Part III
The police station is packed with people rushing around. A man is chained down in handcuffs, securely fastened to a booking bench. Robinson passes by him as the man aggressively tries to shake loose of his shackles. He begins to scream before an officer comes by to seek control. The alleged criminal seethes and spits at the officer as he continues to try and shake free.
A hand comes down upon Robinson’s shoulder. The young man looks back to see a large and confident man grinning with excitement. It is Detective Ron Baker, better known to Robinson as Captain Ron, a nickname from the Kurt Russell movie that Robinson’s dad had given him. Not because he liked the movie, but more because Ron liked to wink a lot. It was such a habit it that Robinson’s dad gave him an eye patch, as a joke and a reminder to Ron of what could be thought of as a nervous tick. On cue Captain Ron gave a long and hard wink to Robinson.
“Robinson Crusoe, what brings you down here?” The broad shouldered man flapped a folder towards an open door. A signal to follow him into his office.
“I was hoping you can help me with something?” Robinson asked as Captain Ron closed the door behind them.
The grin that was on Captain Ron’s face slowly evaporated, becoming a look of concern. Captain Ron moved behind his desk and sat down. “If this is about what I think it’s about then we have nothing to talk about. I told you before that I am personally looking into everything. There is just no more-“.
“I am not here for that. I am here for something else.” Robinson interrupted.
Captain Ron eyed Robinson with a look befitting a detective as he tried to identify something upon his face. He came up blank.
“What do you need? Money? Place to stay?”
“Nothing like that. I wanted to see if you could look up the address of a Paul Cooper?”
“What is this regarding? Because I just told you-“
“I told you that I dropped it okay! How many times are you going to grill me about it? We have gone round and round in circles too many times and I know there is nothing left.” Robinson had begun leaning forward in his chair, but at the completion of his sentence dropped back into a slumped position.
Ron just sat there calmly with his hands together as if he was praying. He looked up at Robinson who was looking out the window into the night.
“Listen, I am here to protect you.”
I”I don’t need you to protect me. I have managed fine by myself.”
“I know you have. I’m proud of you. I just want you to stay on the right track is all. You don’t need to rack yourself with problems that are too large for you. You did it once and it almost cost you.”
“Hey, I didn’t come down here for this okay. I told you I dropped it and I did. If you believe me or not, I don’t care.”
“I am sorry. I guess I haven’t let go yet. I just wish there was something more I could do for you.”
“You can get me the address for Paul Cooper. He use to live on 772 Winchester St. right here in town.”
“And who is Paul Cooper?”
“A guy who needs to have something back. And I have to give it to him. Please, don’t ask me anymore questions on it. It is just something I have to take care of. And no its not drugs or anything to do with the case.”
“I’ll see if anything comes up on this guy to give you an address.” Ron gets up from his desk and heads for the door.
Robinson sits up in his chair and looks upon the stacks of paperwork that litter Ron’s desk. It reminds him of all the letters stacked about the little basement room. Robinson picks up a picture frame and turns it towards him. The picture is of him, his parents and Captain Ron, with his wink in full display, at a picnic in the park. Robinson remembers that day at the park vividly. He was 12 years old being pushed in a swing by his Dad, running through the small creek trying to feed the ducks with his mother, and Captain Ron telling his police stories of bank robbers and rooftop chases.
“I remember that day like it was yesterday. You were what, 10 at the time?” Captain Ron had come back into the room putting a piece of paper on the desk between in front of Robinson.
” I was 12.”
“And now look at you.” Ron just shook his head and when Robinson looked at him was met with a wink. “Well, there is your guy. He still lives here. Quite the colorful fellow- drunk in public, destruction of property, unlawful conduct up the ying yang. Quite the menace. What could you possibly have that this guy would need- intervention? A therapist? A get out of jail free card?”
Robinson snatches the paper and stands up to leave. Captain Ron stands up accordingly, too.
