Heat of the moment events can sometimes turn ordinary men into heroes.
Just prior to becoming a corpse in the car park of the Sandton City shopping complex, Raymond “Radar” Delano had been relieving a bejewelled senior citizen and her driver of a Mercedes Benz.
It had shaped up to be a particularly simple job. Easy payday. There hadn’t even been anyone around except for an elderly black woman with children and, farther off, some geek carrying a guitar case.
He’d ushered the woman and her driver from the vehicle and they’d stood wide-eyed and helpless in the face of his physical size and the Magnum in his fist. Radar could have laughed. Things had been going well for a change, and he’d recently added the hijacking of luxury cars to his repertoire.
The old hag was indignant, rather than afraid, and trembled with fury. Rich bitch. Maybe he should take the glittery stuff from her neck and wrist as well. The price of a new Merc meant no more to her than another blue hairdo.
‘Hey – you!’ came a shout from behind, to the left.
Radar froze. He watched the black driver pull his frail employer aside. He turned his head fractionally and was surprised to see the guitar bearer, some twenty metres distant, pointing a gun at him. Radar had been in the game long enough to know the signs, and if he’d ever seen a man out of his element and scared witless, this guy was it.
‘So what now, tough guy?’ The last thing he needed was a stint in prison because of some dickhead loser trying to play hero. He’d earned his nickname through a cunning that kept him out of the law’s spotlight. The cops knew about him, knew he existed because of his connection with The Company, but there was no official record and that wasn’t about to change.
The geek was shaking, his whole body, so that the cloth of his jeans and jacket visibly quaked. He could lose weight just standing still. And he sure as hell didn’t know “what now”.
Radar’s tongue protruded briefly to whet his lips. He couldn’t let this drag out. He either had to walk away or nail the bastard. Fast. Maybe just turning the gun on him would be enough to scare him off. The Magnum was impressive-looking. It might even make him faint.
Radar made a decision.
Cory Ferguson felt the click of the cogwheels as that decision was made. He heard it like the fall of a courtroom hammer. His throat was already screaming: ‘No!’ making a dull, muffled roar in his ears, when the big man’s arm began to rise, the cylindrical eye of a Magnum barrel swinging round, seeking.
Like a thing come to life in his hand, Cory felt his own gun jar. Twice.
Time was thick and sluggish. Time was old chewing gum. Cory was still screaming as the man’s body floated backwards and bounced against the car. Horror and disbelief crawled up on that face, distorting it. Reality was a fairground mirror. For a bizarre moment Radar seemed to regain his footing, his body language that said everything would be okay after all, as if it had all been a big misunderstanding on the part of fate that he should die here, die now, just when things were going so well for a change, then he slowly sagged like a drunk in the crook of the door and became a corpse.
The police, when they came, would probably have found Cory frozen there, a prop for a soap opera with guitar case in one hand and a warm gun in the other, had it not been for the two black youths.
Cory vaguely sighted them weaving between parked cars, heads down, eyes fixed on him. It hardly registered. When the nearer of the two drew a firearm it barely nudged his consciousness. The youngster’s gun levelling at him, and the voice of the driver urging him to run, finally pierced the cocoon.
Cory turned and sprinted blindly toward the peopled shopping malls, alarmed stares reminding him he ought to stuff the gun, inherited from his father some months earlier, into a jacket pocket.
Three hours later, when he’d mustered the courage after the police and ambulance had gone, he paid a security guard to see him safely to his car. He’d never aspired to heroism.
The next day was Wednesday, and it was a bad day. He vomited when he tried to eat and put it down mostly to the tossing and turning instead of sleeping from the night before. He felt sick. All curtains were drawn and the windows shut. The cellular phone remained switched off. He made a single call to his office then unplugged the telephone and at five-thirty ignored his girlfriend’s banging on the triple-locked door. Beyond exhaustion at two in the morning he finally fell asleep on the couch for almost five fevered hours.
Thursday was much the same as Wednesday, except in the evening he decided to take a walk to a coffee shop in the Killarney mall. The air would help clear his head. He needed a clear head to make his plans; giving himself up to the police for murder was something he lacked experience in. Or was it manslaughter? The legal semantics for killing a man... Cory shuddered.
In the coffee shop he had a toasted sandwich, which he managed to keep down, and two coffees. After an hour, feeling generally improved but deciding he needed pen and paper, Cory paid his bill and left.
It was growing dark outside, with the sidewalks already deserted. Streetlights gave a stark white glow, too high up and too far apart, but the air was crisp and clear, and made him want to breathe it deeply. Johannesburg sky was a depthless blue turned almost black, edged with purple on the horizon still visible between high-rise buildings. Cory was half the distance home when an old Ford Cortina pulled up alongside him. A hefty man leaned out the passenger window asking directions. His voice was gruff, low in volume. Cory craned forward. The man had bad breath and a nasty smile, Cory noticed, and from the corner of his eye he glimpsed a blur of motion as someone in the back seat rammed the end of a baseball bat against his forehead.
