I. BLANK GENERATION

SEVEN SHORT STORIES ABOUT DEATH

I. BLANK GENERATION

The rusty sedan burned down the city street like a bolt of lightning searing everything it touched. Inhabited within were four modern day, thuggish gangsters.

Behind the wheel was Frankie, a dapper English gent who, even though a permanent residence in the United States, still held on tightly to his accent. He wore an expensive looking suit and cheap leather jacket, a very cocky type of fellow who was, at the same time, cool and collected. He was the head of the group, not by assignment but by personality.

In the passenger seat was Tommy, the archetypical Italian tough guy. He was a thug updated for the modern day, more ruthless and more willing to dole out beatings than his ancestors. He didn’t appear to have the smoothness of a standard gangster, but when around him, everyone had a keen sense to know that he could fly off the handle at any moment.

Two fellas, Emilio and Lem, were taken it easy in the backseat. Best friends since childhood, the two boys held a bond rarely possessed by anyone other than brothers. They grew up in the same streets, a rough-around-the-edges, Irish neighborhood. Emilio was one of the only Mexican families on the block. With the help of Lem, he did very well in establishing himself among the street kids, and became quite tough. Lem, who is a wallflower at heart, protected Emilio until he came into his own and everyone gave him his due respect. Now, the two were inseparable.

All the guys were mixed up in cocaine and uppers all the time. Frankie, Emilio, and Lem passed around a crude tinfoil bowl filled with white devil and each took a hefty bump before passing it on. It was speed, danger, anger–white heat. They had lived off it for years.

“Get yer fuckin’ heads straight!”

Frankie was a consummate professional, he never dabbled in drugs or the like–straight as an arrow. When his cohorts dipped in too heavily, he can just picture it blowing the chance of pulling off a job off smoothly.

“This is a big one,” Frankie shouted over the radio, “The niggers and the Ukrainians don’t know what the fuck is about to hit them, right boys?” The guys howled in laughter in camaraderie. Forget everything that is said in books and movies about lone gunman, real criminal and gangsters need camaraderie, they need a watchful eye to protect their flank. No one makes it to the top alone.

Frankie’s boss had set them up with a plum job. The Jukes, a high profile group of black street thugs who nearly ruled the city with their streamlined operations, were sending some of their enforcers to an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district for a key drug deal. The Ukrainians, a group of Scottish thugs who offered protection in the most high traffic areas of town, were looking to sell The Jukes a hefty amount of various drugs for a discount and a partnership. Where the two gangs were similar in their intentions of forging friendship, expansion, and good relations, Frankie and his boss each wanted nothing more than to make money. And everyone knows you profit more from war than peace.

The job for the boys was to go in and grease the two gangs and take the money and dope. He hoped this would stir up a street war, or at least tension between the two gangs, and drive up the price of guns and drugs. Frankie’s boss wasn’t even in any sort of competition with the Jukes or the Ukrainians, he lived in a whole other part of the state. But, a war will drive nervous junkies away from the static and towards a stable place to buy. Isn’t it nice that a very peaceful city happens to be a few counties away in Frankie’s boss’ territory?

The sedan roared to a stop at the parking lot across the street from the warehouse. The industrial area of town was rather seedy, all abandoned steel mills and structures that have decayed beyond a meaningful chance of revival. Easton was once a booming steel town where hardworking Joes made the city on the same level as a Chicago or a Boston. Once the mills shut down, the city became a near ghost town.

With the backdrop of a abandoned mill town behind them, the boys exited the car and crossed the street to the warehouse. As they came upon the side of the building, they readied their pistols and checked their ammunition, everything looked in place and everyone was ready.

Frankie looked inside to see the Ukrainians have already been killed, their bodies laid motionless in pools of blood.

“Shit, looks like we were a little too slow.”

“Let’s get in there,” said Tommy, who appeared eager to get a closer look. Frankie scoped the area out for a moment before give the all clear.

“Fuck it, let’s go.”

They entered slowly, quietly, cautiously. Emilio immediately began to scope around the corners of the spacious area. Emilio was always Johnny-on-the-spot when it came to the flanks. If you were good enough to have him as your side, chances are no one would get the drop on you–but today just wasn’t his day.

“Fuck! Easy money, right out the window,” said Frankie.

“What now?”

Bang! A gunshot echoed inside the warehouse. Instinctually and automatically, Lem looked to his buddy Emilio. Brothers always look to each other and always watch each other, no matter how many people they’re with.

“Emilio!”

