The Evidence
By
Eric Burbridge
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 closest 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 scraped 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 rang 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 came 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 was dressed
provocatively in tight pants and blouse, as usual.
“Surprised
to see 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 cord 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 go 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 viaduct 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 you 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 blanks 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.
The
End
Eric
Burbridge has been writing short fiction for years. He is the author of the
collection of stories, "Consolidated Separates and Consolidated Separates
Too." He is currently finishing a novel.