“Hey, Robby,” Captain Ron had only called him Robby a handful of times, which made Robinson pause, “If you need anything, anything at all, make sure you come down and see me. I’m here for you.”
“Thanks for getting me this. Sorry for yelling earlier.”
“No apology necessary. Just let me know that you are okay when you are done doing it is that you are doing?”
Robinson gives a slight nod to Captain Ron that is met with a wink and a finger gun salute before Robinson exits the room.
Part IV
Robinson made his way up to the iron black fence. The shrubs were so high and unkempt that Robinson had a hard time figuring out how to get inside. Once Robinson got inside he saw why the shrubbery was so high. This apartment complex should have been condemned a long time ago. The paint was chipped off on the building in the parts that had not eroded away. The cement was unearthed, as if someone had took a pickaxe to it to try and discover what was underneath. The only light came from the bug zappers and even that was dim due to the array of bugs that had been collected. It looked like an entomologists dream. The pool was more landfill than luxury amenity as the shards of broken bottles and take out food cartons replaced the water.
The place depressed Robinson as he looked around. He looked at the scratch paper in his palm hoping that he had the wrong place. No such luck.
On the second floor a middle age man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, a cowboy hat, and board shorts happily cooked away on his grill. The man gave a cheers with his can of beer when he saw Robinson looking around.
“Hey friend,” the man said as he took a final slug from his beer and disposed of it over the railing as it bounced right to Robinson’s foot. “What can I do you for?”
Robinson kicked the can away and looked up to the second floor, as the smoke of the barbeque looked as if it had engulfed the man.
“I was wondering if a Paul Cooper lived here?”
The Cowboy man cracked another beer and feigned as if he did not here Robinson over the sizzle of his burgers.
“You have to come up here if you want to talk. I am damn near deaf. Come on up and I’ll crack you a beer.”
Robinson shook his head as he grumbled up the steps, “I don’t want a beer. I don’t want to talk. I just want something to be easy. Why can’t anything ever just be simple and easy.”
He reached the second floor and found the Hawaiian shirt man lounging in a creaky fold out chair. Robinson estimated that it must be nearing forty degrees, but here was this Hawaiian Cowboy sitting out in the cold of night like he was on a beach somewhere. The men with alcohol on their breath were always the ones that wanted to talk.
“Here you go, friend,” the man tossed a beer to Robinson that he fumbled, but recovered before it fell off the side of the balcony to join the rest of its box mates. The Hawaiian Cowboy watched Robinson’s face track the can onto the floor, “Down there is where trash goes to die and I’m not just talking about trash. This place didn’t always use to be like this, but you let just a few black marketeers in here with their cock fighting exhibitions that are fixed and you invite the wrong Mexican Mafia to your complex and-” The Hawaiian Cowboy tips his cowboy hat up in a nod to the dilapidated pool, “And well that is a story for another time.” Robinson gives the man a quizzical look and wonders if he should just abandon his whole plan right now.
“You want a burger? I always make extra. Makes it easier in the morning when something is already cooked. You know what I mean? Hey, don’t be shy, crack that beer open.”
Robinson looked down at his beer and opened up figuring as long as it was open the man would leave him alone. Robinson snapped the tab forward and stood there with his beer. “So I am here-“
The man leapt off his chair and swung a joyful arm around Robinson. “Alright, buddy. You don’t mind if I call you buddy do you? I have a habit of calling people buddy, ace, guy, chief, friend. You know I’m that guy.”
The man laughed a laugh that could only have come from his feet and made Robinson pull away with the eagle like cry that pierced his ears. The Hawaiian Cowboy didn’t notice; how could he when he was wearing shorts in the dead of winter. “What’s your name, partner? Look there is another one?”
“My name is Robinson,” he said trying to wrangle away from the burly man, but to no avail. The man had a eagle like laugh and a talon like grip.
The man looked down seriously at Robinson, “Robinson, huh. So is that Robinson as in Jackie or as in Crusoe.” The man was very pleased with himself as he gave a wallop to Robinson’s back that made him lose control of his beer and spill all over the ground.
