All due respect 2021, p.7
All Due Respect 2021, page 7
Jason reloads, fires, and misses.
“Again.”
Jason reloads, fires off two shots, hits nothing, drops the gun to his side.
“Aim at each bottle then close your eyes,” the hulking man says.
Jason begrudgingly aims at each bottle then closes his eyes.
“On the count of three, shoot the bottles,” he says. “One, two, three.”
The hulking man fires in unison with Jason, the bottles explode one by one.
Jason opens his eyes, amazed.
“You’re ready.”
***
Jason eats noodles from a pot listening to the rhythmic scraping of a brush against steel. Fire crackles in the stove. The hulking man cleans a gun.
“Dalton Westlake is a powerful man,” he says.
“A powerful man with answers,” Jason says.
“How can you be so sure?”
“It’s all I’ve got.”
“I had a wife once, too,”
“Let me guess,” Jason says, “she didn’t think this was a suitable place to raise a family?”
“Murdered,” he says. “Couldn’t get me, so they took what was most important to me.”
“What did you do?”
“I killed my pain away.”
***
Jason stares up at a skyscraper.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he watches security guards usher visitors through metal detectors.
He wanders around the building until he finds an alley to hide his gun in.
Past security, he finds Westlake Real Estate Group on the building map. The elevator climbs to the fortieth floor. The floor is plush. An intricate fountain. A lone receptionist behind a desk.
“Dalton Westlake,” Jason says.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t.”
“No one sees Mr. Westlake without an appointment.”
“I’m curious about his current projects,” Jason says. “I’m a fan of the mall job.”
“Oh, are you an investor?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Westlake provides a portfolio for potential investors,” she says. “It chronicles current projects and future plans.”
“I’d love to see his plans for the future.”
The receptionist produces a folder.
“What happened?” she says, referring to Jason’s bandage.
“I was shot in the head.”
Jason smiles at the shocked secretary and leaves.
***
Jason steps out of the elevator into the lobby. A man brushes past. Jason catches a glimpse.
It’s the masked gunman.
Jason follows him outside into the streets. He stops at a newspaper stand. Jason sprints down the alley to retrieve his gun.
Emerging back into the street, there’s no sign of the gunman. Jason turns a corner and spots him climbing into a black Chrysler.
Jason hails a cab.
The Chrysler turns down an alley. Jason watches the gunman enter a shop and return with two briefcases.
The cab follows the Chrysler through traffic. Eventually it stops at a gentleman’s club.
Jason follows the gunman inside.
“Wait here,” he tells the driver.
Inside, lights flash, illuminating dark figures. Music blares. Women dance and offer lap dances.
Jason notices the gunman slink behind a curtain.
A woman approaches Jason. “What’s your name?”
He ignores her.
“Well fuck you.”
Jason sits at a table. A cocktail waitress approaches.
“What can I get you?”
“I’m fine.”
“There’s a one drink minimum.”
“I’ll have a water.”
“There’s a one alcohol drink minimum.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jason says.
Jason watches her whisper to a bouncer and point in his direction.
She returns with a rocks glass.
“What is it?”
“J&B,” she says. “Looks like you could use it.”
Jason takes a long sip. His vision blurs. He pops a painkiller. The music pulses. The dancers. The faces of the men. Money floating in the air. Strobe lights. It all blends together, making Jason woozy.
He snaps out of it, noticing the gunman scurrying out.
Back in the cab. Rush hour. Jason watches passing cars. People heading home from work. Families. Everyone in a hurry.
The Chrysler slices through slow traffic just ahead.
“Don’t lose him.”
***
The cab pulls up to a construction site on the outskirts of the city. Two cronies with shotguns stand guard in front of a trailer. The Chrysler is parked outside. In the distance, the sun sets behind skyscrapers.
Jason observes from behind piles of construction materials, his head protected by the motorcycle helmet. He moves closer, taking cover behind a bulldozer before maneuvering to the side of the trailer, only a few yards from the cronies. He points his gun and steps into the open.
“Drop your guns.”
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” one crony says.
Jason’s finger slips on the trigger and blood splatters the trailer’s wall and the helmet’s visor.
Jason is shocked by what he’s done.
He wipes at the visor, but it smears. He fires the gun wildly and misses. The crony tackles Jason to the ground. Grabs a steel pipe and swings it as Jason fires up. The crony staggers and falls, the empty space he leaves revealing the Westlake Real Estate Group skyscraper in the distance.
Jason rolls under the trailer and struggles to take off the helmet. The trailer door swings open and the gunman steps out. He picks up one of the shotguns.
“Come out,” the man says. “Fight like a man, not a rat.”
Jason scampers from under the trailer and takes out his legs. The shotgun slides away. In the melee, Jason drops his gun.
Jason jumps on the gunman and chokes him. The gunman knocks Jason off, landing a punch to the head. Jason stands wobbly. There’s a moment of recognition from the masked gunman before he hurls a brick at Jason’s head.
Jason ducks out of the way.
“You,” he says. “Why wouldn’t you die?”
