Ready Aim Fire

Ready

The padlock dangled crooked from the hasp like a broken body once it finished swinging from the gallows. The back door hung open a crack. Dorrie and Chunk’s sneakers crunched in the parking lot gravel.

“I told you they open Lucky’s at six am,” Chunk whispered.

“Who’s gonna drink at six in the morning.” Dorrie shook her head.

“Nobody.” Chunk grinned. “Only one in there is Eight Ball.” His dimple showed when his smile spread wider. “And he’s sleepy.”

“If we’re gonna do it,” Dorrie touched the gun in her pocket for luck. “We gotta get to work.” Cars were starting to back up for the on ramp to the freeway. The pink sky over the foothills already washed out to bleach blue.

“You still want to, right?”

“We fucking need the money.” Dorrie hitched the backpack up on her shoulders. “We need a room. I ain’t washed my hair in a week.” She shoved her lank hair behind her ears.

“It’s easy money.” Chunk glanced over his shoulder at his van sitting alone at the edge of the empty parking lot. He hitched up his pants so not so much of his boxers showed.

“Let’s do it.” Dorrie closed her eyes for an instant.

Chunk pulled the door open. They stepped into the bar. Colorless carpet muffled their steps. A ray of morning light seeped through the beer-vomit fumes that lingered like smoke in the bar. A brick wedged the front door open.

Dorrie stepped behind the bar. The hair on her neck prickled. She was as alert as an alley cat wound tight to spring at any sign of motion.

“No one’s here,” Chunk whispered. He grabbed two bottles of liquor.

Dorrie unzipped her backpack. “Hurry up. It fucking stinks in here.” She crinkled her nose. “I’m gonna puke.” The bottles rattled against each other in Chunk’s shaking hands. He stuffed them inside and grabbed two more.

Dorrie held the bag open. “Get good ones. We get more for those.”
Chunk grabbed two more and wedged them in the bag.

“The good ones moron. On the back shelf.”

Chunk reached up to grab bottles from the top shelf. His elbow knocked a tray. A layer of glasses smashed to the floor.

“Shit.” Chunk looked with horror at the broken glass.

Dorrie jumped and spun around. The bottles in her backpack clanked against each other.

With a squeal like breaks sliding into a crash, the front door swung shut.

“Oh shit!” A bottle slid through Chunk’s fingers and smashed to the floor. “Nitro.”

A grizzled bear of a man blocked the doorway. Rage contorted his scarred face. He brandished a brick. “What the fuck you doing?” He charged.

“Run,” Dorrie yelled as she bolted for the back door.

Chunk ran after her, his breath ragged and close to her ear. She slammed through the door. Her shoes flung up bits of parking lot gravel as she ran to the van.

Whomp, crunch. Bodies fell to the ground. Chunk howled.

Dorrie spun around.

Nitro sat on Chunk’s chest. “You gonna steal from me mother fucker.” He smashed the brick into the side of Chunk’s head. Blood splattered across the gravel. Chunk scream sounded wet and bubbly.

“No,” She yelled. She pulled the gun from her pocket.

Chunk looked like a little boy under the hairy tattooed man. Nitro smashed the brick into Chunk’s face. Blood splattered. Bones crunched. Chunk fell limp.

“You killed my brother over a bottle of liquor,” Dorrie screamed.

“You gonna shoot me?” Nitro jumped up and lunged.

Dorrie dropped the gun and ran as fast as she’d ever run.

“Ain’t even a real fucking gun.” Nitro’s laughter reached her as she slid around a corner and dove behind a dumpster. “God damned toy gun,” he yelled.

Aim

Freneaux propped a gossip magazine on the ledge of his pot belly. He glanced over the display case with the crack in the top and looked out the front window. The same skinny girl passed by the window again. He dropped his feet to the floor and ground out his cigarette.

She walked past the door and disappeared down the street. Moments later she was back. The bell tinkled as Dorrie opened the door.

The string tied to the door knob pulled tight. The tension opened a cabinet door. A board with a target tacked to it fell. It landed on a lever. The lever threw a basket of rubber balls in the air.

Dorrie stood in the doorway. She blinked.

Red rubber balls bounced making little zing noises each time they hit the concrete floor.

Freneaux tossed his magazine aside and stepped out from behind the counter. “The balls to hit the  god-damned switch,” he muttered as he examined his contraption. “Not working, balls to hit the switch.” He flipped the switch.

A red dot appeared on Dorrie’s chest. She looked down at it for a moment then stepped out of its path.

“How it is supposed to works.” Freneaux laughed.

“Yeah alright.” Dorrie faked a smile.

“No gun for girls.” Freneaux sized her up.”‘I not help you.”

Dorrie sneered. “Don’t matter that I’m a girl – in America.”

Freneaux studied her. “Oh.” He scowled. “What kind of gun?”

Dorrie stepped up to the case with the crack and studied the guns hanging on the wall behind it.

“What kind of gun?” He repeated louder.

Dorrie frowned. Her eyes roamed from one to the other of the guns on the wall.

Freneaux sighed. “What are you want to shot?”

Dorrie looked up at him with a blank expression on her face.