“I’m sorry about that. I, I, I am all thumbs I guess. If you can just tell me if Pa-” a door from the side swings open and a bookish, little neighbor stands in his doorway.
“Wayne, how many times do I have to ask you to keep it down out here?”
“I’m sorry Ernest. My friend Robinson Crusoe and I were just hanging out. You can hang out to, but that mean old lady you call a wife, she has to stay inside. I can’t handle her tonight, Ernest.”
“Listen you lunatic,” Ernest poked his head out the door much like a turtle would to see what is happening outside. “I have a good mind to call the cops on you, you menace. Sitting out here like its a summers day. You are crazy. Now if you don’t keep it down, I-“
Wayne pushed Ernest back inside and shut the door before he had a chance to finish. Ernest pulled back the curtain by his door and screamed something inaudible through the dirty glass window. It didn’t matter for Wayne had moved his attention back to Robinson and his beer.
“So Crusoe, I have to apologize for the un-neighborly people around here. They think just because its cold that you can’t have any fun. You mistake a man’s wife for a working girl and, well that is a story for another time. Hey, where are my manners I’ll get you another brew and a chair.”
“No, really that won’t be-” Before Robinson could finish, Wayne was in the house fetching a chair and more beer. Robinson moved closer to the barbeque to warm his hands. As he inhaled the smell of warm, cooked meat Robinson felt a pang of hunger in his stomach. His stomach had just reminded him that it had been a long time since he ate; breakfast was his last meal if he could remember correctly and even that was not a whole lot given his nerves for the first day of work. The morning felt like it happened so long ago that trying to replay the day made Robinson’s head throb.
A heavy hand pushed him down onto a chair. “There you go, sir. Here is a replacement beer. Now don’t go fumbling this one.” Wayne pushed the beer into Robinson’s hand, opening the top of the long neck bottle himself. Wayne then turned his attention to the burgers and flipped them high into the air like a juggler would bowling pins. Robinson watched as Wayne made sound effects of a crowd “oohing” and “awwing” with each flip and catch of the burger.
“Say, Wayne can I ask you something?” Robinson hopelessly stated, knowing Wayne would never listen.
“If it’s if you can have an autograph then it will have to wait. If it is to request something vegetarian then you are on the wrong floor.” Wayne looked back him with a mischievous grin that made him look younger and less abrasive.
“Look Crusoe, I’m sorry if I high jacked you. I just saw you and thought, ‘Hey, there is a guy who looks like he needs some funny’. I like to think of myself as the complex greeter. Place is for shit, but the people, like old grumpy Ernest in there, don’t have to be. Like I said, there was a time when this place use to be a flop house for airline stewardesses. It was like a Hawaiian Luau out here with the Pilots and the those cute flight attendants. Man, I could tell you about some times. Hell, this shirt could tell you about some times. But, well you know- Another time.”
Robinson looked at the man- his heavy bravado, his eccentric clothes, and the energy of a small child- fall away from view. Robinson smirked as he took a sip of his beer. “You got any cheese to go with those burgers?”
“You bet your ass I do. Want any horseradish to go with that?”
“No, the cheese will be just fine.”
The two of them sat out on the walkway of the 2nd floor with Wayne telling Robinson his life story- The ex-wives, all three of them that he still loved, but they didn’t love him, the daughter that he never sees. His time in the army and the various “shit jobs” he has had over the years. How he has never gone to a bar and not gotten into a bar fight and because of that he has not been inside a bar in 13 years. His three years of living in a small Mexican village that he said were the best times of his life, but that was a story for a different day.
“So, Crusoe, what is your story? Wife, kids, jail, on the run, religious freak, pill popper, I mean how about you?” The question was so unexpected and caught Robinson off guard that he nearly choked on his double cheeseburger when Wayne, finally, asked a question; Robinson swallowed and waited for Wayne to decide to continue to talk, but Wayne just stared aimlessly back at Robinson as he chewed heavily upon his burger.
