Romeo's Hammer Page 9

  I heard something click. Like a door closing.

  I listened.

  “I’m loaded!” a voice said. Man’s voice.

  “Hold on there,” I said. “I’m a friend of Brooklyn’s.”

  “Come out and show yourself,”

  What was this? Tombstone?

  “Take it easy,” I said. “Here I come.”

  I walked out of the bedroom and saw him at the end of the hall. He was fat, fortyish, and frizzy of hair. He looked like a guy who should be running a comic book store with live hand grenades under the counter.

  He had a single-barrel shotgun in his hands.

  It was pointed at me.

  “POINT THAT BOOM stick at the ground,” I said.

  “You just come right out here, slow.”

  Definitely Tombstone.

  I said, “I’m not gonna mosey nowhere with steel on me, podner.”

  “You do what I tell you!”

  “That thing’s going to go off, and it will be murder, and it will stain your soul forever,” I said. “Point the gun at the floor and listen to me.”

  “Shut up!”

  I leaned against the wall.

  “You’re going to do some talking to the police,” he said.

  “You called the police?” I said.

  “You bet I called the police. This is my building and you broke in.”

  “The cops are going to love that you pulled a shotgun on me.”

  “They will.”

  “What’s your name?” I said.

  “You just shut your mouth.”

  “I’m Mike. I am looking for Brooklyn Christie. She’s missing.”

  “You said you were her friend.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re a liar,” he said.

  I was getting real tired of Tombstone. I started visualizing some moves to take away the weapon, remove the shell, and give the man a much-needed enema.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s wait for the cops. When they get here and figure this out, I want a full apology from you.”

  He looked like I’d asked him to run naked through a mall.

  “Say what?” he said.

  “An admission of wrongdoing and a plea for forgiveness,” I said.

  “You get nothin’ from me.”

  “That will only hurt you,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Well, None, I’m glad we had this chance to talk. This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  The shotgun trembled in his hands.

  I said, “In one of his dialogues, Plato has Socrates in conversation with a young man named Charmides. Your name isn’t Charmides by any chance, is it?”

  “I just want you to shut your mouth.”

  “The police will be here soon. Until then, we ought to redeem the time.”

  “I don’t know what the h—”

  “As I was saying, in this dialogue, Socrates talks about the virtue of temperance. He says to Charmides that when temperance is implanted in the soul, health is also imparted, not only to the head, but to the whole body. Now wouldn’t that be a nice thing for you to consider?”

  “I might just shoot you to shut you up! Be quiet!”

  “See? You’re being rash, not temperate. And that’s just not a good way to live. You never want to angry up your blood, as a famous man once said. Ever heard of Satchel Paige?”

  He shook his head. At least he was listening now. Maybe I could even get through to the guy and lull him into a false sense of security. Then I’d sit on him until the cops arrived.

  “Satchel Paige was a famous pitcher, in the old Negro Leagues. One of the greatest of all time. He was in his late forties when the color barrier was broken.”

  My captor lowered the gun barrel. Just a little.

  Heck, maybe I could put the guy to sleep.

  “What is it you do for a living, Charmides?” I said.

  “Please, just be quiet, will you?”

  The gun drooped a bit more.

  I took one small step, talking as I did. “Let me offer you a free piece of advice.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Homo sum humani a me nihil alienum puto.”

  He just stared.

  “It means,” I said, “I am human, thus nothing human is alien to me. You see?”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, I am alien to you, but I’m just like you. A man. A human being. We should be able to reach some meeting of the minds without a gun between us.”

  He sighed. He shook a little.

  I took one more step.

  And the shotgun went BOOM.

  PRIOR TO ARISTOTLE, philosophy held, by and large, that there is no intentionality in nature. Random events are just that. No point. Thus, a stone rolling down a hill not only gathers no moss, it doesn’t have any meaning in the larger order of things. And never will.

  This did not satisfy Aristotle, who sought causes and explanations for everything.

  Epicurus, on the other hand, taught that everything was the result of the random collisions of atoms. Therefore life was only “unfair” to those trying to impose a moral order that does not exist.

  But there is something about getting shot that cries out for not only for an explanation, but retribution.

  After the shotgun blast, the pellets made nasty work of the hall carpet just inches from my feet. But several, following the laws of physics, bounced off the hardwood underneath the carpet and ricocheted into my shins. One of the pellets ripped my pants at my left knee. A little higher and more to the middle and my dangling participle would have been severely edited.

  Which didn’t do a whole lot for my calmness of spirit.

  The guy with the now-empty shotgun had a shocked look on his face. I knew he hadn’t intended to fire, but motive was not a concern to me. This was not a court of law. This was the court of Romeo.

  I pounced.

  The man whipped the shotgun up, butt out. But the fear in his eyes signaled the onset of our body’s fight-or-flight system. His peripheral blood vessels were contracting, and his muscles were bathed in adrenal and cortisol juices, tightened.