“What you are want to shot?” he repeated enunciating each word.

Dorrie blinked.

“To shot! To shot!” Freneaux bushy eyebrows danced up and down. He took a rifle down from the wall and aimed it at Dorrie’s feet.

Dorrie jumped back.

“You want to shot the duck?” he asked resting the gun on his shoulder.

She squinted at him.

Freneaux flapped his arms. “Quaaak. The duck”

“No. I don’t want to shoot a duck.”

He screwed his face into an angry knot. “What are you want to shot?”

“I want to shoot … ” Dorrie glanced at the handguns in the case.

Freneaux smiled a smug knowing smile. “Immigrant. You are want to shot the immigrant?”

“Immigrants, no I don’t want to shoot immigrants.”

“Not shot the duck. Not shot the immigrant. For you, girl, no gun.” Freneaux turned his back on Dorrie and picked up his magazine.

“Look.” Dorrie slapped her hand on the counter. “I have money. I need a gun.” Her lip trembled. “I want that one.”

Freneaux grinned as he removed the gun from the case and put it on the counter. “It big one. Like the cop they use for shoot the immigrant.”

“I’m not shooting fucking immigrants.” Tears welled up in Dorrie’s eyes. She swiped them away. She picked up the gun. It looked huge and dangerous in her hand. “It’s for the son of a bitch that killed my brother.”

“You are talk like prostitute.” Freneaux made his eyebrows wiggle up and down. “Maybe gun is for shoot … how you say … Peemp?”

“Shut up. I told you what it’s for,” Dorrie scowled. ” Just let me pay so I can go.”

“You are know how to shooting?”

She looked at the enormous, deadly, weapon in her hand. Dorrie blinked.

“I am show you, okay,” Freneaux said as he ogled her.

Fire

Dorrie’s shoes crunched in the gravel as she paced back and forth by the light of the street lamp. Cars filled the parking lot and spilled over onto the street. A row of choppers as orderly as soldiers stretched the length of the building.

“I can do it. I can do it,” Dorrie muttered the incantation to herself. The wail of a southern rock guitar slid over the bikes and the cars and reached her all the way at the edge of the lot. Hot wind rattled leaves and shook dust out of the trees.

She practiced a quick draw like Freneaux had shown her and nearly dropped the gun.

“Shit.” She tried again.

A Santa Ana gust lifted her hair and brought tears to her eyes. The light from the street lamp wavered.

“Dorrie,” a voice, carried on the wind, whispered.
Dorrie’s head snapped around. “Who’s that?” She cocked her head. She listened.

The wind shook the leaves. Branches rattled like bones.

“Dorrie.” The wind voice called out her name.

“Who’s there?” She raised her gun.

Boots crunched in the gravel. Dorrie froze with her gun drawn. She held her breath. The street light crackled. The light flickered.

Dorrie squinted into the darkness of the parking lot beyond the circle of the street light.
A shadowy figure took one step after another toward her. Boots crunched in the gravel.

“I will shoot you, mother fucker.” Dorrie breathed. Her hands trembled She gripped the gun tight.

The faceless figure plodded methodically toward her. He grew larger with each step.
Dorrie’s heart beat in her ears. She squinted but still couldn’t see a face. “Nitro,” She called out. The wind howled through the trees. The shadow advanced on her. “If it ain’t Nitro tell me now.”

“Not worth it, Dorrie,” the voice on the wind said in her ear.

“Stop if you ain’t Nitro,” Dorrie yelled.

Electricity sizzled through the wires. The street light flared and flashed. Still she couldn’t see a face.

The shadow lunged for her.

She cried out and squeezed the trigger again and again.

In flashes of light, Chunk’s cloudy eyed face rushed her. “Dorrie,” the voice on the wind wailed.   Dorrie gasped. Chunk for an instant stood near her with his nose nearly touching her own. She screamed. She dropped the gun.

Chunk dissipated. Bits of him floated away like dust on gusts of wind.

Dorrie found herself face to face with a cop. The officer bent over and picked up her gun. “You have a license for this?”

The cop had a dimple in the same exact spot as Chunk. Dorrie opened her mouth to speak. No words came out. She nodded.

The officer wore a tiny hint of a smile.

“Chunk?” Dorrie whispered.

For a second, Dorrie thought the cop winked just like Chunk used to do. But maybe it was the flickering light. “I should take you in. Can’t fire a gun in the city,” he said.

Red lights flashed in the rustling tree tops. A big bear of a man stepped through the back door of the bar. He glanced over his shoulder at the police as he threw his leg over his bike and roared away.

Dorrie blinked once, twice. She nodded.

The officer frowned. “What are you shooting at anyway. Out here by yourself?”

Dorrie looked into the man’s eyes. He had eyes the same brown as Chunk. But maybe it wasn’t him after all.

“A rat,” she said at last.

The officer narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Dorrie’s gaze didn’t waver.

“All right.” He pulled a pad out. “I’m going to give you a citation. But don’t let me see you ever again.”

Dorrie nodded. “My gun.” She looked at the weapon in his hand. “For the rat.”

“Afraid not.” The officer shook his head. “Get yourself some poison.”

Dorrie blinked.