The Basement Vault



  The Basement Vault

  A Short Story

  by Brandon Zenner

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to events or persons, living, dead, or fictitious are purely coincidental. No parts of this book may be reproduced without written consent of the author.

  Copyright © 2014 by Brandon Zenner

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design: James, goonwrite.com

 

  We Begin

  I could still hear him screaming from down the hall as I stepped out of the shower, and stood dripping onto the cold cement floor. The feeling of his dried blood caked under my fingernails, and speckled over my face and hair, would forever be etched in my mind. That sort of thing takes more than hot water and soap to erase. The windowless cement walls of the basement seemed to be shrinking in around me. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t listen any longer to my ex-partner wailing from the room down the hall.

  Jesus … just finish it already …

  The mirror fogged my reflection, but that was okay. I wasn’t very fond of mirrors to begin with. I’m a 220-pound middle-aged man, with some nasty scars and wiry facial hair that grows in grey and thick, like cactus thorns. Nothing worth looking at.

  I got my spare clothes from the locker and dressed quickly. The bloody shirt and pants I had been wearing during the interview were tossed in the hamper, to be properly bleached and cleaned.

  I did my part, sure, I did what was expected of me. I stood in the room with the others, taking turns on poor Franky. It had to be done. There was no other way, and Franky knew it. I used my fists and boots against him. I held his trembling hand in mine as he finally gave in, opened his mouth and told us what we wanted to hear. He pressed his palm against mine and finally confessed.

  “They-they-they … they’re coming … two days, ten o’clock,” he said.

  “Shh,” I whispered, holding his trembling hands. “Where? Just tell me where, and this will all be over. No more pain.”

  Frankie looked up at me, his eyes swollen to slits. He didn’t want to die, nobody ever does, but there was no other way for his predicament to end. If he told us everything he knew, the pain would cease. At least, that’s what he was told.

  “Carlino’s place.”

  That’s all we needed to know. Enough was enough.

  There was no need to continue the interview.

  I left the locker room at the end of the dimly lit hall, and I walked to the other side of the basement. I didn’t look as I passed the room where Franky was being interviewed. In my mind, I could clearly envision what was going on in there: Frank was tied to a folding chair; his blood trailing to the drain in the center of the cement floor, the exposed light bulb on the ceiling casting elongated shadows over the concrete walls from where it hung by a cord.

  Pass out, Franky, quit holding on. Faint, and let them end this mess.

  As I passed, I heard my name called out in broken English. “Hey, Mickey—wait up.” It was Vlad, the Russian. Fucking Vlad. His full name was Vladimir, but the guy had everyone calling him Vlad, as if he had some connection to the damn vampire. I kept walking.

  “Wait up.” Vlad came out of the room. The apron he wore was speckled with Franky’s blood, and the collar of his white button-up shirt was stained red.

  “I got somewhere to be, Vlad.”

  “I go with you, no?”

  “No. I got someone to meet for lunch.”

  “I just shower, you wait here, yes?”

  I opened the door at the end of the hallway. The light from the stairway rushed into the cavernous basement, blinding white.

  “Can’t wait. Next time.”

  I let the door close.

  At the top of the stairs, past the locked metal door with the inch-thick glass window, I walked into the small barroom, not stopping to talk to any of the guys bellied up at the bar. A few looked my way as I passed, then went back to their whiskey and beer. I saw Mr. Carlino in the corner booth, and we met eyes. Ignoring the boss had its consequences, so I headed over to give him my report. They were suspicious of me, that much I knew. Hell, my own partner just double-crossed the whole organization.

  I stopped before his table.

  “How’d the interview go?” he asked. His two lieutenants sat at either side of the table, their massive palms coiled around tumblers of whiskey that looked ridiculous in their hands. The one named Terry sipped from a snifter of something, brandy maybe, bringing the delicate edge of the glass to his oversized lips and scarred-up face. Such class for a lowlife piece of shit. The guy was wearing a tracksuit, for Christ’s sake.

  “Good,” I said. “He gave us a glowing resume. Your place, tomorrow night. Ten o’clock, sharp.”

  Mr. Carlino—Chuck Carlino—nodded rhythmically, his fat chin wobbling. His face was drab. Tomorrow night at ten o’clock was the gang’s usual poker night. If a hit against the organization was going to be made, that was a damn good time and place to ensure wiping out most of our key players. Enough key players to destabilize our little organization.

  Mr. Carlino asked, “He still in the office?”

  “He is.”

  “Good. That’s good. Let’s keep him around for a while.”

  You sick bastard.

  Not only had I just taken part in the torture of my ex-partner, I was expected to be okay with keeping his shattered and broken body alive to be further tortured. Mr. Carlino’s carnivorous appetite was hard to satisfy.

  “He’s finished his interview.” I bit my lip. It was better to say nothing.

  Mr. Carlino leaned across the table, his elbows resting on the mahogany top. “Is there a problem?”

  I shook my head. “No sir, of course not.” Except Franky told them everything he knew, everything he was going to do. Let the man die already. But I suppose pain is only relevant when there is still hope for recovery. He will be dead sooner or later, and what will pain and the past matter to him then? Franky knew this, of course.

  Mr. Carlino made a shooing motion with his blubbering chin, and I bowed slightly and turned to leave.

  Outside, a guard named Stevie stood by the door, and nodded as I walked off towards my old Buick. This was a bad part of town. Not the worst, but not the best. I watched a homeless man in the vacant lot next to the bar swat at flies swarming around his head, while lying on a piece of filthy cardboard. Across the street there were three more homeless, sitting with their backs against an empty storefront. They had an overflowing shopping cart filled with what looked like trash. Twice, in this town, had our little social club been held up by street thugs, and both times those poor bastards met their ends down in the basement. I had delighted in teaching those scum of the earth that there were some people out there you simply did not steal from. We were the alpha wolfs in the town of Masterson; we owned the Eastside.

  My old Buick started, and I sat in the depression of the seat formed by my widening body over the years. I took a deep breath and turned the wheel.

  I saw the other car in the rearview mirror.

  They certainly didn’t trust me.

  But they could tail me all they wanted; I was expecting that much from them.

  Could be Vlad driving, if he showered fast enough, but probably not. Probably just another faceless gangster in a tailored suit, ordered to follow me through the city.