The Lesson by D.W. Davis
The Lesson by D.W. Davis
I went to Kalil’s to get some smokes and a pint. It’s a block from my apartment, cheap, and he doesn’t judge. Kalil is a man of the opinion that people have their vices, so best they get them from him. At least they’re legal vices. Except for the minors he’s known to sell to, but again, a little lawbreaking is better than a lot of lawbreaking. At least in my experience.
I had my items on the counter, cash in hand, when the door chimed. Kalil looked up. His normally emotionless face flashed briefly with anger before returning to its neutral state. He glanced back at me.
Chicago, that time of night, this neighborhood, I knew what that look meant. So I wasn’t a damn bit surprised when I heard a voice say, “Hands up, motherfuckers.”
Kalil’s eyes met mine. He seemed resigned, but dignified, the way people in this neighborhood have to be. This wasn’t his first time.
I set the cash on the counter and raised my hands. Saw a man in a bargain bin ski mask walk behind the counter. Felt a second man shove a gun in my back. Small revolver, snub-nose. Too close. Amateurs. But I kept my hands up.
“You packin’, old man?” the other man asked, his voice laced with a Cuban accent.
Kalil—who wasn’t old, maybe forty at most—said nothing but kept his hands raised. The man peered under the counter. “Yeah, you are. You reach for it, you’re dead.”
“How ‘bout you?” the second man asked me. Now that was a Chicago accent, born and bred. Like a goat learning to talk.
I wasn’t armed and said as much.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure.”
The first man said, “Open the register.”
Kalil obeyed. The Cuban pulled out a cloth tote bag he’d somehow managed to stuff in his back pocket, and tossed the cash—change included, for Christ’s sake—into it. Kalil watched impassively.
“How ‘bout you?” the other guy asked me. “Your wallet, man.”
“Don’t have it.”
“Bullshit.”
I nodded at the counter. “That’s all I’ve got on me.”
“Motherfucker, that can’t be.”
“This neighborhood? Yeah, that’s all I’ve got on me.”
“Turn around.”
I turned. He was smaller than me. Baggy hoodie and jeans, with a ski mask, like his partner. Blue eyes peered up at me. They sparkled with greed and maybe speed. He said, “No, that ain’t all.”
I followed his gaze. The watch on my wrist sparkled in the fluorescent lights of the shop. Shiny objects attracted simple minds.
“Give it,” he said.
“Come on.”
“The watch, man.” He gestured with the gun. Again, too close. “Give it or else.”
I glanced over at Kalil. Both he and the Cuban were watching me. So I shrugged and slipped the watch off my wrist and handed it over. The guy took it and put it in his pocket.
“Anything else, man?”
“That and the cash. I’d be obliged if you left the booze and smokes.”
They took the booze and smokes.
Kalil called the cops as soon as they were gone. I said nothing. Just waited until a squad car showed up, two officers younger than me. All nonchalant. Kalil had to produce a license for the gun—a revolver, probably a .38, nothing fancy. I told them about the cash. They left. All routine. They didn’t give a shit. Probably felt inconvenienced coming all the way out here. Don’t run a fucking shop in this neighborhood at this time of night, they were thinking. Which wasn’t a bad thought, per se, until you realized people had to make a living.
When they were gone, Kalil said, “You did not mention your watch, Simon.”
I shrugged. “It’s worthless.”
“It looked expensive.”
“Forty bucks at a pawn shop. They can have it.”
Kamil let me take another pack of smokes, knowing I’d pay him back later. He offered some booze but I deferred. Walked outside and lit up. Stood puffing on it for a second, thinking I should give up the habit. I beat the thought into bloody submission as usual, then pulled out my phone and logged into the app.
Little gold light blinking up at me. The cops had slowed me down; nothing new there. The assholes were ten blocks away. Stationary, at least. I took off in their direction, moving at a steady pace but not running. Avoid undue attention. My eyes darted from my phone to the sidewalk to the intersections. Another hour, perhaps, and my presence on the street would be suspect if sober. I should be done by then. Could always stop somewhere for a drink. Camouflage. Also, I’d already been in the mood for a goddamn drink.
