A Short Story

CHAPTER 1

Rosewood Park was cursed.

It started sixteen days ago, or at least, that was when word initially began to spread.

Roland Druthers, already late for his daughter’s piano recital, took the I-87 on-ramp, and kicked his brand-new Lexus LS into high gear. A traveling white eighteen-wheeler merged into the passing lane, then casually returned to the right lane. Roland considered waving to the driver, then didn’t.     

The clock on the dashboard read 7:08pm.

According to his wife, the recital had already begun. His daughter, Stephanie, was scheduled to play a rendition of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata mixed with Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy somewhere between 7:23pm and 7:30pm. The school was still five miles out. Exit 102, followed by another two and a half miles of local traffic. If he coasted—at 71 mph—he’d get there by 7:31pm. He checked his rearview mirrors, then pressed the pedal.

The Lexus LS roared, and steadily ticked up to 84 mph.

He ventured into the left lane, passed three vehicles including a distracted police cruiser, then returned to the right lane just before mile marker 98.6.

The time was now 7:13pm.

Close, but still way behind.

He loosened his grip on the wheel when his headlights sprayed the green Exit 102 sign. He took it, slowed to a stop behind a gray SUV minivan, and checked the dashboard again. “Almost there…” he mumbled, gritting his teeth and flipping on his left blinker.

When the stoplight turned, he followed the van into the right lane, mimicked its speed, then roared back into the passing lane.    

A loud hiss followed. Roland glanced back at the minivan he had just passed, expecting to see it fall back. It was gaining. He stepped on the gas, but it maintained 47mph. The gray van passed with ease, overtook the left lane, then disappeared beyond the crest of the next hill.

Cursing the cosmos, Roland took his foot off the gas and felt the backend of the Lexus drop. He pulled off on the side of the road, said “alright, alright” aggressively at the trail of cars that passed him as if this had been wished into reality by them collectively. He flipped the bird to the last passing car, took the tiny black flashlight from the glove compartment, and stepped out into the crisp, autumn air.

The back right tire was flat.

He started to text Holly, but she had probably turned her phone off. She was always one to do that at a live performance, a sentiment hammered into habit after years of complying with the no-cell-phone rule at movie theaters.

He called Jake’s Auto Shop three miles up the road. It was closed technically but rarely went dark before nine. He had been giving them his business for two decades and usually got through on the third ring.

“Hello?” Jake’s voice asked, two rings later.

“Hey Jake, it’s Roland Druthers, sorry to call you so late.” He checked his watch. 7:18 pm.

“That’s alright, you’re not the first.”

Roland ignored the second half of Jake’s answer. “I’m on the side of the road. LaSalle, north end, just left the interstate. The back right tire is flat. Must’ve run over something along the way.”

Jake breathed hard into the receiver. “Where’d you say?”

“On LaSalle, on the north side of the road just after the interstate.”

“You put the spare on?”

“No, I wasn’t hoping I wouldn’t have to. I’d prefer to just buy from you.”

There was another hesitation, followed by a long verbalized “ahh, can you describe it?”

“It’s flat, Jake.” Roland said, losing his patience. “Completely deflated.” 

“Is it punctured?”

“I don’t know. I’d assume so.”

“Thread or sidewall?”

“I don’t know what that means, Jake, I’m sorry, but why are you asking that?”

Jake’s voice paused. “You’re not the first call we’ve received tonight, Roland.”

“We?”

“The crew’s working late tonight on account of all the new business.” Jake looked around the auto shop lobby, which had tripled in desperation since 4, then leaned into the landline. “Hang tight, Roland. I’ll send Rusty to come get you.” He hung up the phone, threw his eldest daughter at the front desk an exhausted grin, then slid open the window that peered into the garage. “Got another one.”

Rusty Bingham, twenty-eight, straddled the shop back door, finishing a cigarette. He pulled his greasy baseball cap forward, then caught eyes with the boss. “This night…” he trailed off, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, took a final drag, then flicked the butt to the gravel. “Where is it?”

“It’s on LaSalle, right by the interstate.”

Rusty nodded, then went to the bulletin board. He took the truck keys, filled his thermos with water, then went to the lobby. The usual suspects were there like scenes from his favorite film. Seven faces, seven vehicles, seven different stories.

There was Hal “Big Red” Duvall, with his faded cherry red 1978 Ford Bronco. Rusty found pine needles in the grille last week, and a rock jammed in his undercarriage. Janet Broward, a month back, saw her premiums skyrocket after her oldest nephew backed her white 2016 Toyota Camry into a brick wall. Martin Greaves sat in the corner, his lanky limbs crossed. According to the Yelp review, his gray 1993 Buick Le Sabre drove beautifully after the transmission was replaced last May. Remy Olson, nineteen, doom-scrolled on a stool by the door. Her Tesla 3 had had a software glitch that got the collision sensors to shriek even when clear on all sides. Gregory Delgado read a paperback in the corner. His 2010 navy blue Honda Civic came in monthly. A busted bumper, jacked alignment, dead battery. Melanie McNeil’s ’03 yellow Jeep Wrangler blew a gasket last month and she left an extra fifty out of sheer gratitude. Harold Morris was number seven. The brakes of his 1984 Chevy Monte Carlo had been replaced twice in the last eighteen months, no idea why, but Rusty had his theories.

