The Lesser Evil

The Lesser Evil

by

Rhonnel Ferry

I don't know what city this is. But this is definitely not the same city I knew before I went into the slammer. Every thing's so...gray and colorless. Like where the hell's the frickin' sun? It's cold and cloudy all the time. You can't get outta your damn home without wearin' a coat or you'll catch a cold.

This city is sick. And everyone in it is sick. Everybody's shiverin' and coughin' into their gloves. I swear, they packed up the old city and moved it somewhere while I was inside. Then they replaced it with this depressing shit-hole.

Everybody wears coats now. And beanies, and fingerless gloves. Makes everyone look like bums. Oh, wait, that IS a bum. You can't walk a single block without passin' by one of 'em panhandlers these days.

“Sorry,” I tell the old man holding a paper cup in front of me, as I pass him by.

I almost never give to beggars. Someone told me once that it's all just a scam, or that they use the money for drugs. I don't know. But I, at least, don't pretend they're not there. It's impolite. Don't know if courtesy matters to them or not. Probably not. Courtesy don't feed their bellies.

“Hey!” This street punk jumps out of an alley, holding a switchblade in front o' me. “Gimme your damn wallet!” he says.

“Are you nuts?” I tell him. “You wanna mug someone, you choose a guy that's twice your size? I can break your spine with one hand. Get outta my goddamn way.”

I start to walk past him, but I keep watch of his movements in the corner of my eye. Then he thrusts the knife at me! I catch his wrist, twist it upward, and squeeze. He starts squealing and frantically raining hammerblows on my forearm with his other fist.

I barely feel it. I apply more pressure and he drops the knife. It clangs on the sidewalk. Then the little prick kicks me in the nuts. It stings a little. But pisses me off a lot. I hate low blows. Probably because of my boxing background. So I bitch-slap him. He yelps and falls on one knee. I bitch-slap him again.

“Ow! Stop!” he pleads.

“You gonna fight like a bitch, I'm gonna treat you like a bitch.”

I raise my hand to smack him again. He glances at the knife at my feet.

“What, you wanna go for it?” I dare him. “Go on. Go for it!” I grab hold of one of his fingers. “Guess what happens next?”

“No no no! Don't, man! Please!”

He changes his mind about the knife. I release his finger.

“Tell you what,” I say. “I'm gonna give you something I never got my whole damn life. I'm gonna give you a second chance.”

He nods repeatedly, close to tears. I let him go.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you,” he says, then bends down to reach for the switchblade.

I put my foot on the weapon.

“Uh-uh.” I shake my finger at his face. “That's mine, now.”

He nods his head, warily backs away, then scuttles into the darkness.

#

“The kid tried to rob you?!” Ed asks me in disbelief, as he pours us a couple of drinks. “With a knife?! What is he, an idiot? You're like ten feet tall!”

He exaggerates. We're in his office. Ed is one of my closest friends. We're like brothers, him and me. He's a little fatter now, and he's lost a lot o' hair up top, but he's still in really good shape for someone in his forties.

“Can you believe it?” I reply, accepting the glass from him. “What the hell happened to this city?”

“Ah, there's a new breed of criminal out there,” he answers, angrily waving his hand in the air like he swatted at an invisible fly. “They're not like us. We dressed better. Put up crooked businesses. Paid off cops. We was respectable crooks, you know. We had class. Gentleman criminals, you know?”

“The lesser evil.”

“Yea, that's it! That's what we are. The lesser evil! But these street assholes?! These punks are animals. They go after the good working class folk. Muggings, kidnappings, rape, torture,... And they do it all for fun, too. It's different from when we was in charge, I'll tell you that.”

“Who's in charge now?”

“Nobody is. It's chaos out there! We had the firepower, but they had the numbers. Started losin' turf war after turf war after turf war... Boy, we really coulda' used you then. More than once, several of the ol' guys said that. Man, if only Rourke was here.”

“I been busy.”

“Yea, don't I know it.” He chugs his whiskey.

“Where'd they all come from?”

“The dregs of society, my friend.”

I suddenly remember the hobo I didn't give money to. Maybe tomorrow, he'll be the guy stickin' a knife in my face.

Ed takes another sip. “Rourke, you know I love talkin' about the good ol' days, but I have a feeling that's not why you dropped by.”

I take a sip myself, and try to hide my embarrassment. “I'm lookin' for a job,” I admit sheepishly.

“Whaddaya need a job for? You need money? Just ask.” He opens a desk drawer to fish out some cash. “You did time for us. You kept your mouth shut even when they leaned on you. And I heard they leaned on you pretty hard in there. All the families owe you. I owe you. Hell, none of us would be where we are today if not for you. You're set for life, my friend. You never have to work another day.”