“My story?” Robinson muttered to himself. He didn’t know what to say. Wayne had pretty much talked candidly with Robinson as if he was his damn biographer and now Wayne was expecting something along those lines from Robinson. Robinson knew it, but was unable to reciprocate the same level of commitment in this new found friendship.
“Wayne, that is a story for another day.” Robinson gave him a slight smirk that was met with a furrow of the brow and Wayne rubbing the stubble of hair on his face. Robinson could see that Wayne felt somewhat betrayed; let down by his guest, with whom he had shared not only his food, but of himself. Robinson put down his plate and prepared to leave the uncomfortable silence when the eagle like laugh pierced the night sky.
“I like that, Ace. Like a magician you just get people wanting more. Me, hell, I just keep flapping my gums so much that I have to pick out the bugs from my teeth. I should just fill this here mouth with water and let birds bathe it in it, it is so big. The Mexicans use to call me Grande Boca Ave. Means- White man that won’t shut up. I use to piss off the Mexicans something fierce, but I could drink with the best of them so they let me slide.”
“Alright, Crusoe, well the beer is gone and the burgers are done so I think I am going to close up shop for tonight.” Wayne threw the left over ice off the railing and dragged his BBQ into his house. He folded up the chairs, nearly snapping Robinson inside one before Robinson snapped up in attention. Wayne kicked off a few empty soldiers onto the bushes below before he closed the door and turned off the light, leaving Robinson outside in the dark wondering what the hell just happened.
Robinson looked at his clock that read 8:30 and looked around the empty apartment building. He had been here for two hours and not once could he find out if Paul was around or if he even lived here. Robinson gave thought to just knocking on each door until he found Paul or found out he did not live here. Instead he knocked lightly on Wayne’s door. No answer. He rapped a little harder until Wayne quickly opened the door in a bewildered state.
“Crusoe, shit, what time is it? What are you still doing here? You have to know when a party is over, partner?”
“I’m looking for-“
“Hell, I remember this party I went to back in high school. I remember it because it was the first time I dropped acid-“
“Wayne, keep that story for another time. Do you know Paul Cooper and does he live here somewhere?” Robinson finally turned the tables on Wayne. No more stories, burgers, or beers; it was time for answers.
“Who?” Wayne asked, squinting his eyes as his mustache curled up into his nose. Paul looked incredulously at Wayne, feeling his effort was all for not. Another dead end.
“You mean old Night Crawler over in 4B?”
“Night Crawler?” Robinson repeated.
“Yeah, you won’t find that guy up until the sun goes down. He wakes up to drink during the graveyard shift. I wake up at night and he is stumbling around here like a crazed wolf. Now that guy is a real fun son of a bitch. Reminds me a little of you Crusoe in that you both-“
“You said 4B, Wayne?” Robinson started off towards 4B when Wayne halted his efforts.
“You won’t find him there, chief. He left awhile ago while.”
“Are you shitting me! He was here and I missed him?”
“It looks that way. When you were coming up the stairs to hang out he was leaving.”
“I wasn’t trying to hang out with you. I was trying to find him. You and all your “That is a story for another time, bullshit.” Robinson angrily walked past Wayne and headed down the stairs.
“Crusoe, wait,” Wayne was hanging over the railing yelling to Robinson who kept on walking. “I know where you can find your friend Paul.”
Robinson stopped in his tracks, but with his back to Wayne just yelled back, “Where?”
“He hangs out at the Alibi on Fifth Street. But he won’t be there till around 11 or so. He plays in a pretty mean cash game with some French Canadian bastards they call the Mounties. I don’t know where that game is, but I know he gets out pretty early to do his drinking.”
“How the hell do you know all this, Wayne?” Wayne lights a cigarette and is about to explain, but Robinson thinks better of standing around and listening. “You know what, never mind. Thanks for the burgers.”
