Dead on Target
by Angel Zapata

My parents never wanted me to grow up and become a thug.

My father was a well-respected pastor. My mother ran a simple floral shop. They wanted me to go to college for engineering. After I dropped out of high school, I got arrested on an aggravated assault charge. I won’t bother saying I was innocent, because I was guilty as all hell.

The whole congregation prayed for me while I was there. It didn’t work. I love money too much. I got hauled in for armed robbery. I did manage to cop a plea bargain.

Three years later, I walked out of there on a sunny day with five new tattoos. I had no goals, no dreams of a brighter future. Only thing I knew for certain was I wasn’t ever going back to jail.

But dammit, I’m just no good outside the prison system. I’m easily distracted by the sway of the street. Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe unless I’m stealing a car or snatching a purse.

My mom wants nothing to do with me, so I was surprised when she phoned me at the motel last night.

“Your father’s dead.” She was emotionless. “Thought you should know.”

“What happened?” There was an elephant in high heels standing on my chest.

“Some neighborhood gang,” she snorted, “probably friends of yours.”

“Which gang, ma?”

“I don’t know, Anthony,” she sighed. “It was a drive-by. He was at the church. They shot him in the back.” She hung up without saying good-bye.

My gun was loaded. I grabbed it and my keys. Then I barreled through the red whore door of my dilapidated room. I busted the driver side window of a purple El Camino and got her running in thirty seconds flat.

I reached the old neighborhood in twenty minutes. The moon was missing and the thick, black shadows painted on the humid air reeked of piss and beer. I pulled up to the United Methodist Church entrance, and even in the dark I could see dry blood spattered on the concrete steps.

I scarred the ground with rubber. In a staccato heartbeat, I arrived at Joe’s Pool Hall. Anything bad that goes down usually slithers its way out of this hole-in-the-wall.

The bodyguard standing at the threshold was an ugly cur. I immediately kicked him in the gut. The weight of his pig body splintered the door. I drew heat and shot him in the knee. He screamed like a girl with her hair on fire. I kicked him in the head.

Good night.

I yanked his automatic from under his jacket and leveled both my weapons at an audience of drifters and shylocks. The whole place turned and faced me.

“Who killed my father?” I crept forward and left a trail of bloody footprints behind me.

“Look what the cat drug in.” It was Joey himself. “Take it easy, Anthony.”

He got these beady eyes that I’ve always wanted to decorate with lead.

I grinned and shot a bullet over his head.

“Jesus!” His stubby fingers trembled and a cheap cigar fell from his lips.

“Who killed my father?” I gritted my teeth through the adrenaline surge. I looked around the room, and frightened hustlers were cowered against the walls. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.” I started aiming at knees.

“The Gatos,” Joey spat. “You know those crazy hablo españols.” He eyeballed another one of his enforcers. The guy was stupid enough to reach for his piece. I dropped him with two quick pops to the mid-section. He never got up.

“They’re the gang out on Fourteenth Street , right?”

“Yeah.” Joey rubbed his double chin. “Go ahead, drop by and say hello.”

I puffed out my chest and carefully backed out of the smoky dive.

“Be seeing you real soon, Anthony,” Joey snarled.

I dove into my stolen ride, put her in reverse, and steered her backwards for a block before spinning her around. I knew it was only a matter of time before Joey and his crew came after me to settle the score.

I wasn’t worried one way or another.

I parked the car at a bus stop on the corner of Thirteenth and Broadway. I entered an abandoned tenement, climbed the stairs to the top, and jumped from roof to roof. When I got to the address I wanted, I quietly crawled down the fire escape. I peered through the third floor window and spied four Latino males drinking and playing cards.

I peppered the window with slugs and hopped inside.

Somebody’s brain was oozing out onto his shirt collar.

“Which one of you punks killed Pastor Barici?” I was breathing hard. Glass crunched under my feet. One kid twitched and ran for the door.

Bang.

Bang.

The two remaining young men pointed at my latest victim. “It was Spider,” they said in unison and raised their hands.

“But why target my father?” The unfamiliar burn of tears assaulted my eyes. “What did he do to deserve it?”

“It was part of the initiation into the gang,” the taller one said and started bawling. “Plus his wife paid us two grand to kill him.”

“You’re lying!” For some reason I laughed when I emptied both clips into them.

I made my way down the fire escape and back onto the street. I never saw my mother waiting there by the dumpster until she shot me in the shoulder.

“It’s your fault!” She sobbed, standing over me. “Your father wasted years of his life praying for you every night at that useless church. He should have been home with me.”

I passed out and woke up handcuffed to a hospital gurney. My mother had dialed 911 and turned us both in.

I was hoping for angels, or at least an attractive nurse, but all I got was a ruddy-looking detective coming off a serious bender.

“Tell me what happened,” he said indifferently. “And please, make it good.”

BIO: Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta , Georgia . Some of his flash fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on Flash Me Magazine, Doorknobs & Bodypaint, Every Day Fiction, Every Day Poets, Membra Disjecta, Flashes in the Dark, and The Drabbler. He is husband to his blond goddess and father of four boys obsessed with all things ninja. He occasionally blogs at: http://www.myspace.com/angeldzapata