The Evidence
Carney Pinks’ decision to venture to
the liquor store was immediate after awakening from a long nap after drinking
several beers and shots. He rewound the movie to the part he last remembered.
He promised himself today, celebrating his 73rd birthday, that he
would finish his favorite film noir upon his return. He unplugged his electric
walker, his newest toy that could easily carry his small one-hundred sixty-pound
frame, slipped his .380 in his pocket and out the door he went.
The traffic down this section of
State Street was minimal even during the morning and evening rush hours.
Speeding was the norm since this part ran along side of the Dan Ryan
Expressway. The light at 91st was blinking and the CCTV cables
dangled as usual. Did the cameras ever work? Half the people did not stop and
kept going after a slight pause. Carney chose not to engage the walker’s motors
until he reached the viaduct a half a block north. The sunset left a beautiful
strip of reddish-orange light on the horizon that activated the street lights for
to see the uneven levels of the sidewalk. A couple of cars full of young people
zoomed by. He remembered those days of recklessness behind the wheel until
something goes wrong. He stopped. Did he really need more to drink? No…but he
stepped on the pedals, turned on the motor and headed into the viaduct. The
stench of the urine-stained concrete wrapped pillars burned his nose especially
with the humidity. A steady even pace was necessary rolling over all the broken
glass and other debris. He did not want to tumble and end up on his face. He
stopped and turned around. Nobody behind him. Good. The lights began to
flicker, no surprise all of them needed replacing. Two vehicles were at the 91st
light revving their engines. An upcoming drag race? Nothing new. He proceeded
and heard burning rubber. Here they come, but the cars stopped next to him.
“Carney Pinks!” A female shouted.
Carney stopped, spun and instantly
reached in his pocket for his weapon. He couldn’t see who was behind the tinted
glass windows. Shots rang out from the vehicle next to it. Glass shattered in
the closet vehicle; bullets whizzed past his face. Carney fell on his stomach
returning fire and scooting fast as possible behind a pillar. He peeked out at
the vehicle on the other side and he returned fire. A bullet exploded on the
side of the pillar and concrete chips hit him in the face. Dozens more shots
came from both vehicles. The noise was deafening. He crawled fast, his forearms
and knees scrapped against broken glass. He pointed his weapon at the target
and fired. He hit somebody in the closest vehicle to him. The vehicle opposite
sped away. Carney tried to get to his feet, but slipped on something and fell
on his face and hit something. A rat…a dead rat! His heart raced. He shot to
his feet and pulled the trigger. It jammed. Shit! He heard screams of agony and
pain, but he couldn’t see any of the occupants. He ducked back behind the
pillar. He frantically wiped his face and arms…snatched up his walker. Hurry!
The cops will be here in a second. He hit the button; he was out in the open.
See any cameras? Not yet, but there had to be. There was an AT&T warehouse
on the next block and a canopy over the bus stop on the corner. If there was CCTV,
could it see in the viaduct? His heart pounded; his chest hurt like hell. No
heart attack. Please God, no heart attack! Stop at the bus stop; he brushed off
the seat with the back of his hand, sat and caught his breath. Gather your
thoughts. What just happened, why was somebody shooting at him? He still had
his pistol. Was he crazy? The damn thing jammed. His ears still rung from the
gun shots and the scrape on his arm stung. He felt the blood start to trickle
down. He spun the walker around to get to the bag. He dabbed the wound, that
hopefully from what he saw, wouldn’t require stitches. He shoved the dirty
tissues in his pocket. No DNA left behind to incriminate him. He wiped his face
and mouth. Jesus…he could still smell that rat. His stomach turned and his
mouth watered. Don’t puke. He saw flashing blue lights and sirens across the
expressway on the street going south. They would turn at 91st
street, cross over and be here in less than a minute. Move now! That burst of
speed from the walker felt good. He was seconds from ducking into a walkway
between two houses.
He
made it. Thank God.
Should
he continue to the back and go down the alley or go back on the street as if
nothing happened? Whatever… get from between these houses. That’s right, this
alley is a dead end. He went back on the street and looked toward the viaduct,
flashing blue lights and ambulances all over the place.
Carney Pinks killed somebody or
bodies. Why did he leave the house, he didn’t have to, the alcoholic in him
made him do it? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. An old handicapped man on the
street at this hour. You got what you deserved, they’d say. To hell with them.
Why can’t he walk down the street like everyone else? He could, that’s why he
had a conceal/carry permit and a pistol.
The
gun! He forgot. Get rid of it.
But
where? No garbage around, not the sewer. It had to be broken down. It was
registered to him. It cannot ever be found. He didn’t know about this kind of
shit. He was not a criminal, but he would figure out something.
*
The Galaxy Liquor parking lot was
full as usual. The LED lighting was usually bright with CCTV covering every
square inch of the place. They used to deliver to seniors and shut-ins but the
minimum got to be ridiculous and too dangerous for the drivers. Things changed
over the decades even for this middle-class neighborhood. The ramped sidewalk
was in disrepair; he dismounted the walker and pushed it up the incline when
someone called him.
