Legends of Firestorm #6

[spiritofvengeance]

Legends of Firestorm #6
Streetlife Serenade

Written By: Joel Sawyer
Edited By: Mike Bowen

Los Dos Amigos restaurant, 6:00 PM, Wednesday night

“This plan of yours is risky, Shine.”
The wealthy fat man straightened his tie while looking in a mirror of the Mexican restaurant. “Don’t give me any details. ‘Plausible deniability’. I won’t be taken down by this.”

“No sweat, Mr. Scarapelli,” his tall skinny companion stated confidently, “I’ve done this a hundred times. With my network and your goods, we’ll be rich.”

“I’m already rich,” Anthony Scarapelli calmly told Al Shine, “which means I have more to lose than you do. Remember that.”

****

[spiritofvengeance]

Flight 271, inbound to New York City

“We’ll call as soon as we’re off the plane,” the black haired man said to the red-headed woman with him.

He looked very scruffy, with black, shoulder length hair, moustache, and full, trimmed beard. His leather jacket and blue jeans were positively Fonzarelli, straight out of the seventies. She, on the other hand, had a dumpy, secretarial look about her. Wire rim glasses and short, straight, un-styled hair detracted from her pretty face. She wore a thick, loose red sweatshirt and black skirt down to her calves, totally obscuring clear view of her figure.

“So, we meet our employer and then...” she started.

“And then the hunt begins,” he told her.

****

[spiritofvengeance]

The Bronx, typical street, 5:17 pm, Thursday

“Come on, man,” Ron Evers pleaded.

He was tall, black, and proud of it, even sporting an old style Afro (but not a tall one. He didn’t want to be branded straight out of the seventies) jeans and a T-shirt that revealed his muscles from hours of lifting weights, he was a child of the street, and the street would pay him back for his blood and sweat.

“You’re busting my balls, here. Don’t you want to get back at the cops? The feds?”

“We’ve discussed this before,” his teenaged companion replied, “Neither the police nor the feds hold me back. The only person in this world ever to really mess me up is my own dad!”

“Then do it for me,” Ron said, “You owe me. I saved your life more than once. If I go out there alone, I could get killed.”

The black teenager, short haired and also with an athlete’s physique, answered, “All right, Ron. I’ll back you up. Just remember, I don’t want to lead that kind of life, and sooner or later, I won’t be there.”

Victor Stone grimaced as Ron Evers strolled away.

****

[spiritofvengeance]

Suburb of New York, 6:38 pm, Thursday night

Sgt. Terrance Mackay, a middle-aged, brown haired police man led his partner, Daniel Wilson, into the safe-house. They had been keeping a sixteen-year-old witness here for two weeks. The trial started on Monday. The duo realized immediately there was something wrong. Mackay smelled blood, and if he could smell it, there must be a lot. They both pulled their side-arms and advanced. They found the first guard lying in the hallway with his head blown off. The second officer had four bullet holes in his side. The girl was found on the bed in a fetal position, four shots in her back, her mother likewise executed against the right side wall.

“Damn it,” Mackay shouted, “How? How did they get the drop on our men?”

“You know the answer to that,” Wilson replied, running his brown-skinned hand through his black, curly hair. “This officer was sitting down when he was shot, his gun still holstered.”

“Another inside job,” Mackay spat, lifting the walkie-talkie to report.

****

[spiritofvengeance]

Malloy High School, 8:22 pm, Friday Night

“You’re in, Raymond,” Coach Mason shouted.

