[nsw-fic] Home Soil

[machievelli]

Home Soil

 

2004

Drago

Peter Drago stepped outside his store, and breathed deeply of the early morning air. In his life, he had discovered that 2 am has it's own taste. A taste of life desperate to continue. More people died between 2 am and 3 am than at any time in normal circumstances. Those in hospital, the elderly, the weak. He looked at the highway with trucks and cars roaring past. At one end of that ribbon of blacktop was Stockton, at the other South Lake Tahoe. A river of life that eddied into the town when it wished.

 

He turned and went back in. The convenience store was the first stop on the highway inside Dragon Pass. Or last depending on which way you were traveling. There was anything you might wish to buy at whatever hour you came by. It was closer in design and variety to being a small market, a mom and pop style store. The door had a sign in neat calligraphy;

 

Enter my establishment freely and of your own will

 

The coffee carafes smelled of French Roast and Viennese cinnamon. Not because Peter drank coffee, but because he loved the smells. He walked over behind the counter, and waited. One thing he was excellent at was waiting.

 

A car came down the ramp, and he watched it. A mother and two children. Why anyone would keep their children up at this time of night was beyond him. The trio climbed out, and the mother came toward the store with a harried look.

 

"Where's your coffee?" She asked.

He sighed. Didn't people ever learn how to read? "Below the sign marked coffee." He said. He smelled deceit. Now where:

 

The older child was about twelve, and he was standing in the candy aisle. Peter could hear the crinkle of paper as the boy scooped up candy, transferring them to the deep front pocket of his hooded sweat jacket.

 

The woman came to the counter, setting down a large coffee. He could smell the sugar and flavored creamer she had put into it. Working on a stroke there.

 

"Are you paying for all of it?"

 

"All of what?" She looked confused.

 

"One coffee, five large candy bars, and seven small ones." He asked. He motioned languidly toward the boy.

 

"I haven't done nothin!" The boy put on an air of injured innocence. It might even have worked.

 

"Are you calling my son a thief?"

 

Peter looked at her. "I am proclaiming what he is. If you do not believe merely turn out his pockets."

 

"I will not!" The woman drew herself to full height, a lioness protecting her pride. Peter picked up the phone, and began dialing. The defiance evaporated. "What are you doing?"

 

"When he steps out the door, he becomes a shoplifter, and can be arrested. I am merely assuring that a policeman arrives before the boy gets away." He looked at her. "Yes, Daphne, this is Peter Drago. No, I haven't been robbed yet. Just a shoplifter."

 

"Wait!" The woman looked frantic. She rounded on the boy. "Empty the pockets."

 

"Mom!"

 

"Now!"

 

The boy glared at Peter, then began shoveling out the spoils. 12 candy bars, five large, seven small. The woman stared, mouth moving like a gaffed trout. Drago merely picked up the phone. "Never mind Daphne. It seems yet another child has seen the error of his ways."

 

The woman stood. Flushed with embarrassment. "I am sorry, I was so sure-"

"It does not matter. Please. Step outside, and let me speak with him alone."

For some reason, the request pushed through every parental safeguard. She took the younger girl by the hand, and went out.

 

"Listen you old fag-" The boy's voice died as glowing green eyes locked on him. He felt his entire miniscule life flash before his eyes, being read like a comic book, and judged. He knew in his heart that the judgment was not in his favor. This man wouldn't be impressed by threats bravado lies promises or screams, he saw. This one would accept blood alone. His, others, it didn't matter.

 

"Now listen to me, my young friend." The voice seemed to echo like thunder in a canyon. "Where I come from they would have smashed you hands to paste for what you did." The boy felt angry hands holding him, felt a blacksmith's hammer crushing both hands as he screamed, trying to pull away. He suddenly was back in the store, frantically cradling his hands. "You will leave my store, and except for the fact that we spoke, you will remember nothing but that I let you go. But you will not steal again, ever. For when you think of it, you will remember what I have said."

