I was now on the fifth floor. I was not winded, but there was a healthy burn in my legs. And as I stepped through the stairwell door, I saw a man smoking a cigarette five feet away. He was waiting by the elevator door, and there was a pistol hanging loosely by his side. He did not see me.
It was Fuck Nut.
40.
I eased the stairwell door shut, removed the Browning from my shoulder holster and set down the beer. This wing of the fifth floor is reserved for four apartment suites. The elevator lets you out under a veranda outdoors. From there one can choose four different routes: immediate right or left, or straight ahead and then right or left. My apartment was straight ahead and then right. The whole area is flooded with outdoor lighting.
He had been leaning behind a stucco pillar, just feet from the elevator, gun hanging idly by his side, blowing smoke from his cigarette straight into the air. I could smell the smoke.
I had the element of surprise, of course, being that he did not expect anyone in their right mind to walk up five flights of stairs, especially someone with a bum leg. And if Fuck Nut was a professional killer, as I assumed him to be, he had done his research on me; he knew about the bum leg. He was confident I would take the elevator. He did not realize I was a hell of an example of human perseverance in the face of tragedy.
In the least he should have positioned himself to see the stairs and elevator.
Expect the unexpected, as my father would say.
I eased open the door and raised the Browning.
But he was no longer standing behind the pillar. No, he was now waiting off to the side of the elevator. His cigarette, tossed aside, was glowing ten feet away, half finished.
Because the elevator door was about to open.
Shit.
He raised his own weapon. In the glow of the outdoor lights I could see he had a silencer on the end of his pistol. A true killer.
The doors slid open.
Yellow light from the elevator washed across the veranda, and out stepped my Indian neighbor from across the way. My neighbor who had told me his name seven or eight times but I could never remember it. Poorjafar? I always felt like crap asking him to pronounce his name again, so we both accepted the fact that he was known as “Hey!” And I was known as “Jeemmy!” Normally, Jeemmy is an unacceptable variant of my name, but I let it slide in this case.
The man who might be Poorjafar was a big guy who lifted weights, and he stepped confidently out of the elevator, swirling his key ring on his finger and whistling. I didn’t recognize the song, but it had a sort of Bollywood feel to it. And, for effect, Poorjafar stopped, did a little dance, turned around-
And saw the hitman.
“Oh, shit,” said Poorjafar, stepping back, startled.
Fuck Nut said nothing.
“Are you waiting for someone?” asked my neighbor.
“You could say that,” said the hitman.
I knew something about assassins. They didn’t like witnesses. They saw themselves as living outside the real world; in fact it was a fantasy world of their construct, where they were king and God, pronouncing life and death on mere mortals.
The killer had just pronounced death on Poorjafar.
There would be no witnesses tonight, if the killer had his way.
I stepped out of the stairwell, losing my element of surprise, my own gun hidden behind my back. “He’s waiting for me,” I said.
Poorjafar turned. “Jeemmy! How you doing, man?”
“Hey…hey.”
Poorjafar pointed at the man in the shadows. “This is a friend of yours?”
The killer didn’t move, but his eyes wanted to bug out of his skull. He shifted uneasily, but kept his gun out of sight. I kept my eyes on him.
“He’s a recent acquaintance,” I said.
“Well, your acquaintance scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah, he likes to do that. Of course, it doesn’t help that he’s such an ugly bastard.” I gave a big, fake hearty laugh. The killer didn’t laugh. “Probably scared the shit out of his own mother when he was born.”
Poorjafar laughed, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Shit, Jeemmy. That was a low blow. He’s a friend, man.”
“No, I’m not,” said the man. “I’m very much not his friend.”
And he stepped sideways, keeping his hand behind his back, and stepped into the elevator. He pressed a button; the door closed. He pointed a finger at me and fired a blank bullet. And he was gone. I went back for my beer, and Poorjafar danced and whistled his way into his apartment.
41.
I was at East Inglewood High, my old high school, practicing hitting drills with my even older high school football coach. Twelve years ago I made a name for myself on this field, where I was loved and worshipped. Isn’t football just swell?
Coach Samson was a big black man, now in his fifties, and I still feared him on some level. But more than fear, however, was deep respect and admiration. He was more of a father figure than my father.
“Jesus Christ, son, you still have it,” he said.
Coach Samson was riding high on the back of a padded hitting dummy. Currently he was getting a sleigh ride across the football field, benefit of my churning legs and sweat. He had agreed to go over the basic fundamentals, because I had been out of football for seven years. And even a battle-scarred old war horse like myself could always use some basic training.
He blew a whistle and I stopped, dropping to my knees. We were alone on the varsity football field, although the school marching band was practicing in an adjacent field. School was still forty-five minutes from starting. The band, as far as I could tell, was one hundred percent African-American.
I might have been the last white to come through here.
Without his prodding, I got down into a three-point stance, and then lunged forward, hitting the padded dummy hard. Coach Samson held on, and I proceeded to push that goddamn thing up and down the field.
The coach instructed and advised as I went, reminding me to keep my head up and my back straight and to keep my legs churning.
I churned and churned all morning long, and I did not once think about Cindy, or that I had not heard from her in two days. And I did not once think about Derrick or the hitman, either.
Instead, I focused on football.
Sweet football.
A sport I had been born to play, a sport that had been taken from me. But I was determined to reclaim it- and my life.
Most of all, I tried to ignore the pain in my left leg.
That endless goddamn pounding.
