The Perfect Hit

Metal scraped as the door latch slid carefully into place. The brass knob at the end of the chain latch whizzed into place as the links swung carelessly back and forth. Dead bolt was turned. Another lock and yet another latch clicked the door shut. And for good measure, Dan Mockridge pushed the sofa in front of the door. There was only one window facing the open street and he avoided it at all costs, ducking beneath it to get to the tall dresser besides it. He pushed it, crawling on his hands and knees, so it covered the view of his apartment from outside.

Mr. Mockridge is a tall man and very lean. His legs are like springs which have grown slack over the years. Hair fell from his head as lifeless and wiry as his bony fingers. His nose is his most prominent feature and it’s no surprise as to why since, before the incident, he had grown accustomed to pointing it upwards at others. It’s unsure where this habit developed though theories are divided into two schools of thought. Physics would demand that the sheer size of the nasal protrusion he calls a nose that his head should be tilted back. But the more likely reason is that he had moved to Park Row via some high horse and had grown accustomed to the habit. This was an unadvisable personality trait to maintain in the neighborhood that he lived in.

When witnessing a robbery in progress he did not hesitate to call the cops and give the exact whereabouts of the perpetrator in question not to mention take full credit for the arrest in the local news. One might ask, “If Dan’s neighborhood is a haven for career criminals, why didn’t the alleged offender make any effort to conceal their identity?” The area that politicians and realtors currently call Park Row is a region of the city where the governing power does not wear a badge. A steady helping of fear keeps its inhabitants in line. Should any foolish person overstep those bounds, said person would immediately be made an example of.

Three hours after the arrest, a threatening note slid stealthily underneath the door of his dilapidated apartment that simply read, “Retribution’s a bitch!” At first, Mr. Mockridge paid no attention to it. In fact, he was quite impressed that the context and spelling of “Retribution” were both correct. When he walked down the street to the corner grocery store, he was met with hard looks and whispers by his neighbors. The farther he travelled from home the more threatening the stares and less inhibited the people were about brandishing their otherwise concealed weapons. Even a small boy looked at him and motioned to cut his throat. He barely reached the corner before he was drenched in sweat and turned around to run back to his one bedroom apartment.

With the windows and doors all boarded up, Dan cowered in the shadows scurrying across the floor as close to the ground as possible to get from room to room. His heart would forget to beat at the sound of a creaking floor. Footsteps outside in the hall sent shivers rippling up and down his spine. God help him should a car outside backfire. A rat scuttled within the walls, scratching the wood with its tiny paws, its fur rubbing against the interior drywall. The lack of good insulation just caused the ruckus to echo throughout the apartment. The rodent made a single sudden move that sent Mockridge leaping into the air and clinging to the light fixture. Perhaps the rat sensed one of its own in the vicinity. He hesitantly touched ground and slinked towards the phone.

“Yes, police?” his breath shuttered between his chattering teeth. “Someone is going to kill me. I just gave you a hardened criminal and now my life is in danger! Please, send someone right away!”

A truck rumbled past his apartment building and shook the structure to its foundations. Mockridge prayed that it was an earthquake come to kill him before some thug did the job. “If I am going to die before my time, I’d rather die a gentleman’s death rather than that at the hands of a common street hoodlum.” Even in the face of death he found a way to turn his nose up at the residents of Park Row. A heavy rapping at the door wasn’t enough to entice Dan to come out from underneath the bed.

“Who is it?” he yelled at the door standing proudly behind the sofa.

“Police, Mr. Mockridge!” the voice answered, “My name’s Officer Frank Boles. You called for us?”

“Yes,” Mockridge scrambled to his feet. “Can you get me out of this wretched town safely?”

“Yes, sir but we’re going to have to bring you in to the station to file some paper work.”

“That’s fine. I can stand to sign a few papers if you just get me out of this poor excuse for a neighborhood.” He shoved the sofa away and, one by one, clicked all the locks and safety latches open. The door squeaked as swung open to reveal two large men in dark blue uniforms standing impatiently looking into the apartment.

“This is my partner,” Boles introduced, “Officer Michael Wuertz.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Mockridge answered as he gathered himself and walked out of the apartment. “My, my; that was quite a quick response.”

“We happened to be in the neighborhood when we got the call,” Boles explained.

“How fortunate for me,” Mockridge commented, “And how unfortunate for you. Why would anybody want to be in this area? It’s absolutely dreadful.”

“Frank and I grew up here,” Wuertz’s grumbled with venom in his voice, “So If I was you, I’d best lay off the gutter talk until we get to the station.”

“’If I were you,’ Officer Wuertz,” Mockridge corrected. “Growing up in this awful place is no excuse for atrocious grammar.”

“What was that?” Wuertz nearly lunged at Mockridge. Boles held him back.

“Mr. Mockridge, we’re here to help you,” Boles attempted to quell the situation, “But you’re going to have to cooperate and do everything we tell you to do. With an attitude like that you’re an easy target. I know it’s a rough neighborhood but if you go around talking like that to everyone it’s no wonder you’ve become the perfect hit.”

“The perfect hit?” Mockridge asked.

“The boy you pinched was somebody’s younger brother,” Wuertz explained. “You put him in jail and until they fix to get him out, they put a bounty on your head. They want to make an example out of you. This neighborhood won’t stand for rats, not even hoity-toity ones like you.”

All three men walked out into the street. Mockridge made sure he was always within the shadow of Officer Boles and within grunting distance of Officer Wuertz. The cops walked with their broad shoulders up and above the cowering brow of Dan Mockridge. Wuertz approached the squad car and opened the door for Mockridge who slid into the rear seat nervously. Boles sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared quietly.

“Do you mind if we make a quick stop before we get to the station?” Boles asked Mockridge. “If it’s any consolation, it’s not in Park Row.”

“Very well,” Mockridge answered looking cautiously out the rear window.

They drove to an empty lot shrouded in the shadows of skyscrapers that have long been abandoned by the people that once inhabited it. Once, the great edifices stood proudly in the sunlight as symbols of the economic powerhouse that was once the city’s reputation. Now, they crumble in the shadows of larger buildings; its concrete exterior seemed to cry with rust.

“Will we be long?” Mockridge asked.

“Not at all,” Boles answered.

“By the way,” Mockridge asked, “What was the name of the tyke, that scoundrel that I locked up? I hope they give him several years.”

“After what he did, he may get 3 to 5,” Wuertz answered.

“Splendid!” Mockridge answered. “And what was his name?”

“His name is Joseph,” Wuertz responded.

“Joseph. Did he have a last name?” Mockridge demanded to know for some reason.

“His name,” Officer Boles replied, “Was Joseph Francis Boles.”

As soon as the name leapt from Officer Boles’ lips, Mockridge turned in shock and saw not two officers or the dilapidated high rise around them. All he saw were the barrels of two 9mm handguns staring him right in the face. He didn’t hear anything after the brilliant white flash exploded a pink cloud where is head used to be. It smelled of gunpowder and bitter rust. Black red bits and fat gray chunks of brain matter created a collage against the rear window sprinkled with fractures of skull. After that day, the air in Park Row was much clearer especially without the nose of Dan Mockridge taking up all that space anymore.