  That was all I needed to stop the butt with the palm of my left hand and, with my right coming up on the barrel from below, rip the shotgun from him.

  My legs burned. I threw the shotgun behind me.

  “Ouch!” I said. “That hurt!”

  “I … I didn’t mean …”

  He tried to turn then and make for the door.

  I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back and put my hand behind his neck. A squeeze and a simple takedown later, he was on the floor face down.

  “Don’t hurt me!” he muffled into the carpet.

  “You idle-headed pignut!” I said, channeling Shakespeare. I sat on his back and took stock of my jeans. There was some blood.

  “You’re not gonna kill me, are you?” the man said.

  “Let me think about it,” I said.

  “Please get off me.”

  “Let me think about that, too.”

  THE COPS ARRIVED five minutes later. Only now they thought they had a shooting on their hands. The blast from the shotgun must have alerted some of the neighbors, who met the black-and-white SUV that rolled up.

  A voice from the squad vehicle loudspeaker said, “This is Los Angeles police. Put your weapons down and put your hands on the back of your head, and come out of the door walking backwards.”

  “Now look what you’ve done,” I said to my human cushion.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “Stay on the floor.”

  I got up and picked up the shotgun. I went to the apartment door and opened it.

  “Coming out!” I shouted.

  Then I slid the shotgun outside.

  I put my hands behind my head and kicked the door all the way open.

  Just before I backed out I said, “Read the novel Crime and Punishment by Dostoev
sky. Got that? Crime and Punishment. Read the whole thing. I’m going to come back someday and give you a quiz on it. If you haven’t read it, I’m going to break your nose.”

  The man on the floor looked at me with a genuine, existential fear.

  My job was done.

  I backed out of the door.

  THEY CUFFED ME and the shooter, put us in separate squad cars. Just as we pulled away from the scene, I saw Ray Christie drive up, get out of his car, and look confused. He reminded me of mankind itself, stumbling through the ages looking for answers.

  At the station, a senior patrol officer named Martins took my statement. I gave him my version of the events. His eyebrows went up every so often.

  When I finished, he left the interview room and another officer, this one a sergeant, came in. His name was Rice. He looked seasoned.

  “We’re going to change things up a little, Mr. Romeo. I’m going to give you the Miranda advisement.”

  “Consider it done,” I said. “You have a waiver?”

  Rice slid a form to me. I signed it.

  “Ask away,” I said.

  “Why did you break into Brooklyn Christie’s apartment?”

  “As I told Officer Martins, I have been retained to find her. I work for a lawyer, Ira Rosen. Brooklyn’s father wants to find his daughter. I asked him for permission to unlock the door of Brooklyn’s apartment, and he gave it to me.”

  “Unlock is a funny word, don’t you think?”

  “I’m going to want my lock pick set back, by the way.”

  “Right now it’s potential evidence,” Rice said. “Is her father on the lease?”

  “You can find out,” I said.

  “Will you give us his contact information?”

  “No, I will not.”

  He gave me the cop glare. I gave him the Romeo.

  “You’re not going to make this easy on us?” Rice said.

  “I’m making it very easy,” I said. “I’ve given you a statement that is absolutely true and correct. That’s all you need to know. You want to issue a misdemeanor citation, go ahead. But I’ll make you show up in court and explain yourself to the judge. You can tell him why you held and questioned a gunshot victim.”

  “Do you need medical attention, Mr. Romeo?”

  “I could use a thick steak. With onions.”

  Rice wrote something down. Then put down his pen and folded his hands. “You had contact with a Desiree Parks, did you not?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I already went through this with a detective named Baker,” I said.

  “Go through it with me,” Rice said.

  “I don’t want to.”

  Rice shook his head. “Okay, Mr. Romeo, have it your way. The law says we can hold you for forty-eight hours pending further investigation.”

  “I want to call my lawyer.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Romeo.”

  “And I’m serious about that steak.”

  THEY HAD A cell for me, complete with a roomie.

  He wore his hoodie full up. He looked like a novitiate in a monastery. He sat cross-legged on his bunk, head down, as if praying.

  I started doing some push-ups against the cell bench when I heard him say, “Hey.”

  I stopped, turned, sat on the bench. “What’s up?” I said.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Push-ups.”

  “Why?”

  “Keep in shape,” I said.

  “What you here for?”

  “Contempt of cop,” I said.

  “I hear that.”

  “How about you?” I said.

  “Assault.”

  “Did you?”

  He gave me a long look from within his cowl. “What are you sayin’?”

  “Just asking the question.”

  “You try to fight me, I’ll make you feel it,” he said. “You wanna try me?”

  “I don’t like fighting.”

  “Somebody burn me, he gonna pay.”

  “You looked like you were praying just now,” I said.

  “So?”

  “It’s good to have something to believe in,” I said. “Besides fighting.”

  “So somebody hurt you, you just do nothin’ about it?”

  It was a good question, the right question.