Since joining the team weeks ago, Ronnie Raymond had seen little game time. He maintained his focus and let himself get caught up in the actions of his team-mates, keeping his adrenalin pumping. He launched himself into the game, and it all rushed in. The thrum of the audience, the smells of sweat and soda, the ‘ping, ping, ping’ of the basketball nearly intoxicated him, kind of like flying did. For a minute, the other players did not seem to want to share the ball, but then his friend Jefferson shot the ball to him. Without blinking, as they had done in practice and at the local court, Ron shot the ball right back. Jefferson turned to pass to someone else, then rocketed the ball sideways back to Raymond, who already had his next target in his peripheral vision. The ball smacked into his hands, he spun to the left and bounced the ball under the outstretched arm of the opponent trying to cover him into the hands of Maurice Boone, the tall, blond, thick-bodied white kid. Boone pivoted right and sank the ball into the net. Being a home game, the crowd exploded. In the next five minutes, the trio scored or helped score 10 more points.
Of course, Malloy still lost 68-65, but the threesome suddenly found themselves with a lot of fans.

“You’ve been practicing on your own time, haven’t you,” Coach Mason asked Ron, Jefferson, and Boone privately after the game.

“Yeah, Coach,” Jefferson responded, toweling the sweat from his short, black hair, “We’ve been on the court several nights a week working on stuff.”

“Din’t really think I wuz practicin’,” Boone added, “I just love to play!”

“Well, keep it up,” Coach said, “If there is anything this team needs, it is a few more team players.”

After showering and dressing, he made his way out of the school only to find Doreen Day waiting for him, beaming. Doreen was not a beauty queen, would never grace a fashion magazine cover, but to Ron, her beauty grew each time he saw her. Her blonde, wavy hair, round face, slightly upturned nose, all features he could pick out of a crowd of thousands.

“That was wonderful, Ronnie,” she gushed, the excitement playing on her face, “Are you up to going somewhere to celebrate?”

“Sorry,” he replied sadly, “Homework for both Government and English. Tried to get it done earlier, but game day didn’t give me enough time. I figure, if I stay up late to finish and sleep in, we can spend more time together tomorrow.”

“Well, it’s good that you’re thinking about that.”

“More time with you? I’m always thinking about that!”

She giggled rather girlishly and snuggled against him, and he realized it was just the right thing to say at the right time. They pretty much stayed close together all the way to her house.

****

[spiritofvengeance]

Bronx, just past midnight, Friday night-Saturday morning

Ed pocketed the cash and handed the buyer his package, pure cocaine. It was dark out, but his clients knew how to find him.
Then again, so did others.
Once the midnight street grew quiet, a figure stepped out of the shadows, seeming to just appear. Ed, a young twenties white guy nearly jumped out of his $150.00 shoes.

“Watch it, homey,” Ed shouted, “Sneakin’ up on someone this time’a night’ll get you shot!”

“You would have never made the shot,” the man in black leather jacket and blue denim jeans stated, “My name is Beauregard Hunter.”

Stepping into the light is the bearded man from Flight 271.

“You’re going to tell me who your supplier is.”

Ed grinned. “You’re a cop. Fine. Arrest me. I know my rights.”

Hunter grabbed Ed by his shirt and slammed him into a garbage dumpster with a ‘Bonng!” For a few seconds, Ed couldn’t breath. Nose to nose with Ed, Hunter grinned.

“I’m not a cop. I’m a private contractor. I don’t arrest criminals, I’m paid to solve difficult problems for my employer. Hell, I could be arrested for half of what I do.”

“Can’t fool me, hombre. Go ahead with the cuffs.”

“I’ll start by breaking your left pinky. Call it a courtesy, since I see that you are right-handed. Then I’ll break the ring finger, the index, the pointer, then the thumb. If you are still uncooperative, I’ll move on to the right hand.”

“Sorry, I won’t...AHHHH!”

Before Ed could even finish his confident comment, Hunter grabbed his left hand and, with a sharp jerk, broke the pinky.

“Ow, you son of a...” Ed began, fumbling with the pistol with his right hand, but as he drew, Hunter drove his knee hard into Ed’s gut. Ed vomited whatever was left of his dinner.

“You don’t get it, Ed, and don’t be surprised I know your name. I’m a pro, and I do my job well. Within 24 hours, I’ll know more about trafficking in New York City than you ever will. Now, do I break the ring finger?”

Minutes later, Beau Hunter rejoined his secretary-ish partner.

“Did you really need to break his finger,” she asked.