When he came to he found himself on a coarse surface that was dark and wet, the air putrid with the stench of urine and rotting food. Some alley. He tried to sit up and something crashed into his ribs. Pain erupted and stole his breath, and he curled up with his mouth stretched in a silent scream.
He felt a thump against his arm, and sensed it had been a brutal blow, the impact only camouflaged by the consuming fire in his side. He became aware of dull thumps connecting with his body from several quarters. Through a briefly opened eye he discerned booted feet. There were voices, hard, cursing voices. Yelling at him. Someone laughed without humour. The scrawny silhouette of a man with unruly hair was spitting on him.
Then it stopped. Cory dumbly noticed two black youths watching from the entrance of the alley.
The man with fetid breath kneeled down and hissed in his ear: ‘The Company sweeps its own yard, sunshine!’
His last thought, before sinking into nothingness, was that he’d puke if he swallowed any more blood – though a moot point when you’re busy dying.
‘Jesus!’ someone exclaimed nearby.
Cory noticed that he hadn’t died yet. He still lay there. Must have fallen unconscious, like in the movies.
‘I know these punks,’ the voice continued.
Cory opened an eye. His assailants were arrayed before him, facing the other way.
He shifted his head slightly: six men, two with guns in hand and another slapping a bloodied baseball bat in his palm. Two black youths. They stood in silhouette against what appeared to be the headlamps of several motorbikes at the far end of the alley. There was drunken whooping and a lot of jeering coming from there.
The one who’d earlier asked for directions raised his gun high into the air and yelled a challenge along the corridor. The reply was derisive hoots and the echo of revved engines rolling down the alley.
Using a grimy wall for support Cory struggled to his feet. His mouth felt very wrong but he was breathing through it, with something dribbling freely down his chin. His vision was bleary as he watched the men step hesitantly toward the bikers.
It was a long way to stagger home, trying to keep to the shadows, sobbing in terror whenever the beams of a passing car touched him. Hillbrow to Killarney. They’d be hunting him. He stumbled often and crashed to the ground, passing out twice for several minutes. His world ached but there was too much adrenaline to feel a lot of pain, but that would come, he knew, if he survived this night.
He finally collapsed out cold in the dark hallway of his bachelor apartment. A passing neighbour he’d known as Craig somebody, thinking him intoxicated, pulled his door shut.
He awoke on Friday morning after fourteen hours of solid sleep. During the night his face had become glued with dried blood to the carpet. His body was sore, broken, yet remarkably devoid of sensation except for a dull throb that came from everywhere. Until he moved. It was a plummet into hell.
He yelped and cursed at darts of agony for the entire forty-five minutes he toiled to remove bloodied clothing and settle into the bath. He lay for two hours in lukewarm water, reheating it only when it became unbearably cold, not bothering to wash except to ease away dark blood as it softened in the water that rapidly turned red.
He discovered great bruises, welts and lumps staggered from his forehead down to his feet. His right side was a mass of unhealthy purple and green. His lips were torn and swollen, his eyes puffed almost shut. He was oddly intrigued how the skin on his hands had come to be so tattered.
How had they found him?
He should have checked that the door was locked before getting in the tub.
What was “The Company”? He didn’t doubt for an instant that the intention had been to kill him.
His nose was probably broken but it was hard to tell with his face bloated out of proportion.
“Radar”. It had come up repeatedly in the things they’d yelled. The name of the guy in the parking lot, he’d deduced.
His front teeth felt loose against his tongue and his jaw wouldn’t work properly. Maybe because of the swollen face. He’d noticed when getting undressed that he’d soiled himself at some point. He’d never been so afraid or hurt in all his life.
The “baker”. They’d said something about a baker who would “give the word”. Maybe Baker – someone’s name. Perhaps Baker ran The Company … a company that sweeps its own yard, sunshine.
No. They’d definitely, more than once, said: “the baker”.
There was only one solution: he would make a few phone calls prudent to going away for a while, then call the police. Or perhaps he should see a doctor first. No, the cops would probably take care of that, and the sooner he was in their custody, the safer he would be.
He couldn’t tell if any bones were broken, there was so much pain, everywhere.
* * * * *
On his second day in the holding cell, Cory raised his bandaged head at excited whispers between the two inmates with him. They’d pressed themselves against the cell door, apparently straining for a view down the corridor, like schoolboys with a sports hero.
‘Here he comes!’ one breathed urgently and they hurriedly withdrew from the bars.
Cory thought he caught a word, a name, in the other’s remark, which caused a prickling of gooseflesh at the nape of his neck.
A tall man, pale and fleshy faced, wearing an expensive suit and a ponytail in his hair, strode by with the desk sergeant and a lawyer-type in tow.
As they passed the desk sergeant glanced directly at Cory, none too friendly.
The atmosphere had altered perceptibly. Cory’s pulse quickened.
When their footfalls had gone and he’d heard the passage door swing shut, Cory clumsily cleared his throat, and, feigning casual curiosity, asked a question.
‘Porterman,’ replied one of the inmates sombrely.
Cory showed no sign of recognition and the other said: ‘You never heard of The Baker?’
‘Christ, where you been, cousin? He’s only the biggest stomper on the block.’