“Come back again Crusoe. Maybe comeback on Friday.”
Robinson heard the Eagle laugh all the way down the street.
Part V
Barkley sat in his car with the windows rolled up and the a fog of smoke surrounding him. Barkley was using a very small brush to paint a new coat upon his medieval soldier’s chest, as his final cigarette sat still upon his bottom lip; a long ash dangled precipitously over his small man of armor. A hobby he had since he was a child, Barkley made certain that his collection of soldiers, ranging from different time periods, received their due diligence and upkeep. Barkley’s concentration and meticulousness to detail was what made him such an asset to Mr. Coal’s regime. He was the top lieutenant in no small part because of his attention to detail; no fact was too minor and no stone was left unturned. The ash was about to drop upon him when with a swift and effortless stroke, Barkley placed the thin brush into the crevice of his pinky and ring finger and with his free hand flicked the ash into the small ashtray that lay on the seat beside him.
Barkley frowned when he saw the cigarette was at its end at the butt, stubbing the remains inside the ashtray. He looked past the smoke that filled his car and onto the empty street. Reaching inside his jacket pocket for another heater he came back empty. Tossing the empty pack to the side, Barkley scanned the street for his target. Barkley had looked around and this was the only entrance to the apartment building. There was no back door and the side door was an option, though with its placement to the side of the building would make a longer walk for Robinson to get to his apartment door. No, a guy like Robinson was an alpha hotel (asshole in army talk) a guy that took the easiest path in Barkley’ mind. Robinson was not a person that Barkley thought of as particularly bright or worth the effort of his time; this mission was what his big brother called a tell it to the chaplain from Mr. Coal. Barkley would rather be checking out a flick at the old cinema; it was Charlie Bronson night. Instead he was Balls to 4 watch (midnight to 4am) waiting for this kid to show up. But, once a good soldier, always a good soldier in Barkley’s mind.
Barkley adjusted his rearview and saw no one coming from behind. All was clear. He took his attention back to his soldier, examining his own craftsmanship. Barkley really wished he could have another cigarette. Looking down upon his soldier only magnified his feelings of battles that he never was apart of. He looked down on his crooked feet; the two things that prohibited him from active duty in any field of duty, even a cop. His mind and mental aptitude was built for combat, but his feet were meant to stand still. His feet were meant to stand and fight, not run from battle. If the battle was brought to him then he would stand there and fight. Centuries ago his feet would not have mattered and he would be put into the battlefield and he would have accepted his fate. Looking down at his small figurine brandishing a sword and sheet of steel, Barkley found his feet twitching below him. He would have been the Charles Bronson of the Medieval Times. A lone assassin that would defeat any and all men that came his way; feet be damned!
The carefully crafted soldier broke beneath the power of his hands as he dumped the soldier in the ashtray along with the half smoked cigarettes of his stake out. He fumed at his fate, sitting here waiting some barnyard pimp for chow (Chicken), while his brothers, all military men of impeccable service are Ditty Bop (Commo Specialist) in some Dixie Station in Vietnam. Do Mi Amie (Kiss My Ass) cruel fate of this world. It should be him, Harrison Barkley, A full bull in the navy, not some post office inspector that comes in as John Wayne Paper (Rough and Tough and don’t take shit from anyone) to clean up Mr. Coal’s messes.
Sitting on the street he waited, becoming more and more pissed off as he sat there. No smokes, no war, no battle. His life was meaningless.
From around the corner Robinson came walking quickly to his apartment building. “Fucking knew it, lazy maggot comes right through the front.” Barkley keened in on his prey. He opened the glove box and took out his Lex Luger and put it beside him on his seat.
“Well Grunt, it looks like Charlie Bronson has you in sight. Operation 86 It to commence.”
Barkley took his fingers and made them into a gun, pointing them at the back of Robinson as he walked into the apartment complex. Taking aim, Barkley fires twice. ”You’re a goner, kid.”
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