The dot never moved. I reached the address. An apartment building even worse than mine. I tapped a button on the app and got a 3D representation, rather vague but good enough. Third floor. I gauged the entryway. I could probably force the door open—places like this had shitty doors and shittier landlords—but I decided to play it safe. I pressed a button for the first floor. No response. Pressed another. No response.
On my fifth try, someone finally answered.
“Wuh?” they slurred.
“Loss muh keys,” I slurred.
Some grumbling. Then the door clicked.
I went in. The smell was not good. Something dead or dying in the walls. Probably lots of somethings, furry little bastards with hair and tails. Thought maybe I should call the fire marshal after I was done; an act of public service. For the greater good of the losers and dopers who lived there.
There was an elevator, and one look told me if it wasn’t out of order yet, it would be by the time I reached the third floor, so I took the stairs. As I did, I reached into my right boot and pulled out the collapsible police baton I kept hidden there. I palmed it, just in case I met anyone who was in a sober enough state to ask me about it. But of course I didn’t meet any such people, just one young couple passed out on the second floor landing. Couldn’t even make it to their apartment to shoot up, by the looks of it.
The third floor was as dimly lit as the stairwell. I followed the app until I reached the likeliest door. Tracker wasn’t the most accurate thing in the world; there was a chance I was about to burst into the wrong shitty apartment. This didn’t stop me; it was just a thought I had, because I had to have it.
I flicked the baton to its full extension. It locked into place. Better than a sap, I’d found. More intimidating, too. Brass knuckles might’ve been the most intimidating—and I’d used them before—but I liked a little distance if necessary. Plus the knuckles took too long to put on. And they were heavy. And, technically, illegal, though so was this.
I kicked the door in. Didn’t bother to see if it was locked, didn’t bother to test its strength. These amateurs weren’t about to reinforce this place. The door flew inward and I took in the apartment with a quick glance. Kitchen to the left. A living room to the right. Pizza boxes and fast-food wrappers everywhere; a roach’s Riviera. A card table in the center of the room, almost straight ahead. Three doors beyond that, presumably two bedrooms and a bathroom, but it didn’t matter because the assholes were sitting at the table, half out of it already. I noticed my mostly-empty bottle between them.
They were stoned and they moved like it. Guy on the left, the Cuban, turned to me first. He was lanky but muscular, with his hair greased back, mostly clean-shaven. Would’ve pulled off the Latin Lover look if not for the missing teeth. Young. Early twenties at best.
His partner turned second, a dumbfounded expression on his face. Maybe a couple years younger. Short, shaggy beard. Blond hair bleached even blonder. He was shirtless, and I could see his ribs like a zombified xylophone. He was scrawny. I could’ve sneezed and knocked him over.
I moved on Mr. Suave first, as he was reaching behind him for something. Brought out the baton and whacked him across the arm. Hard. Something cracked. He grimaced, and I put a left hook into his kidney, then spun and brought the baton across the right half of his face. Skin split. He went down onto the table, knocking over the remnants of my whiskey, then slid to the floor. He didn’t get up.
Blondie was just staring at me. There was a gun beside him, same one, but he was either too scared or high to go for it.
“Stand up,” I said.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” I agreed. “Now stand the fuck up.”
He did.
I took the baton to his left knee. Not too hard, just hard enough to drop him. He gasped and went down. I stood over him.
“Just take it,” he said.
“Take what?”
“The…” He moaned. “The watch, man. Take your fucking watch! It’s yours! Take it! I’m sorry!”
“You think I’m here for the watch?”
He looked up at me. “It’s a Rolex, man.”
“It’s a fake. It’s a fake fake. You try to hock that, the buyer would probably put a bullet in you out of disgust and mercy.”
“Then…” His mind struggled to form words and thoughts. He glanced at his partner. “Then why?”