 

Drago's eyes were normal, why had he thought they had glowed? "Yeah, thanks, mister." The boy stumbled out, and walked fast to the car. His mother looked at him.

 

"What happened in there?"

 

"Nothing, mom. He just told me never to do it again." He looked toward the store. He didn't know how he had known, but the man was still watching. A voice whispered, Remember what I said.

 

Peter watched the car pull away, and reshelved the candy. It was quiet at this time of night. When he had opened the store, the local police had warned him that the gang-bangers from the surrounding areas would sometimes come through and hit a series of stores along the highway, but he had told them that he would take his chances. They had been surprised that the store had been open for eleven years, with Drago working the night shift every night, and they had yet to have even a robbery report, let alone a call.

 

Another car came up, an old Chevy Impala. Four young men got out. One went to the gas pump, and thrust the nozzle into the tank. The others briefly spoke together, then started toward the door. Drago smiled.

 

What he hadn't told the police was that the gang-bangers would be taking their chances too.

 

*****

 

Diego Montoya looked at the biggest score of his young life, and smirked as he led the others toward the store. As head of the Angeles Del Muerte, he had pushed for the others to find decent scores. Not the penny ante crap of knocking down an old bitch for her wallet or Social Security check. But real money.

 

It looked like Tito had found one, if he wasn't lying. A store in a piss ant little burg on the highway in one of the skiing towns. An open door policy, and better still the manager worked graveyard shift! The one person that could crack the safe working the most dangerous shift!

 

How many times had they failed him before? Setting up robberies where they got maybe 200 bucks a pop? Tito had checked this place out first about a month ago, while driving to see his brother in the Road Camp. During the day, it was busy, two cashiers starting at five, the assistant manager there from 8 AM until 4, and they always made their bank drops when the Assistant came in, not before.

 

By his estimate, based on their watching the place for almost a week, on a Friday after the 8 am drop they took in just under six thousand. The local bank didn't even have a night drop, just one of those ATMs, so the money just sat there until Monday. If they hit Sunday on the graveyard shift, they were looking at a possible ten to fifteen grand! Enough to buy a key of coke, and start making some real money.

 

*****

 

Drago recognized three of the boys. They had been in during his shift off and on for the last month. Each had also been in during the day. He'd watched the films, and noticed that while they spent some money, they were more interested in where the cameras were, how often a customer came by during the graveyard shift, and when the police came by.

 

Actually he could have made that job easier. Told them how many customers came in during a busy night, how often the police came by, everything they needed to know. But he understood meticulous planning. He'd done enough of it himself.

 

It looked like tonight would be the night.

 

*****

Diego came through the door, hand snatching out his sawed off shotgun. "Freeze, mother!"

 

The man behind the counter looked up. He didn't seem surprised, didn't even seem worried by the 12 gauge barrel pointed at him. "Thank you for bringing him. Please wait outside."

 

"Who the-" Diego snarled, then spun as both Tito and Paco turned, and walked back out. This was Paco, man, who'd argue with you if you told him black was white!. He spun back, but the man was gone. A hand came from the side, ripping the gun from his hands. Then he was in the air, suspended by his neck.

 

"Ah, I so love it when they deliver dinner." Peter said. "You are Diego, the leader of the so called Angels of Death. As if you know what such angels really are." He pulled the struggling man closer. "Such as me." Peter smiled.

 

Diego saw the fangs.. 'Madre de dios-"

 

I can never understand why such as you does not even give lip service to your god, yet expect him to help you. Ask him if he really cares for your kind when you see him."

 

 

Helen

The sky was as black as ink, only the glow of the lights streaming north broke the ebony darkness.

 

Helen Dunphy smiled. She liked the metaphors. A pity reporters didn't get to use the more colorful ones. She passed a road sign that read DRAGON PASS 3 and she almost howled in joy. Four years at a piss ant J school, three working on small weekly papers back east, then a letter from James Hammond, owner/editor of the Dragon Pass View. He'd read one of her articles, forwarded by a professor at the college, and he was offering her a job. Not much money yet, mind, but a chance to strut her stuff in the real world.