“Only way I can make them believe I’m not a cop is to do something cops won’t do, Ms. Finch.”

“I did think it was funny when you took his product, his cash, his wallet, cell phone, and his ‘bling’. You even took the $150.00 shoes!”

“Yeah, sometimes I love my job,” he said with a huge grin, “But you know that, don’t you?”

“One of the reasons I put up with you,” she replied, winking from behind her glasses.

****

[spiritofvengeance]

Sgt. Mackay’s apartment, 5 am, Saturday morning

Terrance Mackay sat in his living room in a T-shirt and boxers, his brown hair unkempt, his face unshaven, and his breakfast untouched. The loss of the witness and the obvious betrayal by someone within the department shook him to his core. This was the third murder of an important witness in recent weeks. There was a suspicion of inside information being used in the slayings, but this most recent killing proved it. Officers were involved.

Mackay lifted the phone to his ear. “Wilson? Mackay,” he croaked, and took a drink of water. “We can’t trust anyone right now. I’m going to see the assistant D.A. That’s right, not the District Attorney himself, the Assistant. He has a more liberal view of law enforcement, and may have resources we don’t. I need to speak directly to Chase.”

****

[spiritofvengeance]

Doreen’s House, Saturday Afternoon

Ronnie stilled his nerves. Killer Frost, Danton Black, Tornado Tyrant, all dangerous opponents. Now, Ron faced one of his greatest fears as he knocked on the door.

“Hello,” a deep voice said as the door opened.

“Hi...I’m Ronnie Raymond. Doreen wanted to meet her here,” Ron told her father.

Wow! He is huge, Ron thought.

Doreen’s dad stood 6'3" and was thick and muscular, not cut like a bodybuilder but strong. His blonde hair cut short, he looked slightly down at Ron but square in his eyes.

“So you are Ronnie,” Mr. Day asked.

Take the plunge, Ron told himself, then said, “Yes, sir, yes I am.”

A tight smile crossed Mr. Day’s face, and he held out a hand.

“Good answer,” he said while shaking Ron’s hand, “I’m Burt. Doreen’s told us a lot about you, and I’ve read about you in the papers. Good job last night. Come on in.”

Burt led Ron into his home to the living room where two long-haired brunettes, one older and one younger, rose to greet him. ‘This is my wife, Charlotte, and my older daughter, Summer. This is Doreen’s boyfriend, Ron.”

“And, yes, my name did get me teased unceasingly at school,” Summer said with a wry smile.

Doreen strolled into the room in rather tight jeans and a very pretty green T-shirt.

“Hi, Ronnie. You’re not giving him the riot act, are you, Daddy?”

“Wouldn’t think of it, sweetie. Besides, I’ve already checked his background, and I trust you to know what is OK. You two have a fun time.”

Ron and Doreen left and headed for the bus stop.

“Doreen, what did your father mean by ‘checked his background’,” Ron hesitantly asked.

Embarrassed, she smiled hopefully apologetic. “It’s a little joke with him,” she said, “I haven’t been 100% truthful with you, Ron. Daddy is a police officer.”

“A cop? And you didn’t warn me about that?”

“I’m sorry,” she offered, “Just that knowledge itself has scared guys away. I hoped that, by the time you found out, it wouldn’t matter to you.”

“Wouldn’t matter, anyway,” he assured her confidently, “I’m clean, and I’ve always had a good contact with police. And you didn’t really lie to me. The subject never really came up.”

“Thank you, Ronnie,” she said, kissing him lovingly.

“No problem,” he said several moments later, “I have things I’d just as soon not talk about most of the time, too. My Mom died in an explosion when I was a little kid, and Dad has really never gotten over it. We never talk about it, and so I almost never talk to anyone else about it, either.”

“Ron, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

“Its been a long time for me, so it doesn’t hurt so much for me. Sometimes, though, I wish Dad wouldn’t sink himself so much into his work. We better get to the club,” Ron added, “Boone will let us in for free, and if we stay until eleven, he’ll give us a ride home!”