Cory stopped hearing them. For a moment all of his senses shut down, except for the ill that turned in his stomach.
‘I heard he owns half the cops.’
‘He’s in the news like every day. Almost.’
‘If you know where to look.’
Had The Baker come to sweep his yard? Right here?
‘Hey, so what you in for? You look like you’ve done ten rounds with Tyson.’
Could he really just reach into the justice system and have anyone he didn’t like killed? Have them swept away? No, that’s insane. That’s paranoia and the influence of too many gangster movies. But what else could The Baker be doing in a police station? And how does a known criminal manage to stroll through a police station as if he owned the place? Unless he pretty much did.
Breathe. Don’t panic.
Maybe the desk sergeant was one of the cops he “owned”. And Cory had liked him at first. The man had listened patiently to his story and commended Cory for coming in of his own free will. Pity he hadn’t thought to bring in the murder weapon but investigators would retrieve it later, he’d said. And he would call Cory’s mother, to try to ease the stress she must be feeling. A good man.
Cory looked at his fellow inmates who had turned to each other in huddled conversation: these two with their young, harsh faces looked at home in police custody. These two who worshipped a legendary criminal would no doubt become sweepers of The Company’s yard at the mere utterance from the right lips.
Cory backed into a corner, sickened with dread, and wiped perspiration that trickled from beneath the bandage across his forehead.
Ten minutes later he was evicted from the cells.
The desk sergeant was most certainly on The Baker’s payroll. He knew that now. His true colours had begun to show.
The previously kindly man was cursing under his breath about sickos who do anything for attention, while he handed Cory release forms to sign. A look of disgust had hardened the lines in his face and he muttered something about false confessions.
‘Then how did I get beaten up like this? Why would they try to kill me if what I’m saying isn’t true ?’ Cory protested, causing other policemen in the charge office to pause. ‘It’s The Baker, I swear! He wants me dead! And this is all part of his plan…’
‘Its Porterman and his lawyer who brought in a signed statement from the same old woman you claim to have rescued, you idiot!’
Cory, fighting for his very life, turned to one of the officers nearby, ‘Listen, please, you have to believe me. This man is probably on The Baker’s payroll and …’
‘Sergeant get this … this person out of here, before I shoot him. Now!’
‘You’re one sick puppy. You need a head doctor,’ the sergeant snarled when he shoved Cory out the door.
Outside in the glare of a stark midday sky, Cory was dangerously exposed. He knew the Baker’s brooms were waiting out there. Waiting and watching. His eyes scoured passing traffic for the metallic-blue Ford Cortina.
The plan was obvious: get him released on fake testimony, make him easy prey, so that The Company could sweep its own yard.
Adrenaline and the March sun had eased the stiffness in his limbs and he hobbled back and forth at the top of the stairs that led down to the visitor’s parking. He had to find a way of getting home alive but he didn’t dare leave the station. They probably wouldn’t move against him right outside a police station, he hoped.
At home, at least he had his father’s gun.
He could feel their eyes on him, burning like lasers into his back no matter which way he faced.
Then he hurried by.
Without even a sideways glance at the man he’d effortlessly condemned to death, The Baker, the big stomper, moved quickly down the stairs like a regular businessman with important stuff to do.
A large black car eased from the shadow of a nearby tree and glided to the foot of the stairs.
Do something! Now! Cory’s mind screamed hysterically. They’re going to kill you!
As best he could with a bandaged knee and ankles and one arm in a cast, he hurried after the expensive suit as it approached the car. The car’s windows were tinted as impenetrably black as its gleaming body and Cory knew he couldn’t allow The Baker to disappear behind them; he’d never see him again.
He came to a tottering halt a step away from the vehicle as the ponytail ducked into its dark interior – a brown-skinned hand with a gun magically appeared in the crack of the door. Cory’s mind was a thunderstorm. His breath came in rasping gulps.
The Baker looked up. With a soft grunt he dismissed the firearm that aimed between Cory’s eyes.
Cory wanted to speak, but no words came. He stood on legs turned rubber while his mouth worked voicelessly, paralyzed in the force of the murderer’s gaze.
As if distantly amused an eerie half-smile flitted across The Baker’s lips. Like a chill, neutral breeze from nowhere, they uttered words that Cory almost missed.
‘You’re free, Mr. Hero.’
‘W-what?’
‘I pay my debts. Sorry about my … enthusiastic supporters.’
‘What…?’
The Baker regarded him a moment, and then sank back into the leather seat, bringing the door after him.
‘Everybody’s got a mother, pal.’
With a soft metallic thud, the car door closed on the nightmare of Cory Ferguson.
(((HUGS))) and love, your tx. friend, karen lynn. :D
Reviewed by Judy Lloyd
1/24/2005
Talk about a surprise ending this one had me by the edge of the seat until I was finished. Glad I read this now this is the kind of story I like. One that keeps you reading and then wham surprises you.
The Psychic Dimension, Part II (558 pages) is a collection of 36 sci-fi/paranormal stories and the new work is the companion book to Jay Dubya's The Psychic Dimension.
