The courage to murder, p.1
The Courage To Murder, page 1
The Courage To Murder
Tony Hernandez
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Thank You!
Also by Tony Hernandez
One
Chris was 39, but he felt like he was 89. He was a young guy, but with the way he treated himself, he was closer to the grave than the cradle.
His hair was as dark and slimy as his mood and demeanor, these days. Chris was pale, too, since he rarely went out for sun. He hated brightness.
The usual wave of guilt now covered him, as he had just finished watching some Internet porn. He had many vices, and most he didn’t mind, but there was something about getting off on young women who’d been taken advantage of that didn’t sit well with him… even as jaded as he was. Maybe there was some heart left in him, after all.
It was July in Phoenix, meaning that it was hotter than hell itself. Just one more reason for him not to leave the comfort of his squalor. Instead, he was laying on his couch and digging around in some of the bags around the floor. He could smell chicken. Sure enough, right there on his couch was some left-over poultry. He wasn’t sure how old it was, but it didn’t stink. He took a bite into the cold chicken, feeling pleased with the thick grease that covered his face.
Chris lived on the second floor of a three-story apartment complex. That meant his place was the meat of a noise sandwich. Right now, it seemed that his neighbors up above him were playing hockey or something. He reminded himself to breathe as anger filled him. He calmed down a bit with the exercise, but not before taking one more angry bite out of his drumstick.
The couch sat next to the window that he always kept closed. Even during the day, he kept the blinds down. Not only so that people wouldn’t see in, but just to keep some of the heat that would radiate into his studio out. He wasn’t made of money, so he wasn’t a person who liked to give it away in his bills or in any other way.
Splitting the blinds open, Chris could see one of his neighbors, Mario, walking around with his muscle shirt cut to make it look even smaller. Mario looked like a bad body model from the 80s. It was all good, though. Mario could keep his muscles. At least Chris had his brains, and everyone knew brains beat out brawn.
Something else caught Chris’s eye. It was Mrs. Mendoza. She lived on his floor, a few doors down. She was carrying her groceries up. Half of Chris was angry at her for being stupid for having an apartment on the second floor and the other half was sympathetic with the old woman.
He told himself a joke about how she deserved to suffer the hike up, but even he realized that it was just a poor attempt to try to cover up what he was really thinking and what he truly wanted to do. So, he opened the door and did it. He walked outside his apartment door and walked down to the stairs landing and met with her.
“Mrs. Mendoza. Let me help you with those.”
“Oh, mijo, I have this. Just need to make two more rounds.”
“No, no. Let me get your groceries. Just get the door, ‘kay?”
She nodded as she handed him the bags and he followed her up the stairs. Mrs. Mendoza opened the door to her studio. “Just put them on the table here,” she said.
“I’m guessing that your car is still unlocked, right?”
“Of course. How else can I get to my car’s groceries if the car is locked?”
Chris sighed and smiled. “You know how people are in this neighborhood and complex. People are gonna steal from you one day.”
“But they haven’t yet, have they?”
Chris shrugged. “I’ll go get the rest now.”
He walked down the stairs and grabbed all of the remaining groceries at once, turning it into a one-tripper. It was just too damned hot.
“Thanks again, mijo. Can I give you some money for your trouble?”
Chris raised his hands. “No need. Not why I did it.”
“Nonsense. Here’s two dollars.”
He took the money in his hands and tried not to laugh. “Okay, Mrs. Mendoza. Whatever you say.”
“Why don’t you have a seat? Let me make you something to eat.”
“No, I’m sure you’re tired from shopping.”
She smiled. “I am, but that’s the reason I can use a sandwich. Let me make you one, too. Please.”
Chris agreed and took a seat on the couch. Although the two dollars wouldn’t go far these days, a full stomach would, so he was grateful to her for offering it. He told her what he wanted on his sandwich when she asked, and looked around the condo as she worked on it.
Her place was everything his wasn’t. It was clean and tidy. It was just as small, but seemed to be three times as big since it was all clean. The apartment was styled in old-lady fashion with one of those massive doilies covering the top of the sofa where he sat. There was one thing he was grateful his place didn’t have over hers—that old person smell that elderly people somehow secreted.
He looked at a wall of pictures. Her family. There were religious pictures, too. The Virgin Mary and Christ crucified.
She brought him out of his daze with a green plate that had his sandwich on it. She also handed him a glass of orange juice and a napkin.
“I see that you were staring at our Mother,” she said as she ate.
“Our mother? We’re not related.” He didn’t want to add that he thought she was a little too old to be his sibling, either.
Her eyes smiled. “No. I meant La Virgen. Our Mother.”
“Ahh.” Now, he understood. She was talking about the Virgin Mary. “Yeah, it’s cool.”
Mrs. Mendoza studied him as he ate his sandwich. “Is it?”
“Is it, what?” he asked through a full mouth.
“Cool. You sound like you don’t believe it.”
Chris shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I think it’s cool?”