“Mr. Carney, Carney.” He turned and
a young lady come between a couple of parked cars. “It’s Karen, you do remember
me, right?”
“Oh, of course,” His neighbor from a
couple of doors down the block. She dressed provocatively in tight pants and
blouse, as usual.
“Surprised to you out this late in
the evening, you need a ride home, that’ll save you some time instead of being
on that thing?” He nodded. “I’ll be right out.”
All those curves did not make him
forget his situation. He still had that damn gun. “Yeah, I’d appreciate it.” He
went to open the door. “I got it.”
She stepped in front. “I got it, why
don’t you wait in the car. I’ll get what you need. It’s not that much, is it?”
“No. A six pack of Miller’s and four
little shots of rum.” They moved out the way for an exiting couple; he gave her
a twenty.
Karen pressed her alarm key, it
flashed. “Put your walker in that black Charger’s trunk. I’ll be right out.”
The thing about his walker it was awkward
and it had a little weight to it and by the time he got it in the trunk she
returned. “This thing isn’t fitting right.”
“That’s okay, I got an elastic chord
to keep it shut. We’ll be home in a minute.” They got in and pulled off.
“Here’s your change.”
“Keep it, I appreciate the ride.”
They crossed over the expressway. Carney’s heart pounded the closer they got to
91st Street. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“You looked rattled, like you been
in a fight, Mr. Carney, you, okay?”
No, hell no, I killed somebody…
probably. Rattled is an understatement. “I took a tumble on that damn walker
and I’m drunk celebrating my seventy-third birthday.” He half lied.
“Okay,
well, Happy Birthday.” A couple of police SUVs zoomed by, lights flashing. “The
young fools shot up people under the via-duct on State Street. I had to around
the long way to get to the store.” Bright lights closed in on them.
“What
the hell…” Carney turned around, sirens blaring and blinding dome lights hurt
his eyes. His heart damn near jumped out his chest. “Shit, what do they want?”
“Pull
over!” A raspy male voice commanded. She complied.
Karen
put the car in park and reached for the sun visor to get her ID. The lights
were giving Carney a headache. The lights went out and the cops zoomed back
into traffic and gone. He sighed deeply. “What was that? Do they stop you
often? Never mind, never mind.”
“Assholes…probably
got another call. Thank God. I’m clean, but still. Sorry, Mister Carney, you
know how they do.”
“You
right. I was young and back in the day they stopped us all the time for driving
fast cars and whatever else.” They passed over the bridge and saw the via-duct
packed with cop and emergency vehicles. When they pulled up to his house, he
took a deep breath and exhaled. Made it.
*
He
waved at Karen, folded his walker and shut the door. He could not get to the
kitchen table fast enough. He emptied his pockets and placed the .380 on the
table. Take it apart now or later after taking a shower? Later. He felt dirty,
too dirty. You are home…safe. Don’t rush, take your time. Think logically,
remember you killed somebody. He put the beer in the fridge and headed for the
bathroom. He washed the scraped arm like the retired nurse-practitioner he was,
with speed and precision. He leaned against the shower wall and let the water
run down him for a long while. He prayed. Would it help? Who knows. Remember
Carney Pinks, the scripture: faith without works is dead. Get out the shower
and get busy with the evidence to a crime, even though it was self-defense. He
tossed the empty cans on the table in the trash and replaced them with the new
six pack and a shot glass. He popped a top, poured a shot of rum, sat and hit
the remote. It might be on the news by now. What to do first? He picked up the
pistol. “You jammed on me, you piece of crap, I coulda got killed.” He pulled
the slide and the bullet popped out. At first, he didn’t pay it any attention.
He sat it down and took a gulp of beer, burped and drank a shot of rum. The
bullet rolled under the plate with a half-eaten roast beef sandwich. He took a
bite and picked up the bullet. He knew he was drunk, when you leave a gun and
ammo on the table. Damn Carney, you could’ve at least covered it. Alcohol and
guns don’t mix. He disassembled the gun and wiped it clean especially the
bullets, which he always did. Never leave prints on the inner parts of a
weapon, especially an automatic, even if it’s legit. He looked closer at the
bullet. It was a blank.
A
blank! He pulled out the clip. Of course, it came from this gun, where else,
genius?
Halleluiah!
He shot a blank at that car. He didn’t kill anyone. He grabbed his chest. His
heart raced.
Calm
down. Think, think.
He
kept two .380s; one to carry, the other with blanks in case the grandkids found
it. They could find anything, no matter where you hid it. Crazy, but it made
sense at the time. That was years ago. Damn, the only answer, you drank too
much and picked up the wrong gun, you idiot. But thank God for that. It also
meant for the longest you been carrying a gun with blanks. He was confused. Did they call your name? Who
was it, if they did? Nobody was out to get you, old man Carney, that made no
sense. Maybe they wanted to give you a ride? Whoever called his name was dead.
Obviously, they meant him no harm. He would find out later who it was on the
news. He poured another shot and took a deep breath and sighed. What a night.
Eric Burbridge
Eric
Burbridge has been writing short fiction for years. He is the author of two
short story collections; Consolidated Separates and Consolidated Separates Too.
He is working on a novel.