Rusty gave a final glance at the lobby, then headed out, tow truck keys jingling in his pocket.       

CHAPTER 2

Ralph Decker sat cross-legged under the faded marquee of the old hotel, which now resembled a sleek, multi-business corporate building. Its former grandeur was now masked by mirrored windows and signs for a variety of new startups; coding camps, early-development facilities and co-working offices. After 4pm, a high-class bar and bistro became accessible.

His dog, Sheppard, lay curled beside him, his eyes bright with unwavering loyalty. Next to his water bowl was a cardboard sign scrawled with neat, articulate letters.

WANNA HEAR A DAD JOKE? $2

An upside-down hat rested next to it, speckled with coins and crumpled bills. Unlike the others he had seen on the streets, Ralph wasn’t begging for change or favors, wasn’t addicted or broken, just unlucky. Catching his wife of six years with her ‘work husband’ was just the beginning. The divorce drained him of everything else…except his humor and, thankfully, his loyal companion, Sheppard.

Ralph watched the steady stream of well-dressed men and women hurrying past, eyes locked on their phones or the horizon. He figured most of it was unintentional, but then again, there was no way of knowing. He didn’t reach for them or demand attention, like those on the sidewalks nor did he offer drumsticks like the Rodriguez twins did opposite of Mick’s Malt Shop.

Instead, he told Sheppard stories, and smiled at the public, those brave enough to trade glances.

A man in a three-piece suit slowed his stride, then watched everyone else continue toward the crosswalk. His polished dress shoes clicked like a musician keeping beat, gleaming like a new car under the fading afternoon sun after a fresh paint job. The man read the cardboard sign, then causally stepped toward Ralph.

Sheppard noticed him first.

His curious nose took in the well-dressed man’s scent, then returned to Ralph’s knee.

The man took a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket and tossed them into the hat. “I’d love to hear a good dad joke,” his said, his voice smooth but commanding.

Ralph straightened a bit, keeping his hand on Sheppard’s paw. He studied the man, then took in a long breath, nodding. “Why do people in Greece hate waking up at dawn?” The man stuffed both hands into his pocket, then tilted his head at the sky. “Because Dawn is tough of grease.”

The well-dressed man smirked when it made sense. “Nice, I haven’t heard that one.”

“Good, then you’ll love this bonus joke,” Ralph said, “You hear about that myth on the news?”

“No?”

“It was busted.”

The man chuckled, then tossed him two more dollars. “Thanks for being honest.”

Ralph was grateful for the cash, but was confused by his compliment. “What do you mean?”

“The last guy with your sign gave me a note with ‘you’ve just been robbed’. It was a joke, technically, but not what I expected.” The man showed the back of his hand to Sheppard, then gave him a nice friendly head rub. “I’ve a confession to make. I’ve been…watching you.”

“Creepy,” Ralph said, then laughed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” He sat down beside Ralph, cross-legged, then offered his hand. “Julian.”

Ralph took it. “Ralph.”

Julian pointed at the opposite corner of the intersection, a sun-induced slab of concrete with a thin black fence that bordered an apartment complex. “You usually set up shop there, yes?”

Ralph nodded, then gestured to the marquee they sat under. “The shade is better for Sheppard.”

“So,” Julian continued, “I’ll cut to it. I think I might have something for you.”

Ralph raised an eyebrow.

Julian pointed at the lane beyond their feet. A one-way street headed north with angled parking spots on the eastern side that ended at a stop sign and a tiny corner store. To the left was a side ramp that led into the newly renovated Hotel Lorimer. “How often would you say someone goes the wrong way down that road?”

“All the time.”

“Really?”

“At least twice. Daily.”

After a silent moment, Julian slapped Ralph’s knee, then stood up. “Let’s go.”

Sheppard rose first, and Ralph gripped the leash. “Where?”

Julian smiled, then offered his hand to Ralph.

CHAPTER 3

The seventh floor opened to the smell of roasted meats and fresh bread. Ralph left the elevator, and followed Julian into a sleek, upscale bistro he’d only heard about. The Top Shelf. Open after 4, elegant dining, business casual. The head chef, cloaked in white, chatting with a black vested barkeep, saw Sheppard, then went to recite their strict no-animal policy. Julian waved him away, then gestured Ralph to a table with a view. He took a menu from the hostess podium, then set it on the table.

