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by Roland Szentesi

 

Flash. The bullet leaves the barrel. As surely as it rips through skin, flesh, and bones, it shatters the image of the one who pulls the trigger.

 

Lugar Loco, the spanish mob’s quarter. Not much sightseeing to be done here. Except for some trademark cold streets. Colder than one might expect. Narrow roads, decaying walls, broken windows, rusty firestairs. Rubbish everywhere. Old flats rising up all around like an infinite, concrete rainforest. Shadows closing in from all sides, suffocating. Feels like it’s always midnight. The lowest of the low are found here, the real bad guys, rotten to the core. Not the kind you want to avoid meeting in a dark alley. The kind you don’t want to see at all. Not even in photographs, let alone meeting them. I’m walking through these very streets. All empty. Unusual. Not even a distant bark. Only my hard, popping steps. They are all away, getting prepared. I know I’m near. A familiar chill runs down my spine. Fear. Have to stay frosty on this one. Heck, hard to be overwhelmed by emotions with a past like mine.

 

Memories dizzling. A peaceful cottage in the outskirts of town. Wonderful sunsets and a clear view to the beach. A well-payed job, a beautiful wife, and a smart, healthy son. My father’s personal american dream came true. But there’s no white sheet without an eventual stain. Secret loans from the mafia, a broad list of debts and worse to come. It was only because of his heart. Being a chemist payed alright, but he wanted to give me and my mother everything he could. And more, pushing the limits.

 

The bullet is nearing the forehead. Here I stand, with a ticket to the premier screening of the sum of my life. Director’s cut, „blink of an eye” version. I certainly won’t miss the screening. Just like Bruno's blood thirsty brother, the time when I first felt fear is staring at me, like a vicious monster about to swallow me. Recalling that certain evening doesn't require much effort. I used to wake with that devilishly picturesque moment numbing me every morning.

 

They were both lying there, in a pool of their own blood, like cockroaches that have just been stepped on. The maffia getting rid of those in their way. Pest control in reverse. Loving parents turned into lifeless, meat ragdolls in a matter of seconds. I saw it all. That’s where it all began. I was only six, coming home from a friend’s just to see those who brought me to life all torn up in the middle of their own robbed house. A good friend of my father, Mr. Retter, head of a huge machinery producing corporation and local congressman immediately took me under his wings, saving me from all the sorrow that I’d have lived through in an orphanage. Somehow, I had slipped out of the maffia’s sight. I guess I can say I was lucky. I received proper education and bringing-up, and got a decent job as a police officer. Retter always told me I’d be great for the job. It seemed that I had a special skill of sensing people’s thoughts. I myself was interested in this kind of work as well, although there was another factor driving me to join the force. Trauma like mine would make anybody feel the urge to fight crime.

 

Stop. Now it’s dead silence. I’m at the place, at its entrance. He’s here. Nowhere else for him to be right now. Not for me, either. I grab the handle. Cold as ice. Like the .44 dwelling eagerly by my side. I open the door gently. It squeaks out loud. I can only hope there’s no ambush waiting for me on the other side. Like I have any choices. It’s wide open. Nobody. The spacious, grey warehouse looks like a fire hit it. Although it’s simply this dirty. No wonder when such people as Bruno Matando spend most of their days here. Like pigs rolling around carelessly in their own waste. Makes me sick.

 

The bullet hits the forehead, ripping up the skin, cracking the skull. By the time I’d feel the pain and start to shout, I’ll be long dead. At this frozen moment of clarity, another bit of my past drops before me.

 

After three years of excellent service, I got promoted to detective. I lost most of the limitations of my previous rank and began to work on my own. I was finally able to stand on my own feet, with no need for help from Retter anymore. Still, I kept in touch with him. Didn’t take me long to go deep into the bowels and lungs of what was actually holding the city in its bony hands: crime and corruption. Scared, spineless politicians bringing new and deleting old resolutions just to fit the mob’s needs. Authorities all magically forgetting mishaps after receiving a neat, thick envelope. I felt like the only one in a thousand kilometres radius not willing to go down this road. I began chasing small-time thievery and murders, coming up the ladder at a steady pace. At first, it all seemed like a part of the job, until I saw patterns unfolding all around. There was something developing, shaking the ground, worse than an earthquake.

 

To the right is a wide corridor. As I take a look around, time appears to be frozen. No sounds, no movement, only me snooping around, undeniably nervously. The chilly air feels clean like a breeze, creating an atmosphere completely in contrast with the whole place. I reach the corridor’s opening. Something catches my eyes at a moment’s notice. Scattered maps of the city and the state covering both walls all along to the end, like some avant-garde wallpaper. Thin cabinets pushed to the sides with all kinds of documents on them, probably contracts.

 

The bullet enters the skull, drilling the surface of the brain. The hole in my head begins to let my thoughts and memories run free and fly to the sky, like a balloon deflating.

