounds like he’s drowning. His arms lie limp at his side.

I stare at him. He looks up at me. He tries to speak. His lips twist and tremble. His eyes bulge. So expressive! He’s trying to tell me something. Help? Save me? Is that what you’re asking, Dad?

I focus on his face. I don’t move. His breathing becomes shallower. The spit bubbles pop. He’s dying.

Before the light clicks off in his eyes, as he stares at me imploringly, emphatically, I lower my face inches above his and whisper, “Reap the harvest.”

Carefully, I climb over the seatback and lower myself into the back seat compartment. Not wanting to mess with Dad’s b****y body, I turn to the other rear door, and gingerly pull the lever. The door pops open, and I clumsily climb over wide-eye and fall out of the car.

I’m in a cornfield. The Tahoe drove into the middle of a damned cornfield! God knows when anyone’s going to find it.

I need to get away from all of this. I could head back along the car’s path, over the mowed down corn. That would be the easiest. But I remember that would lead to a dirt road.

I turn and walk the opposite way. Through the corn rows. My arms push apart stalks, and the tasseled husks bump my head as I tread over soft brown soil. I plod. Row after row.

It takes a long time, and I’m exhausted and drenched in sweat when I push through the field’s last row. Before me is a paved road, and to the left, a few hundred feet away, is an intersection with a gas station on the corner. Adjacent to the gas station is a coffee shop. Affixed above the shop’s entrance is the familiar round, green and white sign with the twin-tailed crowned siren.

I march up the road, through the entrance, and to the counter.

“Welcome to Starbucks. How may I help you?”

“I’ll take a Pike Place Roast, please. Venti. No, you know what? Make it a trenta.”

S. Phillip “Phil” Lenski is an attorney and state court judge who lives with his wife and three sons in Columbia, South Carolina. His short story “The Counselor Goes to the Flea Market” was published in the Red Penguin Collection’s Treat or Trick Halloween Horror Stories in 2021. When he’s not on the bench or trying to stay relevant in his boys’ lives, Phil can be found on his laptop struggling to write short stories or polishing his novel.