  “If someone is doing something bad,” I said, “it’s moral to stop him with equal force. But we shouldn’t be the ones to start it.”

  The monk said, “Man, who are you?”

  “Mike.” I put out my hand.

  He shook it. “Richard.” He sounded like a teenager.

  “You got anybody looking out for you?” I said. “Mom, dad?”

  “My mom’s done with me,” he said.

  “Does she have a case?”

  “What?”

  “Have you done things that make her want to be done with you?”

  “You don’t know nothin’ about it.”

  “Why I’m asking.”

  Richard shrugged. “Sometimes I get mad. So what?”

  “Getting mad’s easy,” I said. “Controlling your wrath is the hard part.”

  “My what?”

  “Wrath.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ever heard of Achilles?” I said.

  “Who?”

  I said, “Let me tell you about him.” And I did. Complete with commentary and annotations, which included references to the life of one Michael Romeo. The kid listened to the whole thing. Which was a good sign. Here I was in a jail cell and I felt a little charge of hope. Crazy. This starfish business was getting to me.

  IRA ARRIVED A little after one. Ray Christie was with him. After Ray gave a statement, and Ira sweet-talked the cops a little, they asked me if I wanted to file a charge against the guy with the shotgun. I waved it off. “Just tell him to take a firearms safety course,” I said.

  Then I was sprung.

  Outside the station, Ray Christie seemed shaken. “I never thought you’d get shot,” he said. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Part of the job, Ray,” I said.

  “The police wouldn’t let me go into the apartment,” Ray said.

  “It doesn’t look like anybody’s been there for awhile,” I said.

  Ray Christie let out a deep, despairing breath.

  “The police are involved now,” Ira said to Ray.

  “I know how that goes,” Ray said. “Overworked and underpaid. Missing persons aren’t their top priority.”

  “It’s mine,” I said.

  “YOU’RE A TROUBLE magnet, you know that?” Ira said. He was driving me back to the apartment building so I could pick up Spinoza, who was parked on the street there.

  “Some people are born with that gift,” I said.

  “Is it your inner Achilles that makes you rude to people, including the police?”

  “Funny you should mention that,” I said. “I was just giving a lecture.”

  “Don’t fool with me, Michael.”

  “No fooling. An audience of one, in my cell.”

  “You had a cellie?”

  “Richard. He’s got a P.D., but I thought maybe you could take a look at his case.”

  “You volunteered me?”

  “I told him what a great guy you were,” I said.

  “Pro bono?”

  “I know that’s what you love,” I said. “Merciful to the poor and all that. Plus, he’s a good kid. How about talking to him?”

  Ira sighed. “Who is working for who around here?”

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  “How are your legs?” he said.

  “A little bruised. Hole in my jeans. But my pride is intact.”

  “You could have had some valuable machinery messed up. God must be watching over you.”

  “Or I’m just lucky,” I said.

  “You can believe that if you want to,” Ira said.

  “We all believe what we want to.”r />
  Ira shook his head. “I don’t want to believe I am a sin-filled man, but I must.”

  “You’re the least sin-filled man I know,” I said. “But that doesn’t make you any less annoying.”

  “Spoken like a guilty client who’s mad he didn’t walk.”

  “Pull over,” I said. “We’re here.”

  My car was sitting at the curb. The excitement of the day had long since died out. Ira told me to get in my car and drive away. I promised him I would.

  I did not tell him when I would. Lawyers aren’t the only people who can work loopholes into an agreement.

  Sitting on Spinoza’s hood, I leveled my eyes at the complex. A little like Superman and his X-ray vision. Somebody in there had seen the attacker. Had given a description that was somewhat similar to me.

  It could have come from the building next door. There were windows that looked out at the common driveway and Desiree’s front door. The two upstairs windows of the building were shut. One had closed venetian blinds, the other closed curtains.

  It occurred to me I could canvass the place. Knock knock. Hi, I’m the guy who threw the shotgun out the door earlier today. Can I have a word?

  Why the heck not? The worst they could do is scream and get another shotgun.

  I started with the four units in the other building. Two of the apartments didn’t answer my knock. One downstairs did. It was an elderly woman who thought I was trying to sell her magazines. She looked at me through thick glasses and told me she wasn’t born yesterday.

  That I believed.

  One of the upstairs apartments had a smallish man of around forty who kept a chain on his door as he opened it a crack.

  “There was some excitement next door,” I said. “Did you get questioned by the police?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did you see what happened earlier today?”

  He shook his head.

  I was reminded of those three monkeys.

  I thanked him and told him to stay vigilant.

  Then I went across to Brooklyn’s building, to the door of the lower apartment on the other side. I wondered where the guy with the shotgun was. I wondered if they’d taken away his weapon. I wondered if I should be here at all.

  I knocked.

  A woman’s voice asked who it was.

  “The guy who almost got shot today,” I said.

  Not a normal greeting, I know.