Ralph handed the menu back. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” Julian said, handing it back. “And get something for Sheppard.”

Ralph nodded graciously. “Thank you.” The waitstaff took his order, then returned ten minutes later with a thick deli sandwich, a side of steak fries, and a plate of cooked chicken. Ralph put a palm on Sheppard’s head, closed his eyes for a moment, then set the chicken on the floor. Sheppard waited for his master’s cue, then didn’t hold back, his tail wagging happily. When they were finished, Julian gestured to the elevator.

Once inside, Julian pressed and held down 7 and S. The numbers blinked in unison four times, and the chrome wall behind them opened. Julian spun around, led them down a bright hallway and later to a large conference room marked Security. There stood a wall of monitors, twenty in all, live feeds of the neighboring area. The street, the roof, the sidewalk, the hotel, both parking lots, and most notably, the intersections of Ridgeway and Fountain. Julian tapped the feed with the one-way road between the marquee and the new hotel. “Fountain Street was designed specifically for parking and deliveries,” he explained, zooming in on the row of parked cars. “Twelve spots. Two for handicapped, two for visitors. Here’s the problem: as you confirmed, too many ignore the one-way sign and plow on through like a raceway—in the wrong direction. It’s chaos.”

“Right,” Ralph nodded, his curiosity increasing.

Julian took a seat in front of the keyboard. He tapped a few keys and the live feed switched to 8:15 am earlier that day. A blue car zipped through, halting a pedestrian at the curb, then swerved dangerously close to a delivery guy pushing crates of alcohol to the entrance ramp.

“I remember that.” Ralph nodded. “The blue car guy lost himself for a moment, screamed at the delivery guy.” The video confirmed that a moment later.  

Julian grimaced. “One wrong move is all it takes. Slamming a delivery guy, t-boning a car as it pulls out, taking out a pedestrian…and it all gets clogged. The system requires safe access to that side entrance. I can’t pay my staff if the street’s blocked and I can’t pay my corporate guys if deliveries get delayed.” Julian let his fingers do the talking, toggling with the camera coverage. “Here’s where you come in, if you’re open. I’ve got blind spots. Seven in all. Sit in any of them, panhandle, read, do whatever. The cameras won’t catch you. But when you see someone go the wrong way on that street, I want you to shoot one tire.”

Ralph did a double take. “Shoot one tire?”

Julian went to a tall metal filing cabinet behind Ralph, pulled the top drawer and took out a tiny, sleek, nerf-looking object. Ralph saw the barrel first, then the trigger. An altered tranquilizer gun. Elegant, black, with a fancy ergonomic grip and a detachable magazine. Julian released the mag, then showed the top round. A pill-sized blue bullet fitted with a sharp arrow tip. “Armor-piercing? No. Puncture a tire? Absolutely. Just make sure to tag the tread. Not the side. Hitting the tread will make it look like they ran over it in the street. If done right, the tire will deflate slowly, and then…pop goes the weasel.” Julian shoved the magazine back in, then gave Ralph the gun. “Small enough to go undetected, but large enough to bypass a simple patch job.” 

Ralph weighed the gun in his hand, felt the smooth, professional design. His stomach sunk as he imagined himself using it in broad daylight as pedestrians walked by. His concerns were distracted by a tiny round button on the grip. He pressed it with his thumb, aiming at the ceiling.

“That laser pointer should help with aim, and don’t worry,” Julian continued, “I’ll make sure you get a percentage of the tire sales.”

Ralph’s eyebrows rose. “A percentage?”

Julian nodded. “Fire-King supplies eighty percent of the shops in town, and since I own thirty percent, I get a kickback. For every tire you tag, I get a cut, and in turn, you get a cut.”

Ralph liked the sound of that but was still…unsure. “What about the cops?”

“Seven percent, how does that sound?” Julian asked, then did a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, that wasn’t your question, was it?”

“No,” Ralph answered, then forgot his original question. “How much did you say?”

“Seven percent. Good tires range between $85 and $150. Seven percent of that can be between $6 and $10 each tire, depending on the car.”

Ralph felt the proposition sink in, and the question from earlier arose. “What about the cops? What if I get caught, what will I say to them?”

Julian smiled warmly, then took his phone from his jacket pocket. He pulled up his contacts, then tapped JERRY. He put it on ‘speaker,’ set the phone by the keyboard, and leaned forward to give Sheppard a healthy scratch behind the ear.

As the phone rang, Ralph noticed an old lady in the feed, standing in his spot, staring directly at him. He felt a sudden shift. Not anxiety, not fear, but rather an eerie knowing. The only other time he had felt this was years ago, in college, high on a synthetic strand that made him think a classmate could read his thoughts.

That same terror gripped him now. Only this time, the woman didn’t look away.

“Officer Madison,” the voice on the other end said after the third ring.