 

Finally!

 

Off on the opposite side of the highway, a Highway Patrol car was pulled up behind a Chevy Impala. Three young men were kneeling on the tarmac, one patrolman covering them. She slowed, and at the next crossover, turned, coming up behind the patrol car. Pulling past, she climbed out, pulling her camera from it's case. The man guarding the boys was facing his partner at the car, so he didn't notice her until the flash illuminated the trunk of the car. "Hey!"

 

Helen had seen something in the trunk, and fired her flash. Now the image was engraved on her retina in her horror. A body in a long leather jacket, it's head gone except for an oozing mass of flesh at the end of his neck. The cop grabbed her, and she stood, still stunned.

 

"Who the hell do you think you are?" The cop roared. He stopped when he saw the pale horror on her face, then pushed her toward the ditch beside the road. For a moment, she was angry, but then the contents of her stomach came up in a rush. She knelt, mouth tasting of vomit, listening to the commentary from the dispatcher on the loudspeaker. Behind her, she could hear the cops talking.

 

"Crazy bitch."

 

"Well there are all kinds. Forensics and the ME are enroute. Any ID?"

 

"Wallet says Diego Montoya, gives a Stockton address. The others live in the same neighborhood from the look."

 

"Yeah, as if the Chollo-mobile wasn't a dead giveaway. The gun is on the back seat floorboards. Still smoking."

 

"Why do you think they popped him?"

 

"Who knows, who cares."

 

Helen stood, wiping her mouth. Dammit, I'm a reporter. Not some stupid cow in a horror movie! She stood, stumbling a little. She clawed in the coat for a notepad, and her ID.

 

"What's the story officers?" She asked. Her voice shook like she'd been stuck in a freezer, but she was back in operation.

 

The patrolmen looked at her, and the younger one smiled. "Maybe I can get you a rag?"

 

She flushed, wiping her mouth angrily. "First decapitation I've seen." She said gruffly. More like first dead body outside of a funeral home, she wanted to say, but her professionalism refused to allow her the admission. "May I have the story please?"

 

"Just go away."

 

Helen turned, then staggered. "I'm still a little faint, can I sit down until it passes."

 

"Just-"

 

"Hey, O, cut her some slack." The younger cop interrupted him. "I was sick the first time, and I expected it."

 

"Fine, over there." He waved toward the front of the car, far enough away that she wouldn't interfere. "And don't touch a thing!"

 

Helen staggered forward, then sat on the shoulder. Now that they couldn't see her face, she grinned.

 

A station wagon pulled up behind the police car, and a gray haired woman climbed out.

 

"Hello, Doc."

 

"Well O'Neil, haven't seen you in a while. Burton." She pulled on a coat, and stalked forward. "What do you have for me?"

 

"One in the boot, as my wife would say." O'Neil said, hooking his thumb toward the car.

 

"Your wife should learn to talk 'murican." The doctor said. She looked at Helen. "Who'se the chickie?"

 

First a Babe, now a chickie! Helen looked to the heavens. Why don't I get any respect?

 

"Some reporter. Never seen a stiff before from the way she blew chunks."

 

"I know Chunks is your dog, so stop the joke now." The doc walked to the car. "O'Neil, we'll need some light here."

 

The cops stepped forward, and their heavy barreled flashlights lit the small compartment like klieg lights. The doctor leaned down, sliding on a pair of latex gloves.

 

"Odd, I'd say he's laying where he was shot, but there's almost no blood." No other obvious wounds. I'll have to post him to check for lividity. Body feels warm, but it has been over the muffler, so it could have been warmed up postmortem.

 

"I'd say he was shot somewhere else, and stuffed in here except for this. I count five through and throughs, the other four ended up in what might have been left of the head." She waved at the trunk lining and what remained of the head. "You'll probably find them in there somewhere." She pulled off the gloves. "Well I'll declare him dead, pending the post."

 

"Right doc." O'Neil came back with her to the car, and took the form she filled out. The doctor moved to the front of the vehicle standing behind Helen. "Feeling any better?"