“She returned the shrug. “I don’t know. Because all you young people don’t think that God is cool. Nor His Mother.”
He took a long drink of orange juice. The food was getting stuck in his throat and against the roof of his mouth. “I don’t know, Mrs. Mendoza. I’ve just never been religious,” he said, lying.
“Really?”
He smiled and let out a small laugh. “Okay. Not really. I was raised Catholic.”
She nodded. “But then what happened?”
“I dunno. Life.”
“Well then, that’s even more reason to bring God into your life.”
Chris smiled, trying not to be rude.
She picked up on it. “Sorry, not trying to pry or be a… what do you guys call it? A Bible banger?”
Chris laughed. “Yeah. Bible banger.”
“Sorry, sorry. Not trying to pry. I know—more than anyone—the more you try to convince someone of something, the more they’ll resist it.”
This peeked his interest. “Oh, yeah. How?”
“Well, look at those Jehovah Witnesses. The more they come around, the more I don’t want to hear what they say!”
They both laughed.
“No, no,” she said. “That’s mean. I’m sure they have plenty of jokes for us Catholics, too.”
“Well, I’m not Catholic.”
“Of course, you are. The entire world is Catholic. Some are just better at it than most.”
Chris took another bite of his sandwich. This lady could not be any more different than him, and yet he was enjoying her company. Or at least the way she was speaking to him.
“You really believe in all…” he pointed his sandwich at the religious images, “that.”
“I do. And in my heart of hearts, I think that you do, too.”
“Oh yeah? Then maybe you need to fix your heart’s radar.”
She smiled and briefly squeezed his knee, letting him know that she appreciated his humor. “Okay, for the sake of sounding like a Bible banger, why did you fall out with the church?”
He finished his sandwich and gave it a thought as he finished swallowing his meal. There was something about Mrs. Mendoza that was comforting. Something about her that he felt he could trust.
“Honestly, there’s a bunch of reasons. But one of the first ones that comes to mind is, if God is real, then that means that Heaven is real. And if Heaven is real, then that means, so is H. I’d like to think that there’s no God. That way, I don’t have to go to Hell, I guess.”
Her eyes glistened. “And what makes you think that you’re going to Hell?”
She was very comforting—of that, Chris was sure—but there was only so much he’d be telling her, sandwich and two dollars or not. “Let’s just say that I’ve been a bad boy.”
“We’ve all been bad. That’s what makes God so great. His forgiveness is as big as the universe!”
He appreciated her enthusiasm, he really did, but he was also someone who stayed grounded in facts. He was a lot of things, and pragmatic was one of them.
“Well, I’m sure God is very forgiving, but He can’t forgive everyone and everything. Some people are unforgivable. People like me.”
She grabbed his plate. “Would you like another?”
“No, thank you. I’m stuffed.” He looked around. “Well, I guess I should be going.”
As he got up to leave, Mrs. Mendoza said, “Just remember. You are wrong about two things. The first one is that there are things and people that God cannot forgive. He can. He can forgive all.”
Chris thought for a second. “I don’t remember making a second point.”
“Not that you’re aware of, at least. The second point that you’re wrong about is your prideful statement and what it says. You are saying that you know what God thinks. What is in His heart. No one knows that. And to think that, well… that is the only real sin you’re committing.”
Chris smiled and walked out. “I’ll see you around, Mrs. Mendoza.”
Two
He was riding a wave—a wave of bad luck.
The casino he was at was one of the newer ones in Phoenix. Technically, it sat near Glendale; he lived in Greater Phoenix’s west side, and now they had their own casino. Indians had bought some land in the middle of the west side, declared it tribal land, and—bam—a casino in the middle of Phoenix had been born. He had to give it up to those guys. That had been a slick move.
Everything about the casino was slick. The interior was like that of any other casino in Vegas, with all of the machines clinging, clanging, and whooping in their winnings. Even though most Native American tribes outlawed liquor, casinos were exempt from this since their casinos weren’t designed for Native American cliental. They were designed for non-Indians like Chris.
But, fuck, Chris felt sure that this was once one of their burial places because there was nothing but bad luck happening for him.
It wasn’t always this way. Gambling was how Chris made his livelihood, and he was always good at making money. He wasn’t the best at Texas Hold ‘Em, but he wasn’t the worst, either. Except for lately. Lately, his play had become as sloppy as his apartment.
He’d had nearly $40,000 in credit with the casino at one time. Now, he was in debt for just over $10,000. They were done giving him comps. And if he wanted to play anymore, he had to buy chips and pay towards his balance. Now, good days meant he was just breaking even with the heavy debt on his head, and bad days were, well, really bad.
Inside the casino were smoking rooms and non-smoking rooms. Although Chris smoked, he didn’t like the smell of smoke. Not the smell of secondhand smoke, at least, but he needed his cigarettes when he drank, and needed to drink as he played. So, the smoking lobby it was.