“Two things.” I collapsed the baton and knelt in front of him. “One: the tracking device inside the watch is very expensive. I’d hate to lose it.”
“T-tracking device?”
“Two: we need to have a discourse.”
He blinked and shook his head. “A…”
“Discourse. I know you sound like a walrus swallowed a tuba, but you do speak English, yes?”
I picked up the watch and turned it over. The fake gold plating—like I’d said, a fake fake—glinted even in the dim bare bulbs hanging above the table. “You know why I wear this?”
“To tell time?”
“I have an iPhone, you twit. Who wears a watch to tell time anymore?”
“Then…” He just looked at me.
“I wear it for people like you.”
“Me?”
I nodded and put the watch back on the table. “People like you. Who see a shiny object and just have to have it. Can’t let other people have nice things. You need them so you can shoot shit into your arms, or smoke it, or put it up your ass for all I know. You crave nice things other people have. Watches, jewelry. Money.” I looked at the table. “Jesus. Not even that much of it. Kalil isn’t a wealthy man, for fuck’s sake. But you still have to have it. So I wear the watch.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe. But that’s not the point. The point is, I put a tracking device in that watch, then I wear it around at night, and every now and then, a piece of shit like you and your friend over there comes along and wants it. I give it to them if they’ll let me. If they prefer to take it, well, that ends that. But if they’ll let me give it to them, I give it to them.” I smiled at him. “Then I track them down and teach them a lesson.”
Blondie looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Please don’t kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you. You’re a wad of snot someone hocked onto the sidewalk. You’re not worth a murder rap.”
“Then…lesson?”
“Yes. A lesson. What is it?”
He stared at me blankly, so I put a fist into his right kidney. He choked back a scream. Barely.
“What is it?”
“I don’t…I don’t…”
Left kidney. This time, he did scream.
“The lesson, Blondie.”
“Don’t…oh fuck…Jesus…don’t steal from you, man! Don’t fucking steal from you!”
“No.” Right kidney again.
His eyes rolled up. Looked like he was going to pass out. I’d pulled the blow a bit so I doubted it, but I watched him for a few seconds until his eyes cleared. Now he actually was crying.
“What is the lesson, Blondie?”
“Don’t…don’t…” He turned to his side and threw up. Mostly my whiskey. He spat and said, “Don’t steal.”
“From whom?”
“From y…” He stopped himself, holding up a hand to ward me off. “From anyone, man! Don’t fucking steal from anyone!”
I nodded. “Good. Don’t fucking steal from anyone. That’s the lesson.”
Left kidney.
He vomited again. Or tried. Tears fell in fat, thick drops down his cheeks.
“Why, man? I got it right! I got it right!”
“To make sure the lesson sticks.”
He was sobbing by now. I could only imagine the pain he was in. This was not a man used to taking blows. Probably not used to giving them, either, at least not to anyone capable of fighting back.
I slapped him lightly across the face, to get his attention. “Don’t steal,” I told him. “You need money to kill yourself with, you flip burgers. You suck cock behind a dumpster. You go on welfare. You do not steal.” I leaned forward, fighting the urge to flinch at the smell. “Because it’s wrong, Blondie. It’s the wrong thing to do. But also…” I grinned. “I’m not the only one who pulls this racket.”
He stared at me like I was the second coming of fucking Christ.
“So remember, Blondie. Don’t steal. Because you’ll never know who you’re stealing from until it’s too late.”
I stared into his eyes until I saw the understanding take hold. Then I put him out of his misery with a blow to the solar plexus. Took the last of his breath away. He collapsed in his own vomit. He’d be pain free for a couple hours, at least.
I stood and grabbed my watch. I wasn’t tempted to take Kalil’s money. Or return it, either. He chose to run his shop where he did. He knew the risks.
I glanced at Blondie, then over at Mr. Suave, who still hadn’t stirred. Then I slipped the watch over my wrist and walked out of the apartment and out of their lives forever, if they knew what was good for them. The first lesson was always free. The second would cost them.
* * * * THE END * * *
Copyright D.W. Davis 2023