 

"Yeah, thanks."

 

"First stiff, right?"

 

"Was I that obvious?"

 

"Not really, O'Neil always trys that 'blew chunks' joke on me. His sense of humor is low." The doctor hunkered down. "First story too, from the look. But you're learning."

 

"Huh?"

 

"You didn't drive away, and you got them to leave you alone to get it. Even if you did have to fake a faint." Helen looked up. The doctor was grinning. "Gotcha. What's your name, kid?"

 

"Dunphy, Helen Dunphy. I'm the new reporter for the View."

 

"And here we thought you were a real reporter. Name's Amanda Widdows. Most people just call me Doc. I'm the closest doctor, and that means they call me for these."

 

"Why did you say that?" Helen asked.

 

"What?"

 

" 'And here we thought you were a real reporter' " Helen repeated.

 

"It's just we've had the View in Dragon Pass for thirty years or so, but no one has ever called it a real paper before."

 

"If it prints news, it's a real paper."

 

An ambulance rolled to a stop, and two men got out. From the other direction, a gray sedan pulled over, and three men got out. Widdows looked at them, then almost sadly at her. "I hate to burst your bubble but the View isn't even in the same league with the average town daily. Remember when we invaded Iraq back in 2002?"

 

"Yeah, of course."

 

"The View's lead story was on the possibility that the drought would totally screw up the next ski season. Sorry, gotta go."

 

She stared after the doctor, stunned. Had she come all this way for another froo-froo sheet?

 

She stood, jotting down her notes. She tended to work freestyle, letting her conscious mind put it down on paper, and her subconscious would filter it. Her stories tended to be insightful due to this. She got into the car, flipped on the dome light, and checked her notes.

 

CHP Officers O'Neil and Burton& four Hispanics, one killed w/shotgun& why little blood? Check blood re: body.

 

Her subconscious had underlined the comments about blood three times. She turned around, and drove on, her mind spinning. The View was a local paper with no sense of real news, eh? Well not any more.

 

She saw a store ahead, and pulled off, shutting down the engine. She had only vague directions for where to go when she got here, and an appointment at 9. First she needed directions, then maybe something to eat and a place to sleep.

 

She paused, looking at the calligraphy sign before entering. Behind the counter was a young man, perhaps mid to late twenties. He looked up, then down.

 

"Shades of Stoker." she murmured.

 

"Pardon?" She hadn't spoken that loud.

 

"The sign." She motioned toward the door. "That phrase is probably what Count Dracula would post if he owned a hotel."

 

He nodded, smiling. "If he sank to trade, perhaps. May I help you?"

 

"I need directions."

 

"I have a special at this time of night on Southwest and Northeast." He motioned languidly toward the road. "Anything else, may be rather difficult."

 

"Very funny." She dug in her pocket, and pulled out the paper she'd written the address on. "How do I get to Mountainview Drive?"

 

"Actually, the road through town is called Mountainview. Outside of town, it is merely called the highway." Again he motioned toward the road. "You are now at #1 Mountainview Drive." He bent, and came up with a map. Unfolding it, he pointed. "Where are you looking for?"

 

"3281."

 

"Ah, the paper office. Straight down the road to the right, about a mile and a half."

 

"Great. Now where can I find something to eat and a hotel?"

 

"A bit trickier. Go down a quarter mile, and there is the Talon House. A rather quaint hotel which also rents by the month if need be. However they do not have food service," he looked at the clock beyond her, "At least not for a couple more hours. However there is a twenty-four hour diner named the Maiden's Pike not far beyond that, within walking distance."

 

"Dragon Pass, Maiden's Pike, Talon House. You people seem to have a thing going with this dragon idea."

 

"A rather droll joke by the original owner of the land grant which holds the town. It was written in the bylaws of the town when it was first settled that any business along the highway had to have a name synonymous with dragon lore. They have had to stretch a bit sometimes, but they have succeeded.

 

"Every business? Even this one?"

