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The Tower

Allan Onik

    Victor stuffed the golden, diamond encrusted Rolex into the pillowcase. It slipped into the pile of 20s, 50s, and 100s. His ski mask was itching the stubble on his face, and his nose was running.
    “You know they’ll kill you, don’t you?” The Asian man laid twitching and whimpering next to the blown out safe. “Just put down the bag and all is forgotten.”
    Victor shook his Desert Eagle Mark XIX at him. It made his teeth rattle, and his nerves ache. “Shut your mother-fuckin’ cock suckin’ mouth.” He looked out the yellow-stained window at the cheering crowd two stories below. Two men fought within a chain link fence. One of the men had a spiked tattoo running up his neck, the other was heavily muscled with a torn shirt. The crowd surrounding them spewed obscenities in the yellow light, yelled and jumped and twisted and pumped their arms in the air. Victor kept the gun pointed as he opened the door and backed out of the room.
    “You are in the eyes of the Red Dragon now. Remember that. You’ve ended us both.” Victor tried to block out the words and noise of the crowd as he shifted down the hallway and toward the night.

    The man warmed his hands from the fire in the barrel, and took a bite of his burrito. Cars passed on the busy city street. Another man, shorter with naps in his hair, grilled a sausage over the flames.
    “You hear the news?”
    “What news?”
    “That Chinese gang, The Red Dragons got ripped off. Their fight purse over at 6th and 10th—gone. One-man job. Sent ripples all the way up to the top. Heads are gonna roll. The safe watcher is already missing. Probably find him in a dumpster in a few weeks. That’s what always happens with these things.”
    “Damn. That’s nasty.”
    “Sure is. You bet.”
    “What about the thief?”
    “Only a matter of time.”
    “What’s makes you say that?”
     “The Red Dragons have eyes on every corner of town.”

    The tune of Super Mario Brothers filled the damp apartment as the boy played Nintendo on the television. The space smelled like mildew. Victor walked up to him and ruffled his hair.
    “Daddy, will Mom come home today?” The boy didn’t look up from his game as he made Mario jump on a mushroom.
    “Mommy’s not coming back for a long time, buddy. She split when you were a baby. The money’s a little tight I know, but we’ll see her again someday I’m sure of it. When you’re all grown up Mommy’s gonna be proud of us. I’m working things out right now. I’ve made a little bit, and I’m gonna sort things out. Someday you’ll go to Harvard, and then become a doctor. Mommy will come back to us because she’ll see that I’m no loser; that I can take care of my son and make everything ok.”
    Victor’s hand was shaking as he lit a cigarette. One of his eyes was bloodshot. “Everything’s gonna be fine. Everything’s gonna turn around. I can feel it little man.”
    
    The men prepared their guns. One fed a magazine into a 18.4mm Anti-riot shotgun. He noted it was 12 gauge, 7.05 lbs., and 33.07 inches long.
    The second checked the muzzle of a Type 05 submachine gun. Its rate of fire was 400 rounds/min.
    A third man shifted two handguns on the table, inspecting their catches. One gun was a QSZ-92 9mm. The other a Type 64 silenced pistol 7.65mm.

    Victor pulled up to the elementary school. He unlocked the backdoor and his son opened it to get out. The boy was wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shirt.
    “Pay attention in math today, buddy,” Victor said.
    “Of course, Daddy.”
    The boy ran up the steps to the school and through the cathedral-style doors. He watched the children playing on the steps and tried to stop his hands from shaking. You are in the eyes of the Red Dragon now. Remember that. You’ve ended us both. Victor rubbed his hands together and lit another cigarette. Resting the stick of foam and tar between his lips, he hit the accelerator. As he left the school, he noted an Escalade pull off the curb behind him.

    The coroner unzipped the body bag. The detective walked up to the body and tried to breathe through his mouth. “Damn shame,” the coroner said. The detective checked his files and matched compatibility with the autopsy report.
    “Yeah,” the detective said, “Damn shame. The morning unit found this one floating in the park pond on the north side of town. Got in bed with the wrong crowd. Has an only son. He’ll have to be sent to foster care.”
    The face on the body was unrecognizable, swollen with water and bruised. All the fingers on the body’s hands were cut off.
    “Almost looks like he fell from a skyscraper,” the detective said, “the people in this town will never learn.”

    The detective put his file underneath his trench coat and got into his car. I see cases like this every day, he thought. It’s as if the divines have a place for some people, at some times. Like a planetary intersection. New beginnings. Or terrible ends. The sun warmed him as he pulled off the corner’s pavement and headed back to his office.



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