Everyone had their own financial system, and Chris’s fluctuated. When he was on top, he would start the day with $1,000 worth of chips and play until he doubled it. Now, he was down to playing about $200 worth. And unlike on his $1,000 days, when he would allow himself to lose fifteen-hundred to two-thousand, once he hit zero today, he was done. There was no room to fail. Which, in turn, made him a tight player. Which just meant it was hard to make money and would last longer, too.
He looked at his cards, a pair of sixes, and tossed them away. Usually, he would have played that hand. Now, he needed at least a King or Queen in his hand before calling.
After throwing in the cards and looking on as the hand played out without him, he felt a hand come down on his shoulder. That wasn’t how the drinks girls introduced themselves.
“How we doing today?” It was Jack Johnson, one of the main pit bosses of the casino.
He didn’t go by Jack, but by the more formal ‘Mr. Johnson’. Not because he was an older gentleman, but because he wanted people to respect him. Whereas Chris was happy to call Mrs. Mendoza ‘Mrs. Mendoza’ out of respect for her being an older lady, he didn’t like calling Mr. Johnson ‘Mr. Johnson’ because he was forced to. But the rules where the rules.
“Not bad,” Chris said. “Up about a hundred.”
Mr. Johnson peered over the rail and counted his chips. “Two-eighty? Looks like you’re starting with two hundred dollars these days. Nice.” The way Mr. Johnson said ‘nice’ let Chris know that he thought it was anything but.
Mr. Jack Johnson had the most Anglo name on Earth, but he wasn’t a white man. He was pure Native American and proud to straddle the line between the original ways of the land and the new Western ways.
Mr. Johnson wore a dark suit, bright white shirt, and a silky blue tie that matched his pocket square. But from his neck on up, he took on a totally different look altogether.
His brown skin was as fierce as his angular face. He wore a flat-brimmed, open-crowned hat. Basically, a cowboy hat that wasn’t curled up on the sides and was rounded on the top. The black hat had a white, beaded floral band of red flowers. On the side of the hat were two large feathers jetting outward.
The most remarkable thing about his looks was Mr. Johnson’s pigtails, which were long, thick, and rested on his lapels. He was quite the contrast to Chris’s pale skin and disheveled look.
“Would you have time to talk in my office?” Mr. Johnson asked.
Chris tried to look like he was calm. Partly for Mr. Johnson’s benefit, but mostly for his other two competitors at the table.
“I’d like to, Mr. Johnson, I really would. But I’m in the middle of taking these fine people’s money, as you can see.”
Mr. Johnson grinned. “Okay. Well, when you’re done taking all these people’s Christmas money from them, come by and say hi. I’d like to talk.”
Mr. Johnson walked away.
“What was that about?” a man sitting next to Chris asked.
Chris let out a sigh. “Oh, you know. The casino wanting their money back.”
“Their money? I thought we were here to take each other’s money?”
Chris smiled back at the joke. “Yeah, well, you need money to take money. Isn’t that what they say?”
“Something like that. Something like that.” The man reached out a hand. “Name’s Luca.”
Chris accepted the shake. “Chris.”
“Nice to meet you, Chris.”
“Likewise.”
Luca looked to be Chris’s age, and in some respects, even older. Luca was prematurely bald, but that age-intensifying look was cancelled by his apparent strength. His hairline may have said fifty, but his body said twenty, what with his medium-toned muscles tightening up his dress shirt. Compared to the downright willowy-ness of Chris’s make-up, Luca was practically a hulk.
“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” Chris asked.
“Why would I? I’m in the smoking lobby.”
Chris had asked the question simply out of the habit of seeing a healthy human, given that he was about to partake in a most unhealthy activity.
“Looks like you’re doing well.”
“What, this?” Luca asked, looking at his chips. “Yeah, I have about two thousand, but then again, I started with that much, too.”
Chris nodded. He was still bothered by Mr. Johnson’s visit. “Well, it’s no secret. Everyone talks in the casino, so you’ll know soon enough. I’m in the hole with the folks here.”
“Oh, yeah? How much?”
Chris gave Luca a long look.
Luca raised his hands and smiled. “Sorry. Should’ve known better than to ask.”
Chris smirked. “Yeah, well, let’s just say that it’s a nice amount. More than these chips can help. It’s why he wants to talk to me. It’s about the credit that they gave me. They want it back.”
“Geez. So, that’s what you’re doing, right? Why do they care?”
Chris shrugged. “Guess they want it quicker than I can give it to them. They have a lean on my truck.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
The dealer dealt out a hand. King deuce for Chris. He folded. Whatever Luca was holding wasn’t attractive to him, either, so he did the same.
That was one of the wonderful things about the poker table. You could be publicly talking to a crowd one moment and you could be in a private, discreet conversation in the next.
Chris brought up the question of what type of style Luca played with and Luca answered that he mixed up playing loose and tight. Chris said he did the same. It was weird, Chris thought, that he had just met this man, and yet he felt comfortable enough to ask him what one of his playing style secrets was. Something only lifelong poker playing friends would ask normally. There was just something about the guy.