 

"Of course!" He looked indignant. "The Dragon's Mouth Store." He waved toward the other end of the road. "Now think of what the first store from the other direction is called."

 

She looked at him. "Dragon's Tail?"

 

"Close." He smiled, his teeth flashing in the lights. "If I may, what are you doing in town?"

 

"I was hired by Mr. Hammond as a reporter."

 

"Home and garden? Society?"

 

"Actually, the one article I know he read was historical."

 

"Ah." The cashier looked about. "This town is steeped in history. Over a century of it. Perhaps that bent can be used by him. But, I see in your eyes, that you want more than that."

 

"I want a name as a police reporter."

 

"Sad, you won't get much of that here."

 

 

 

 

 

Kelly O'Meara

 

The Hoard was a quiet bar. Above the mahogany length of the bar was a picture of a dragon holding a pearl. Kelly O'Meara stepped onto the landing above the bar looking down, and for a second, stood at the rail as if posing. Anyone that looked would see a woman with almond eyes, flowing dark brown hair that came to her waist in a neat braid, and an expression that challenged. Don't approach me unless your that one man in a million. I have no use for the others.

 

She didn't have to ask anyone how she looked, she always looked stunning. Her dress was a deep emerald green ankle length cheongsam with a mandarin collar, full sleeves, and slit up both sides to mid thigh. The legs that flashed as she moved toward the bar were spectacular, and well muscled. She spent three hours a day exercising, everything from free weights to Tai Chi. She wanted to look her best for Peter and, she admitted, for those men that watched her walk past.

 

She knew it was no longer politically correct for a woman to be admired by men for their sex. Her answer to that was that if they whistled, it was applause, if they made passes, it was asking for autographs. Trying to deny the attraction was almost as foolish as celibacy.

 

Without the heels she would have been standing on the hem. The slits, while giving more freedom of movement, were also a problem. In this dress, there was an art to walking. You had to throw your lower body into it, a hip swinging motion that screamed her sex to anyone watching. Any other walk, and the dress would tangle on your legs and heels, to trip you.

 

You had to walk in a manner that said no one else could have worn this dress.

 

She always did.

 

"Hello Kelly. The usual?"

 

"Yes, thank you, Edward." She never used nicknames or diminutives. Unless your name actually was Tom, you would always be Thomas to her. The habit made a lot of people in town nervous when she was mad. Having Kelly decide what you might have done something wrong was like having your mother do it. Her accent was a soft British upper class drawl, the timbre a smooth alto. The kind of voice that can draw a man in like a fish, or drive him away like a whip. Everyone in here had heard her slice someone into bloody gobbets using nothing but that cutting voice. And, some of them shivered, heard her arranging to meet someone afterward with a tone that set hormones running amok.

 

Ed Blanchette (Not even his Mother called him Edward) drew the Black and Tan as Kelly had shown him ten years ago when he'd come to work for her. His brow wrinkled. Ten years, yet she hadn't aged a day. He watched the Newcastle ale run down underneath the Guinness stout, and tilted the glass at just the right time. The two beverages had formed layers. Perfect. Then he set it down.

 

"How did we do tonight, Edward?"

 

"Not bad." He shrugged. "The crowd was pretty good an hour ago. Last call took eighteen minutes to pour."

 

"You didn't run overtime, did you?"

 

"No, Boss." A month after he'd started, he'd run seven minutes past two to pour the last of the drinks. That evening had been memorable. First, Kelly had torn a strip off him up one side and down the other using nothing but that soft tone that was her normal way of dealing with her employees. Afterward& He blushed. He didn't remember everything about that part of the evening, though he had enjoyed himself immensely.

 

"Hey! Why did the bitch get a drink?"

 

Kelly's head turned, her eyes narrowing slightly. The man was tall, large across the shoulders, and built like a defensive lineman. She estimated that he outweighed her by three to one. Kelly absolutely loathed men like this one. She sipped her drink, looking to the barman. He shrugged. She looked to her right, where the man almost hung on the bar. "Perhaps it is because I own the bar. Since he is not selling it to me, and I in essence own it, no law has been broken."