****

[spiritofvengeance]

The Bronx, 5:32 pm, Saturday evening

After trading a small paper bag for a small roll of bills, Ron Evers descended the steps and rejoined his friend Victor Stone on the sidewalk.

“What a haul,” Evers cackled, adding the cash to the rest of his ‘earnings’. “Let’s go to the steak house, Vic. I’m buying.”

“No, Ron,” Vic said sternly, “I backed you up, like I promised. I’m not going to benefit from your business.”

“Its just steak, man,” Evers argued with a grin.

“Its not...just...steak,” Vic said through gritted teeth.

“Vic, remember, you...”

“Yeah, right,” Vic interrupted, “I owe you, Ron. How long do I have to endanger everything I’ve worked on to help you break the law? I want to go to college, man! I work hard enough, I could make the Olympics in track! One bust, and my dream is done. I can’t owe you forever.”

“You’re obviously stressed,” Ron said smoothly, “You go ahead and walk home, cool down, and call me tomorrow.”

Ron Evers left Vic standing there eager to celebrate his day’s work.

****

[spiritofvengeance]

The Paradise, 10:51 pm, Saturday night

At The Paradise, a no-alcohol teen dance club, Ronnie Raymond and Doreen Day finished the latest set and Doreen looked at her watch.

“Its almost eleven, Ronnie,” she yelled.

“He’ll be waiting out in back for us,” Ron shouted back, “I know the
way. Its great having a friend working here.”

She nodded as he led her away from the dance floor towards the back of the building.
Maurice Boone carried two heavy garbage bags through the rear door of the place, a four-story building whose upper floors held rental office space during the daytime. As he tossed the trash in the dumpster, he heard conversation.

“Are you shaking me down,” a young man’s voice asked.

“It is more severe than that,” a higher pitched, soft, male voice replied, “You’ve failed Mr. Shine four separate times. No more chances. Besides, you visited the police yesterday, didn’t you?”

Boone heard a series of strange noises, then saw a man stumble around the side of the building and fall, blood pouring out of him. Two men stepped around the corner, seeing Boone.

After an awkward silence, one of the men said, “Use yours. They can’t be with the same gun.”

Maurice turned to run.
The rear door to The Paradise opened wide.

“Hey, Boone, you back here,” Ronnie Raymond called. Boone crashed to the ground before him, three bleeding holes in his back.

Ron shouted, “Maurice!”

Wide eyed, Ron saw a man turning toward him with a pistol in his hand. He slammed the door and locked it.

“Ron...” Doreen started, but he covered her mouth with his hand.

“Boone’s been shot,” he hissed at her, “and the shooter saw me! Run, that way. Get to a phone and call your dad.”

He actually shoved her roughly away before turning and running the other way. Behind him, the man kicked the door opened, and Ron was pleased to see that Doreen had gotten around the other corner of the hall first. Ron slowed, wanting the gunman to see him, but he was concerned when the gunman’s apparent partner stepped in as well. Ron hit the side door of the building running and ran towards the rear where Boone was. One of the men got a shot off, the bullet hitting the wall. Ron caught a stone fragment in his neck as the bullet struck.
Once out of sight of the gunmen, Ron transformed, and Firestorm flew into action.

<<Ronald, what is happening>>, Professor Stein asked.

“Fill you in later, Professor,” Firestorm responded, “Gotta move, fast!”

Firestorm flew upwards and backwards over the building, circling back and following the path he had just run. Near where Maurice Boone, the two killers stood confused, wondering where Ron had gone.

“That will be enough,” Firestorm bellowed, transforming the trash dumpster into a cell without changing the garbage. The men raised their guns and Firestorm slagged them, burning the men’s hands in the process.

“Lunatic,” one of the men yelled.

“You’re calling me names,” Firestorm asked sarcastically, “Just wait until the police arrive.”

“You idiot,” the man replied, raising a badge, “We are the police, and you just helped the shooter get away!”

To Be Continued...