The gunman dives for the shotgun. Jason tackles him. They struggle. The gunman gets free. He freezes hearing Jason’s gun click. He’s within reach of the shotgun.
“Why’d you do it?” Jason says.
“It’s my job.”
“Killing my wife?”
“No, scaring her was my job,” he says. “Killing her was my pleasure.”
Jason kicks the gunman under the chin and sends him rolling onto his back, but closer to the shotgun.
“You chose the wrong job.”
“Fuck you,” the gunman says, slowly reaching for the shotgun.
“Who sent you to my house?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’ll never get to him.”
“Say the name.”
“Go to hell.”
Jason shoots a bullet into his thigh just as his hand reaches the shotgun. He screams out in pain.
“Say the name.”
“You’re going to die, you stupid bastard.”
“Not before you.”
Jason shoots him in the chest then stands over him, barely breathing, struggling to speak.
“Say it,” Jason says.
“Dalton…Westlake…”
Jason deposits one more bullet in his brain, then searches him for a phone. He uses the guy’s fingerprint to unlock it. Searches the contacts. He pops a handful of painkillers and starts walking. The phone rings in his ear.
A voice answers, “What is it?”
“Not what,” Jason says. “Who?”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“The guy you should have finished off when you had the chance.”
Jason hangs up and walks toward the black shadows and the steel trees of the concrete jungle. Hunting Dalton Westlake.
Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His work is forthcoming at Hobart, Wigleaf, Oxmag and Gargoyle.
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The Christmas Goose
By Tracy Falenwolfe
“Remember to prick the skin with a needle before you roast it.” Heinrich Metzger gave all his regular customers who ordered a Christmas goose the same advice. What he really wanted to say was, If you don’t already know that, you should have gone with a turkey, but he kept his mouth shut. His Lancaster, Pennsylvania butcher shop had seen a steep decline in business in recent years thanks to the vegans and the animal rights people and those hippies, the pescatarians, so he’d had to take on some side work for his old friend Steven Verba.
The work itself was simple, and he already had the equipment. Heinrich’s cousins Willard and Carl Bauer owned pig farms adjacent to his own spread, which made it even easier. Usually. Today, though, Verba went and changed things up. He asked Heinrich to handle a special delivery, and Heinrich wasn’t thrilled about it. It was three in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and the snow was starting to accumulate. He was open for another hour and there were still four orders to be picked up—one prime rib roast, two dressed turkeys, and another goose.
Three old, wise men were gathered in the corner of the shop. They were Heinrich’s father’s cronies, and after the local Grundsow lodge closed, they started congregating at the shop to buy their Lebanon bologna and speak Pennsylvania Dutch to each other. By law, Heinrich couldn’t offer them a place to sit or the use of his restroom, but the men didn’t care. Their only concern was that their language and traditions didn’t die.
After Heinrich kicked them out for the day, they’d stand in the parking lot retelling the same stories, laughing at the same jokes, and carefully rolling up and eating one slice of smoked meat after the other until they’d worked their way through a whole pound.
The bells over the door jingled and Heinrich looked up. It was old lady Handwerk, come for her prime rib. She wanted some scrapple, and some chow-chow, and some hot bacon dressing too, now that she was here. Fine. Heinrich left her smaller items on the counter and went to the walk-in fridge for her prime rib. As he grabbed the roast he glanced down at Verba’s special delivery on the bottom shelf. Wrapped in butcher paper like all of the other deliveries, it was the same general shape and weight of a goose. It didn’t strike Heinrich earlier, when he’d been in the cooler for the Dietrichs’ turkey, but now that he looked again, the gold Metzger’s sticker and the red and green plaid bow and the compliments of Steven Verba gift tag stood out like a string of flashing lights.
Heinrich’s stomach turned. Verba’s special delivery had no sticker, no ribbon, and no gift card, which meant Heinrich was looking at a regular old goose. His heart started drumming. If Verba’s special package wasn’t here, then where was it?
“Yoo-hoo?” old lady Handwerk stood at the counter and called. “You didn’t give my prime rib to someone else, did you?”
If only he’d have been so lucky. Panicked, Heinrich hustled old lady Handwerk and the former lodge members out the door.
His long-time delivery person had quit last week after a stroke left him unable to drive, and Carl’s son Garrett had been filling in. Heinrich loved his nephew, but the kid was a real waste case. He must have had Verba’s package with him in the delivery van.
Heinrich’s fingers shook as he dialed Garrett’s number. The kid was always on his phone, so surely he would answer, but no. Heinrich texted instead. No response again.
He shed his apron and ran to his truck. The old wise men were still chewing in the parking lot. “Was ist das?” The eldest called out. “What’s wrong, boy? It’s not closing time yet.”
“My nephew’s out making deliveries and he took something he shouldn’t have.” Heinrich pulled on his coat as he spoke. “I have to find him and get it back.”
“We can help,” the old man said. “Whatever you need.”
“Ja,” crony number two chimed in. “We helped your father all the time.”