“I don't need money, Ed. It's not the money. Ever since I got out, all I been doin' is goin' to bars, strip clubs, and whorehouses all day. I need to be doin' somethin' else with my time, you know.”

“Bars, strip clubs, and whorehouses all day. Now, that's the life.” He laughs. “What, you wanna be my heavy again?”

“Nah. Somethin' legit. Like a bouncer or a security guard or something.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “You wanna be a bouncer in one o' my clubs? That 'aint right. You're gonna be workin' for one o' my guys. They should be workin' for you! Look, come work with me again. It'll be just like the ol' days. God knows, I could use somebody watchin' my back. Somebody I trust.”

“Nah,” I repeat, shaking my head. “I don't wanna go back to prison no more.”

There's a look on his face. Can't tell if it's guilt or disappointment or both.

“Alright,” he concedes. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Ed.” I finish my drink, put the glass down, get off the chair, and shake his hand.

He starts to walk me to the door, then stops suddenly.

“Oh, before I forget,” he says, going back to his desk. “Here, take this.” He hands me a shiny, big-ass handgun. “That's a double/single action large-caliber revolver. Uses .500 magnum cartridges. It's a freakin' cannon. You could kill a rhinoceros with that. Use that on the next asshole that tries to mug ya'.”

I feel the gun's weight on my hand.

“It's beautiful,” I tell him. “I can't accept this.”

“Come on. I'd feel better knowin' you had it.”

“A simple semi-automatic woulda' done. This is magnificent.”

“Forget about it,” he answers. Then he becomes somber. “I'd never let you go back inside, brother,” he tells me. “I'd rather die than have you spend one more day in prison.”

#

I walk back, and it's even darker and colder than it was before. Could you believe it? Didn't think it was possible.

Then I see some guy lying on his side on the sidewalk. At first I thought it was some drunk homeless person. Then I realize it's that same kid that tried to stick me up earlier. Face is all bruised. A black eye. Lip is puffy. Someone had really done a number on him.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

I take my phone out and dial 911. I tell the operator someone needs an ambulance, and I give her my location. But then she starts askin' me a bunch o' other stuff, like my name and the nature of the accident.

“Yea yea yea. I'll tell the paramedics all that crap when they get here,” I tell her, then hang up.

I hear the kid groan.

“Look at that, you're still alive,” I tell 'em. I lean back against a brick wall, and light a cigarette to keep warm. “Who did that to ya'?”

“You did.”

“Hah! If I beat you up, you'd be dead. Believe me.”

“I mean it's because of you. You wouldn't just gimme your damn wallet.”

“Oh, that was some kind of gang initiation for ya', huh? Then when you screwed up, your friends decided to rough you up some.” I take a long drag on my cigarette. “My friends would never do that to me. They'd just gimme cement shoes, and throw me down the drink.”

He turns his head to look at me with his good eye. “You with the Mafia?” he asks.

“Was,” I answer.

“Then you know. You know you can't survive these streets without joinin' a gang.”

“I also know the inside of a penitentiary.”

“Jeez, spare me the sermon.” He forces himself to his feet.

“Hey, where you goin'? I called an ambulance.”

“Who's gonna pay my hospital bills? You?”

He turns around and starts walking away.

“Hey, kid!” I call after him. “Hey, what's your name?”

He hesitates, but answers, “Trevor.”

“Trevor. I'm Rourke.”

He nods, then limps away.

If that kid doesn't wise up soon, he's gonna end up just like me.

#

I buy a couple o' beers, some junk food, and go to my one-room apartment. I live alone. Don't even have a dog. That's actually not a bad idea. Should get me a dog. I set the grocery bag down, shrug the long coat off, and toss it on the only chair in the room. I uncap a beer bottle, take a sip, sit down on the edge of the bed, and use the remote to switch on the TV.

Normally, I love the animal channels. Especially their shows about predators. But tonight I find myself not paying much attention to it. It's that kind of night. The what if night. We all have 'em. Like what if I decided to rat out Ed and the others all those years ago. Then I wouldn't have spent the best years of my life behind bars.

Then I woulda' married Marisa. Sweet Marisa with the beautiful eyes, and the long, dark, flowing hair. Used to visit me twice every month while I was in the can. She waited as long as she could. Then she just couldn't wait no more. Last I heard she married some stiff. I never even bothered to contact her when I got out. What woulda' been the point? Already ruined her life once.

Then that arrogant part of my brain takes hold of me. Or maybe it's the beer. And I tell myself that if I hadn't gone to jail, I woulda' been able to save this city! Stop it from turning into the dreary cesspool it's become. And kids like Trevor would be Olympic athletes instead of muggers. And that old hobo I met would be a successful stockbroker!