“Jerry!” Julian exclaimed like they were brothers. “Tell me the good news.”

“It’s been a breezy morning, not much action. What can I do for you, Julian?”

“Just a question. Got a recruit interview later today, and a thought came to me…what I should tell him if he questions the legality of our little karmic weapon?”

“Tell him the truth.”

“Which is?”

“It’s technically property damage, but we see the value in it, so…it’s all good.”

Julian gave Ralph an approving glare. “Right, but let’s imagine he was right here with me, in the room, what would you tell him?”

There was a loud exhale over the phone. “I’d tell him, uh, the boys in blue would rather see tires deflate than clean up an accident. It’s already congested as it is…so he’s doing us a favor.”

“Thank you, Jerry,” Julian smiled, winked at Ralph, then ended the call. “Feel better?”

“Much.”

“Good,” Julian nodded, “but like with any gig, there are rules.”

“Sure.” Ralph resituated in his seat, then looked for the old lady in the feed. She was gone.

“Number one: we don’t know each other. I don’t mean that in a ‘you’re below me’ sense, not at all. You’re my guy, we just gotta keep a low profile around the normies. I’ll toss you change, maybe a note, but that’s it. Number two: only tag cars breaking the one-way rule. Stick to that, and we’re golden.”

“How many rounds are in a magazine?”

“Seventeen.”

“How do I get more? When I run out. Do I get ahold of you? Or what?”

Julian held Ralph’s gaze, unexpecting this eagerness. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Julian paused, letting the still moment echo between them. “Am I making a mistake?”

“I’m sorry?” Ralph asked, tilting his head. “Are you making a mistake?”

Julian nodded. “Letting you see all this? The way I see it…I was raised on a farm, and to keep that little patch of land thriving, we had to maintain it. Pull the weeds, clip the dead, keep everything flowing toward those with life, you know?”

“Of course,” Ralph replied, making sure his interest was obvious.

Julian pointed at the ‘North Fountain’ monitor. “That lane is my garden. And it can only thrive if the weeds stay trimmed. You’re pruning chaos to keep the order. All it takes is one guy, one jackass, to derail the entire system, that’s why I need you in my corner. So…I need to know for my own peace, can I trust you with this opportunity?”

Ralph looked at Sheppard, peacefully resting beside him, then smiled. “I’m just happy to be here. These last five months have been rough, so you’ll get no qualms from me. Plus, I like the idea of enacting a little justice.”

“That’s not the point, though. You’re not an avenger, you’re a gardener.”

“Right,” Ralph nodded, “It’s pruning, not justice.”

Julian let out a soft sigh, then clapped Ralph’s shoulder. “Good man.” He returned to the metal filing cabinet, retrieved a laminated badge with a blue strap, and handed it over. “This will give you access to everything. Swipe the door sensor, take the elevator to the 7^th floor, and do it alone—always alone—then hold down 7 and S. S means security. By itself, nothing happens, but with 7, the backend should slide open.”

Ralph nodded. “Cool.”

Julian held the moment, then went on. “The bullets will start dissolving once it punctures the rubber. If they check their tires too early, they’ll find a chunk of metal lodged in the tread, nothing more. No one will ever trace it back to us.”

Ralph studied the gun in his hand. “What would you call this? A nerf-nail gun?”

Julian recalled the incident in 2015, downtown Kansas City, when a homeless man limped off a busy crosswalk with a bloody ankle, and how the girl responsible trashed the weapon in a trash can before vanishing into the seedier sides of town. “No. That is art.”

Ralph thought about it for a moment. “I’m in.”

“Great!”

Ralph raised a finger. “Don’t get me wrong, the tire commission is nice, but I could use a little security.”

Julian tilted his head, intrigued. “You want an hourly wage?”

“If you were me, wouldn’t you? I’m not looking to drain you, just something to keep morale up if no one bites…like a retainer.”

Julian smirked. “Six an hour?”

“Fourteen.”

“Ten an hour and ten percent.”

“Deal.” Ralph slipped the gun in his pocket, and rose to his feet.

Julian bid Sheppard adieu, then gave Ralph a firm handshake. “One bullet. One tire. One car. If you start tagging both tires or waving the gun around like a rap video, I’ll report that and the badge stolen, then deny ever knowing you.”

Ralph, calm as a cucumber, smiled. “You got it, boss,” then ventured back to the elevator. He looked down at Sheppard as the door invited them inside. “Wanna restore some order?”

Julian watched the duo disappear into the elevator, then shut the door. He went to the wall of monitors and activated a pair of cameras that only he knew existed. Ralph led Sheppard to the concrete corner facing the intersection of Ridgeway and Fountain and got comfortable. Julian pressed Record, then darkened the monitor to its screensaver.

A moment later, his phone rang. It was Jerry Madison. “Did he buy it?”

THE END