 

The air was stiff and heavy all the time, filled with smoke, the smell of alcohol, and the grief of emotionally drained burnouts. Always hated to admit it, but I spent most of my time at this pub. Who wouldn’t have in my shoes? A slight smile would always be brought to my face just by listening to these guys’ stories. Bad beats in poker, lady trouble, arguments with their boss, all that typical crap. I found my trouble-worn portrait’s caricature getting reflected by all these yarns, but I was able to simply pull a grin at it. This is where I met Flubber, the skinny street-nerd type in his mid twenties. Of course that wasn’t the guy’s real name, but it was an appropriate nick nonetheless. He stuck his nose into just about everything that was none of his business and gave every illegal way of making money a try. I first stumbled upon him as he was being thrown out of this dirty shebang, caught cheating in poker. Nobody would wish for an annoyance like him to be around, but admitted, he proved to be useful in getting info nobody else could. He looked up to me like some kind of a crazed fan, and I was glad to hear him out about all the things that could help me with the case I was working on.

 

 With Flubber’s help, I came to know Bruno Matando, the spanish mob’s leader and his sidekick-trio, always on the lookout to lick the boss’ shoes one way or another. First is Horatio, the chatty mind of the gang, who could turn everything into gold he touched. He was said to be able to triple any amount of cash in less than a day and make it seem all legal. Then there’s José, the typical dumb muscle. He had what was missing inside his head a hundred times in strength. One time while he was on his morning jogging routine in the mountains, the chinese triad had somehow gotten their hands on a wild bear, and sent it to attack him. He's been getting compliments on his new fur coat ever since. And lastly, Alfonso. Nobody knew what his exact job was or how his voice even sounded like, but rumor had it he had more people buried in his backyard than a cemetery. The whole setup was comical and daunting at the same time. I also learned that Bruno was the one personally to take my parents’ lives. These latino animals were the real enemies here.

 

No matter where I went to investigate, I kept finding dead people and signs of the evolving chaos that had its roots set way beneath the city’s grounds. Mob wars between the latinos and the russians, armor and gun shipments hijacked, contracts with a chemical research facility, hundreds of illegal immigrants kept in abandoned factories, authorities shaking their heads confusedly. It didn’t make sense. Each day, the case grew more complex, like a never ending puzzle. You’d get more and more pieces thrown in front of you, but none of them seem to fit. I felt like a crazy dog, chasing its own tail. My situation had turned into a twisted parody of itself. I couldn’t leave it alone; it was personal and for the greater good at the same time. Insomnia clinged onto me as if I was the ever-loving father of this unwanted, bastard child. I was torn between dream and reality. The riddle was screaming to be solved and I was all on my own. Anyone could be involved. Nobody should be trusted.

 

This corridor has all the answers. Important nodes of the state and the city all signed on the maps. „Boss, the gun trade went down perfectly. We’ve got a hundred packs of the latest AKs fresh out of the box”. „We can take the next step, Bruno. Time to advance to the outskirts.” „Document #BJ428: „Toro El Rabiar” reflex boosting drug research project supsended as a result of possible information leak”. Suddenly, it all becomes clear. The small-time look is just camouflage. The mob’s planning to take this to the next level, making it official, literally, spreading their filth out in every direction around the whole state, scaring off the last few with some principals and morals with the help of their private army. Cops and robbers is an ironic game. None could exist without the other. It goes to prove that faults are a vital part of society; those who break the rules are just as important as the rules themselves. The only thing that needs to be controlled is the ratio. Without it, the system begins to fall apart. This is why my father had to die, not because of the loans. He couldn’t stomach corruption, and the chemical facility he was working at was way too deep in it. The rest of the gang is all out in their places, even the trio, taking the final steps necessary to advance. Flubber told me Bruno would surely be here, finalizing his grandiose plans with minimal protection.

 

I turn around. A faint ray of light from the street is pointing right towards an aged, foxy door at the far end of the corridor. Looks like it leads to another room. I walk up to it carefully. Sporadic scrap crackling under my feet echoes through the place. Each crackle is like a piece of my past, finally sinking into oblivion. I stack up to the door with hope being my only grapple once again. A quick, dark train of thoughts rush through my mind. It’s not fear anymore. It’s hate and determination. Nothing to gain. Nothing to lose.

 

The bullet keeps travelling. Bruno’s brother is still looking into my eyes, holding his smoking Revolver high, waiting to see satisfying answers. He’s looking in the wrong place. My pupils turn dead. I begin to fall. The circle of revenge will soon be closed.

 

He’s in front of me. Didn’t even notice I opened the door. Now I’m pointing the .44 right at him. He’s shouting. Turning the air blue. His words each are like a swarm of anxious bees whose nest you've just knocked down. Latino curses mixed with broken English. Five people in this tiny room. Me, him, and three of his guards, armed with rifles. They don’t make a single move. They know this is between me and Bruno. The first time I see this kind of moral from such streetdogs. I take a step. He backs towards the old wooden desk behind him with a phone, a gun, and some papers on it. Office work, huh. Still shouting. My finger’s itchy. The period to this sentence, written in blood, can only be a gunshot.

 

Dead-end. The room has no windows and only one entrance. My reflexes were boosted unbelievably by the rage that was putting pressure on me inside. Four corpses. Soon to be five. Silence is broken by angry footsteps, getting closer. He’s coming for me. I knew I was fighting a losing game all along. Cutting a worm in half won’t kill it. But now I feel I have everything wrapped up and taken care of on my side. The only way it would all be complete. I have reached my destination, just like the bullet in my head a split second afterwards.

 

 

 

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