Probably not. But it doesn't hurt to fantasize. Hell, if your life is shit, fantasy is all you got.

#

I check my phone for messages when I get up the next morning. Ed hasn't gotten back to me about that job. No big deal. It's only been one day, right? He's a busy guy. Got a criminal empire to run. I'm sure he'll get around to me eventually. I'll call him back about it after a week.

So where do I go first today, huh? The bar, the strip club, or the whorehouse? Kinda' feel like a drink, but it's a little early.

Screw it. Like they say, it's 5 o'clock somewhere.

#

I put my coat back on, leave my room, and walk down the stairs. I exit the building through the front door, and I've got a little surprise waiting for me.

Across the street are a bunch of hoodlums starin' right at me. Guys and dames wearin' oversized shirts, sagging pants, sunglasses, and bandannas. A lot of 'em are carryin' baseball bats, too. But that don't bother me none. Jail guards beat me up with batons on a near daily basis when I was doin' time. Gonna take a lot more than some a-holes with wooden clubs to faze me.

I rub my hands together, breathe on them, and then stuff them into my coat pockets. I'm really not that cold. Just don't wanna make it obvious that I'm reaching for my gun.

Their leader, and you can tell because he's the guy in the center wearin' the most bling, is some smug, lanky schmuck with dreadlocks and a goatee. Nah, he don't faze me none either.

What does bother me, is the kid standing right next to 'em.

“That him?” the leader asks.

“Yea, Scythe. That's him,” Trevor confirms.

“Aw, Trevor,” I mumble dejectedly, shaking my head.

Scythe signals two of his people, a man and a woman, with a cock of his head. The two punks start crossin' the street toward me, evil grins on their faces, baseball bats casually swinging in the air.

“You didn't kill my boy here,” Scythe shouts at me. “So we're gonna do you a solid, and beat you only half to death! How about that?!”

“I wont be extending the same courtesy!” I shout back, then draw the revolver.

I shoot the closest thug. Ed wasn't kidding about the power of this weapon! I basically obliterate the punk! His legs get swept up into the air! Like this gun's loaded with cannonballs or something!

I admire the gruesome display for half a second, then swing the weapon, and do the exact same thing to his girlfriend next to 'em!

“I thought you said he wasn't armed!” Scythe yells at Trevor.

“He wasn't!” Trevor yells back in panic.

I see one of the hoods reach for a pistol in his waistband. I shoot his entire arm off him!

The others manage to draw their heaters, and return fire. I'm a big, easy target, but they're not even aiming. They're more concerned with finding cover or running away. They're bullets fruitlessly hit the wall and windows behind me. I shoot them all, one after another, in the back!

Scythe raises his hands up in the air.

“Whoa whoa! Chill, man! Just chill!” he shouts at me, as I cross the street, walking over the bloody, dismembered corpses of his posse. “Let's talk about this!”

I raise the revolver to his face, and squeeze the trigger. His head explodes into the brick wall behind him.

Then I start looking for survivors. That kid whose arm I excised is crawling on the ground, reaching for his pistol with his one good hand. I shoot him in the back of the head.

Then I hear somebody whimper, and I swing the revolver towards the sound!

“Don't-!” Trevor yells.

He's lying on the sidewalk, bleeding through a gaping wound in his stomach. In the heat of battle, I didn't even realize that I had shot him. I lower the revolver.

“I'm sorry, Rourke,” he gasps. “It was the only way they'd take me back. Please don't kill me.”

I crouch next to him, and say, “I'm sorry, too. But you had your second chance.”

He coughs out blood. “I messed up, didn't I?”

“Join the club.”

He laughs a little, and I laugh with him.

#

I call an ambulance, and talk to Trevor to keep him awake. But I knew the kid was a goner. Eventually his eyelids flutter, then close forever.

I'm sitting on the front steps of my apartment building, twiddling with Trevor's switchblade, when they put his body on a gurney, and covered him with a sheet.

The cops show up soon after. Sergeant Stewart Colombo is in charge, an aging, balding, overweight man with a thick mustache. He's in Ed's pocket, so I know he wont give me any grief. He'll keep my name out of all the reports, too.

“You alright, big guy?” he asks me. “Maybe the paramedics should take a look at you.”

“I'm alright, Stu. Thanks,” I assure him.

Later that night, after they've all left, and I'm still pointlessly fiddling with the switchblade. Finally, I put the knife back in my coat pocket, and get off my butt.

“The bar, the strip club, or the whorehouse?” I ask myself out loud before walking back into the cold, gloomy night.

END