Emilio began to fall like a rag doll when the bullet pierced his chest. Lem ran to him in time to grip his hand, look into his eyes, and he hear his death rattle. He watched blood spew from Emilio’s chest and he filled with immense rage, so thick that he felt himself choking on it.

It’s a hell of a feeling to see someone you love die, Lem thought. It wasn’t the first time for him, and it wouldn’t be his last. The feeling of loss is immediate, and the desire for revenge is swift.

Bang! Bang!

The seconds felt like hours, and Lem was quickly pulled back to reality when gunshots erupted again inside the hollow room. Lem watched as Tommy had been floored and his body was quickly creating its own crimson pool.

Frankie drew up two pistols and fired into the dark oblivion. In the far recesses of his mind, Lem could hear the assassins in the darkness getting torn apart by the bullets–Frankie’s shots were making contact. Lem pulled out his 9mm and began firing into the distance, each shot sounded like a hollow thunk. A moment later, like an tidal wave, all of Lem’s senses began to return and the shots sounded unbearable.

Frankie and Lem’s weapons were empty and they were left with nothing but silence.

Frankie walked over to Lem, who had Emilio on his lap and his gun in his hand. All Frankie could do was shake his head. It was as if he expression was saying to Lem, “Occupational hazard, no use to dwell on it.”

“Lem, go sweep the building, make sure no one else is hiding out.”

Lem nodded and looked to Frankie for some kind of support.

“I’ll get him into the car. His body won’t rest here like a dog. Come on, we don’t have a lot of time.”

Lem stood up, and his legs felt like rubber. Frankie picked up Emilio’s body and headed for the door. Lem reloaded his 9mm and made his way up the grated stairway to the top floor.

He poked around each small office area, finding nothing but darkness and decayed furniture. The place had a pungent scent, exaggerated by the death down on the ground floor.

Lem spotted a deserted room area in the distance which seemed to beckon him closer. It was something about the air around it, almost like the dust had been kicked up by something waiting inside. It piqued his interest enough to the point were he felt obligated to check it out. He was itching to avenge Emilio, or at least kill something, so deep down inside, he had hoped there was someone in that room.

Lem slowly edged up to the door and pushed it open. The combination of the light blazing in through a window in the room, as well as the loud creaking of the door, made Lem feel terribly uneasy. He crept in softly, his adrenaline pumped. The light beamed in and made the corner of the room bright, causing the contours of every surface to bloom. The dirty looked quite majestic, he thought.

Lem noticed something move behind the desk and his gun instantly locked onto it.

Instead of taking the slow route, the careful route to investigating, he decided to pounce, maybe surprise the gangster hiding behind the desk waiting to pop him.

Lem jumped to the side of the desk and pointed his gun square at the dim area.

“Don’t fuckin’ move!”

A mousy female voice squealed in panic.

“Don’t shoot me, please! Don’t shoot. I was just squatting!”

“Move, now! Get the fuck out from behind there.”

The source of the voice revealed herself as a pretty, and slightly dirty, young blonde woman. She shook like a leaf as she got up from behind the desk, her skinny arms raised in the air. She was terrified of Lem and barrel pointed at her face.

Lem was still angry and kept his pistol on her. “Who are you with? The Jukes or the ‘Yukes!?”

The woman stood there, paralyzed with fear. She didn’t answer and didn’t move.

“Talk to me!”

“I don’t know…”

It was then that Lem noticed the light shining on her through the window, casting a heavenly glow on his hair and her porcelain skin. She was lovely and it softened him up a bit.

“Tell me, what did you see?”

“The black guys came in and shot the other guys. I was so scared I ran in here and hid.”

“What else?”

“I heard one of them say something about guys coming and their boss said they should wait and take care of them.”

“That fucker! He set us up!”

Lem kicked the desk and sent it tipping over onto the ground. It made a loud noise, which startled the girl and also got Frankie’s attention.

“What was that?” Frankie shouted.

“Come on, we gotta go!” Lem kept his gun firmly on the woman.

“What’s your name?”

“My name is, Natasha…”

“Alright Natasha,” Lem walked up to her and grabbed her by the arm, “You’re coming with us.”

“What are you going to do with me? Please…”

“I’m not going to hurt you. Just come on, you can’t stay here.”

Lem and Natasha raced downstairs to meet Frankie. Frankie was covered in Emilio’s blood and was in no mood for fucking around.

“Who’s she?” said Frankie as he eyed Natasha.

“Natasha. She was squatting here when this shit went down. She said she heard the Jukes talking about your boss wanting to off us. We were set up, man.”