Heinrich wanted to say no thanks, but the faster he found Garrett, the better. The kid had made the customer deliveries before lunch. Since then he’d been delivering Christmas geese to local charities and soup kitchens. All the legit packages had been wrapped the same way—sealed with a gold Metzger’s sticker, tied with a red and green plaid bow, and outfitted with a gift tag that said compliments of Steven Verba. How could Garrett have grabbed the unadorned package and not have noticed it was different?
Regardless, would Heinrich only be making things worse if he involved his father’s friends in order to get it back?
He hesitated, eyeing the old men while he weighed his options. Not that he had many. Verba would flip if he ever found out what had happened, but he would be ruined if the wrong package was delivered to a charity on his behalf. He was a big deal in the community, and reputation meant everything to him.
Heinrich looked at the list again. He ripped it in half and gave the top to the elder crony. “He might be at one of these places. If you find him, stop him and tell him to call me.”
Elder crony squinted at the list. He shook a cigarette out of a beat up pack of Camels and lit it. “These are all on the east side of the city, right?”
“Right.”
The old guy nodded. “Let’s go, then,” he said to the others. “What are we waiting for? Christmas?”
The cronies were still cackling with laughter as Heinrich jumped into his truck. His head throbbed. He drove through the snow to the soup kitchen on Fourth Street where he pounded on the back door and rang the delivery buzzer. The priest who ran the place told him he’d missed Garrett by a matter of minutes, and that the goose he had delivered would feed many hungry mouths. Phew. He felt like a steer escaping the slaughterhouse.
The snow was picking up as Heinrich sped downtown to the second charity on his half of the list. Again, he had missed his nephew. Again, he was thanked for the goose. Again, he thanked God that Garrett had gotten it right so far.
Jumping back into his truck, he vowed to hire a new delivery person, pronto. Then he said a silent prayer asking the powers that be to let him catch up to Garrett while Verba was still none the wiser. If he’d done the deliveries in order, the kid had only two more left. Hopefully he still had the plain package, because if it ended up in the wrong hands, all hell would break loose.
Heinrich tried calling and texting Garrett again, but got no response. He called Carl, who also didn’t answer. Heinrich left a message outlining Garrett’s screw up, and told Carl that if he heard from his son to tell him to stay exactly where he was and call Heinrich.
Heinrich’s low fuel light lit up on the way to the third charity. It blinked a few times before glaring at him steadily. He coasted into a twenty-four-hour gas station and mini-market, and lo and behold, pulled up right next to his own delivery van. Garrett must have gone inside to use the bathroom or to get himself a snack, because he was nowhere in sight. Heinrich didn’t even care. He considered it a Christmas miracle that his low fuel light had guided him to Garrett like the freakin’ Star of Bethlehem.
Heinrich, praying for another miracle, approached the van, opened the door, and looked in the back. There it was—the plain package. The special delivery. Heinrich felt the contents through the paper, just to make sure. He’d wrapped it himself, but after losing track of it, he wanted to be doubly certain. Yup. A chill ran through him as he dragged his fingers over the paper. About the same shape and weight as a Christmas goose, but definitely not what’s for dinner.
He slogged through the slush to take the package to his own truck. As he filled his gas tank, his phone rang. It was Steven Verba.
“Hello, Steven,” Heinrich said. “What can I do for you?”
“Heinie.” It was the nickname Verba had given him in grade school, as if there’d ever been a chance he’d be called something else. “We have a problem.”
Heinrich swallowed, but knew not to speak.
“Your very eager delivery boy delivered a package to my home today. My home.”
Heinrich knew it still wasn’t his turn to speak.
“Do you know what was in that package?”
Heinrich continued to bite his tongue.
“It was a Christmas goose, from me, meant for the homeless shelter by the river.”
Bomb dropped. Now it was Heinrich’s turn. “I’m sorry, Steven. That was my mistake. Keep the goose, I’ll make sure the shelter gets another one, no charge. I’ll deliver it myself.”
“This is not about the goose, Heinie.”
“I know.” Heinrich swallowed. “I have the other package. I’m delivering it personally, right after I close the shop.” He looked at his watch. “Don’t worry, you can count on me.”
“I’m not sure of that anymore.”
“Look, the kid’s my nephew. He’s a stoner, I know it. But it’s Christmas Eve, and the shop was busy and he must have just grabbed the wrong—” Heinrich realized he was listening to a dial tone. He didn’t want to see Garrett right now, so he took off before the kid came back to the van and went to do what he had to do.
He was sweating bullets by the time he delivered the plain package to Deuce Gelder. The tips of Heinrich’s fingers tingled. He gagged once or twice on his way back to the van. No way to sugar-coat his sideline now. He was in it up to his giblets—no better than Verba, who’d sent the vile package as the result of a temper tantrum.
Verba was obsessed with rivalries. Every few months, he threatened to end their arrangement and take his business to Bob Klein, Heinrich’s biggest competitor. Heinrich should have told him to go ahead and do that. Up until now, the job had been to chop up dead bodies and feed them to the pigs. Today, Heinrich handed a man his son’s head in a plain brown wrapper. All because Gelder’s son had come to work for Verba without mentioning who his father was, which had convinced Verba that the kid was a plant. Some kind of corporate spy.
