2 – The Lighting Of The Fire. (FIREWOOD)

The car swerved away from the avenue and into the motel’s driveway. As it cruised along the parking lots, the occasional streetlights on the curbs and neon signs shined on the gravel road in front and lit up the surroundings. The moon lazily floated in the sky’s black mass, doing little to illuminate.

As the car went on, it came across a group of three cars, parked consecutively beside each other, right in front of the motel’s doorway. A white Cadillac was lined up perfectly in between a metal black Chevy Malibu and dark red Corvette — all stood under streetlights, shining flawlessly.

The car, a light blue Ford GT, went ahead parked perfectly behind the Cadillac, in between the three preceding lots. The car powered down, the lights turned off and the exhaust gave off a whiff of dark grey smoke. 

The door clicked open and a man, with broad shoulders and a tall stature, came out of the car. His brown leather jacket and blonde, spiky hair twinkled under the streetlights’ glow. Holding a cigarette in his mouth, he walked to the front of the Cadillac and bent down to examine its number plate.

Standing straight, he surveyed the surroundings to check for any human presence. After scanning the place with his squinted eyes, he retreated to his car, opened the door, bent in and opened the glove box.

In the glove box lay a metallic grey pistol, sandwiched between two yellow, hardcover files. He cleared the files and picked up the gun, still bent inside the car, and withdrew its magazine. After seeing that it was full, he placed it on the dashboard, and went back into the glove box to retrieve the files.

He stood straight again and started flipping through the files. The data was of a person, like that of a police briefing. He flipped past all the pages — name, age, occupation, address, family and even associates and foes. But he finally stopped at the “commute” page, where models of cars and their numbers were listed. 

He looked at the rear of the Cadillac, which had the logo and rear number plate, looked back into the file, and snapped it close. Throwing it into the car, he closed the door and started walking away towards the side. As he walked, he got out a lighter from his back pocket and lit up the tip of his cigarette. Smoking white fumes of tobacco, he went to the motel’s grocery store, which had a brighter radiation than the motel itself.

Outside the store was a telephone block, hammered into the wall beside the sliding entrance door. He picked the phone off the resting hook, and slid a coin into the top slit. Standing on the walkway of the store, he held the phone close to his ear in one hand and the smouldering cigarette in the other.

“Hello”, said a deep voice from the other end.

“I’ve checked the files. It’s him”, said the man in his young male, perfectly toned voice.

“Are you sure”, asked the voice.

“You haven’t sent an amateur on the job. So yes, I am sure”, said the man in a sarcastic tone.

“Well, that’s good. Now, I know you’re no amateur, but make sure you don’t leave any traces”, said the voice in a calm state.

“I’m no contract killer — you’ve got a policeman of the state doing the job for you and I know how my comrades think. So I suggest you leave it to me and do whatever business you’re up to”, said the man trying to be commanding.

“This attitude of yours would’ve gotten your blood on my hands long ago, if not for Boss. Haven’t the slightest clue why he holds you in such high regard”, said the voice in a slightly threatening and serious tone.

“Yeah we’ll see about that. I’ll call you once the job is done”, said the man in a dismissive tone and hooked the phone back on the receiver.

The man walked back to the car, with a look of annoyance on his face, and sat inside. He switched off the interior lights, took off his watch and placed it in front of the steering wheel to make sure it was visible.

After half an hour passed, the motel’s door opened, and a chubby, middle – aged man, with little no hair and multiple scars on his face, began limping towards the parking lot in a dark grey suit. Behind him followed two hunks of men, dressed in a much more darker grey and wielding pistols similar to the man’s. The motel’s lights then turned off.

As they advanced towards the cars, the man pulled on the seat’s handle and reclined back into a near perfect straight line. There was absolute numbness. No light, no sound, no movement. There was some light, but it was the very minimal shine of the vehicles.

The man, still reclined, heard the clicks of two car doors, followed by a powering up and revving. Soon, the squeal of tires emerged from the sides and trailed off to the back. There was no honk, and no knock on the glass, meaning the Cadillac was still not moved.

A minute later, he heard a knock on his window. Looking up at it, he found the middle – aged man pressing his face against it to get a view of the inside. The man, still reclined, reached for the glove box, making sure not to rise up by even the slightest level. Slowly pulling the box down, he pulled the pistol towards the edge of it, until he got a good grip of the frame and his finger on the trigger. 

A second knock, this time louder. With the pistol in his left hand, he crossed his right arm over his chest and pressed on the window button. As it lowered the man got his face off it and waited for it to come down.

Once it was completely down, owing to the dark atmosphere, the man still stood there, squinting in.

“Yeah, listen, I need to move my car but for that you need to move yours”, said the man in a squeaky voice accompanied by an Italian accent.

The man maintained his silence.

“Look man, I need you to say or do something, I ain’t got all day to wait for a response”

The man remained hushed. The middle – aged man looked above the car and at the two other cars.

“Boys, I need you to—”

The man in the car shot up, cocked his pistol and pulled the trigger. The silence was lifted up and off into the space. A momentary flame from the muzzle lit up the whole parking lot. The equilibrium of immobility was broken by the chubby man’s fall.

The man turned the key in the hole, reversed the gear, and stomped on the accelerator, sending the car into a backward overdrive. The two muscle cars behind him revved up and were ready to strike the GT, but the man slid smoothly past from in between both of them. 

He crossed over the curb, ran through some bushes, and skid back into the avenue’s lane, driving off into the distance.

That night changed my life forever. The chubby, middle – aged man who died was Emilio Sangrada, the biggest Italian mafia boss in Chico City. My father. And the policeman who killed him is Ken Miller of the CCPD who, ten years later, stood above me as I neared my death, for which the reason is: my hunger for revenge.

(To be continued)