Frankie’s face turned red as fire.

“That motherfucker! I knew something was up the second we stepped foot in this place. Alright, let’s get the hell out of here before anyone else shows up.”

Lem, Natasha, and Frankie shot to the car and sped into the midday traffic.

Frankie was a commanding driver. He spent the better part of his teenage years being a driver for his boss, making little money but gaining much experience. He could power slide, shoot and drive, navigate alleyways, you name it. Frankie knew all the dives, niches, side streets, and boroughs of the city–he was one of the best.

“Lem, I forgot to tell you,” Frankie said, checking the mirrors for any resistance or tailers, “I got it.”

He pointed to the front passenger seat. Keeping his gun on Natasha, Lem leaned up to the front seat and saw two large bags. He couldn’t help but smile at the score.

“When we get to a friendly place, we’ll give Emilio a proper burial.”

The giddiness washed away and Lem immediately got depressed about his old friend. Natasha could see this on his face.

“What happened? Who’s Emilio?” she said.

“That’s none of your fuckin business…” Frankie shouted, but Lem cut him off before he launched into a tirade.

“It’s ok. He was a friend of mine. The Jukes shot him up back there in the warehouse.”

“I’m sorry.”

Lem peered into Natasha’s stunning green eyes. For a moment, she almost made him forget his good friend, and at a time like that, it was worth a lot. He felt guilty about holding the gun on her, and slowly withdrew it. He felt very easy about wanting to confide in her, this innocent-looking, willing listener, but he couldn’t. He just wanted her out of the car, he never wanted to see her again.

Lem leaned into the front seat and searched the bags, finding the one with the money. He took out a fat wad and thumbed through it, counting roughly five thousand dollars or so. He brought it into backseat and lifted it in front of Natasha’s face. Her eyes became fixated on the cash.

“Do you know my name?” he questioned.

“No, I didn’t catch it.”

“His?” Lem said, pointing to Frankie. Natasha shook her head. Lem knew he had her, she was too nervous and naive to fuck around.

“This five thousand dollar is for you, if you forget anything that happened today. Are we in agreement?”

Natasha nearly cried. Lem watched her carefully, not understanding if she got his veiled threat. He then remembered that she mentioned that she was squatting. Her shirt was dirty and it didn’t look like she had showered in a few days. Maybe she was down and out? Maybe she was homeless? Lem wasn’t certain.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Natasha as she took the money, “You have no idea how much I can use this. I was kicked out of my home a month ago and have been living on the streets.”

The tears streamed from Natasha’s green eyes, and Lem’s heart broke.

“Frankie, pull over.” said Lem. Frankie nodded and pulled the car into a nearby alley.

Maybe he was a wallflower at heart, maybe he was still soft from the death of his friend, but Lem leaned forward into the front seat, back into the bag, and pulled out a couple other wads of money.

“Lem, what the hell are you doing?” said Frankie.

“Emilio would have been alright with this. Beside, he doesn’t need his cut anymore.”

Lem handed three more stacks of money to Natasha, and watched as her face lit up in disbelief. She held the stacks for only a moment before she dropped them and threw her arms around Lem, squeezing him tightly.

Lem embraced her, gripping her closely against his chest. He thought for a moment. Maybe he was doing something great. He felt that maybe this was the end. His last close connection to the criminal underworld had been severed when Emilio died, so maybe he’ll get away from the violence and move to something else. He’ll wean himself off of the thrill of the job and maybe he’ll go straight, just maybe.

As the wonderfully optimistic thoughts flowed freely through his head, he felt a sharp pain in his right side, like a hot poker had seared his flesh. The pain quickly got worse, his muscles tightened, his body tensed.

Natasha noticed this and released her grasp from Lem.

Bang! The sound of a gunshot brought Lem front-and-center, back to reality.

Instinct made Lem reach for his pistol in the holster on his right hip, but the pain in his side was too much and he couldn’t move his arm without his body tensing up.

The attempt to reach his 9mm would have been futile anyway, as his pistol was missing from its holster and was in the hands of Natasha, who used it to blow Frankie’s head apart.

Before Lem could realize what was going on, the barrel was already pointed at him and he saw a bright flash of light, then darkness.

Natasha removed her knife from Lem’s ribs and wiped the blade on his shirt. She pocketed it, along with the gun, and emotionlessly snatched the bags from the front seat. She quickly got out of the car, wiped the car of prints, and closed the door. She calmly walked out of the empty alleyway–richer by two duffle bags filled with drugs and money.