 

For a moment, he stood there, trying to understand the explanation. He was making heavy going at it. "Don't care why you got a drink. Want to know why I can't have one."

 

"You do know that there are laws." She said it as if she doubted he'd gotten that far in the thought processes. "It is illegal to sell alcohol after 2 AM."

 

"I want a drink."

 

"Frankly, I do not care if you want a drink." Kelly turned back to the bar. "You have called a cab for this man, correct, Edward?"

 

"Yes, Ma'am."

 

The man leaned down, and Kelly glared at him as his sour breath blew in her face. "Maybe you and me can get together, huh? For a drink maybe?"

 

"I have no intention of going anywhere with you, or allowing you one drop more, so I suggest you have a seat until the cab arrives, or have your friends drive you home."

 

"What, not good enough for you, bitch?"

 

It was almost like the old westerns. The buzz of talk died at the comment, and every local turned. Kelly took a long sip of her drink, setting it down on the back of the bar. "When did the driver say he would arrive?"

 

"He wasn't-" Outside a horn beeped a pattern. "That's him now."

 

"Oh good." Kelly stood, "Sir, since you have sunk to being abusive, I would like for you to leave my establishment. Good evening."

 

"Yeah?" The huge man looked around. There were maybe a dozen people there. None even half his size. "And who is going to make me?"

 

Kelly stood, smiling. Then she stepped up to him, one hand reaching up to his face, the other dropping to his belt. He grinned, then shuddered as the lower hand locked like a vice below the belt.

 

"I will ask you again politely, sir, to leave. If you will not." He voice dropped so only he could hear here, "If you will not, I can guarantee you have to sit down in the lavatory for the rest of your life." Her hand tightened, and he whimpered. "Do we understand each other?"

 

He nodded, gasping as her hand let him go. But the other hand caught his lip, and he almost screamed as it pinched down hard. "Now come with me." She walked across the room, leading him like a pit bull on a leash. Outside the door an old Dodge Aries K car was parked. The driver saw her coming, and was out like a shot. He opened the door, and Kelly pulled making the man bend forward. As he did, she pushed, and he fell backwards into the car.

 

"Have a pleasant evening sir, and do come again." She bent at the waist, bringing her face down even with his. "If anything happens to my friend Michael, I shall be, vindictive. More so than I have been now. Michael, take him home."

 

"Sure thing Kell." The old black man tossed her a salute.

 

Kelly walked back into the bar, picking up her drink. As she did, there was a flutter of applause. Her usual clientele respected anyone that could ride herd on the drunks with a minimum of violence. That she was only about five two and capable merely made her more respected.

 

"Thank you my friends. Edward, I will walk over and lock the door. My friends, one round on me."

 

The phone rang, and Edward picked it up. "Dragon's Hoard. Yeah, she is, wait a moment. Kelly! It's Pete from the store."

 

She locked the door, then came around the bar. The phone was a little wet from Edward's hand. "Yes, my love?"

 

"How is my pearl of great price?" His tone became serious. "I can hear anger in your voice, Kelly."

 

"I am doing well, Peter. I merely had to deal with a drunken wastrel a moment ago. Shall I wait breakfast for you?"

 

"No, my darling girl." His laughter rubbed her skin through the phone. Like velvet running across your skin when blindfolded. "I had Mexican tonight."

 

"Then I will see you in a couple of hours."

 

"While you need not await a meal for me, I do have, other appetites."

 

"So I am still desirable?"

 

"Stop fishing for compliments, my love. Otherwise I shall place you across my knee, and spank you."

 

"You do know what I enjoy." Her finger fiddled with the cord, winding it as she would have run her fingers through his hair if he had been here. So many years together, and he still caused her pulse to race. "I take that as a promise."

 

"Oh, it is, my love." Again he laughed. She felt a shiver run up her spine. A pity he needs to know the person to have this effect, she thought. He could make a decent living at phone sex.