"Rundown"

The late afternoon Miami sunlight reflected off the polished side of the jet-black 1969 Ford Mustang GT as it pulled into the small car park of a local bar. Few vehicles were dotted round the sparely populated spaces; low riders, Harley-Davidson motorbikes, a couple of rusty four-doors and an Audi A8 were all that the eye could see. The driver eased on the brakes and killed the engine as the vintage muscle car came to a halt in one of the spaces, opening the door. Leaning over to the glove compartment, he pulled it open to retrieve a Smith and Wesson Model 28 revolver. He briefly detached the cylinder, checking it for its payload of .357 magnum cartridges before spinning it round and snapping it shut.

Smiling, the man slipped the gun into his shoulder holster, taking a few moments to check it was concealed inside his brown leather jacket before heaving himself out of the car. He was of average size, just under six feet tall with short thick blond hair atop his rugged, wary face. His name? Joshua Jones to his friends, Johnny Law to everybody else. Closing the door he put one hand down and reached with the other into his inner breast pocket and pulled out a pair of dark aviator shades. Slipping them on, he grinned; who gave a damn if they were out of fashion? As far as he was concerned, he was fashion.

Going round to the back of the car, Josh popped the trunk, taking out a steel suitcase, closing it just as quickly. Stabbing at the car keys in his hand, he nodded in appreciation as the short familiar beep of the active car alarm filled his ears. Putting the keys in his inner breast pocket and with the suitcase in hand, he walked with a stern heel towards the double-doors of the bar. The bell rung as the door opened and the familiar unpleasant smell of alcohol and tobacco invaded his nostrils; the jukebox in the far corner of the smoky room was coughing out some old jazz song from a singer he couldn’t give a damn about. He ignored the men with beer bellies who were crowded round the bar on stools, some near drunk, others out of their heads with nonsensical gibberish tales and rowdy laughter.

Eyeing a table at the far end where a meek-looking man in a business suit, with dishevelled hair, a pointy nose, thick glasses and the beginnings of a beard, sat seated next to a burly Latino-looking man with a thick goatee and tattooed thick arms, Josh headed over, sitting down and sliding across the leather seats to greet them. He wore a smug, self-confident grin that clearly indicated a ridiculously arrogant sureness about the situation.

Josh spoke fast, his Minnesota accent occasionally losing itself to the southern drawl he’d become accustomed to; “Hey there buddy, you’re name Skinny ‘cause it looks like you could stand to gain a good few pounds there ha!”

“Well…it’s not like I have a disorder.” The suited man grunted uncomfortably, lowering his voice, “You got the coke?”

“No, but I’m sure the guy behind the bar has some Pepsi for ya ha!” Josh grinned, words pouring from his mouth faster than bullets from a machine gun, “Y’know what I read I read that that drink has loads of acids and such and if you leave a rusty penny in a glass of the stuff you can get it good as new which makes you wonder what it does to your insides…seriously, don’t drink it. So what’s your name?”

“It’s…Ricky. You know…I think…” the man said, “You’re maybe going a bit too fast…y’know, maybe you should learn to calm down a bit, maybe speak a bit more slowly. Maybe I can get you a drink?”

Josh slowed down instantly, “Oh no. I’ll get you a drink good buddy. Besides, it’s a meet between pals; least I could do is make you and your friend feel comfortable. Whadaya want?”

“Well…I already had a strong coffee.” Ricky said tiredly, “Some chilled beer, perhaps?”

“Sure thing.” Josh grinned, getting up, “Want some of that really strong Canadian beer? It’ll get you drunk so fast you’ll wake up in the oddest places… seriously…it’s quite disorientating and scary. I mean this one time I woke up in a strip club next to-”

“No, no…” said Ricky, “Just…get me a regular beer, nothing too fancy.”

Josh nodded, heading over to the bar and retrieving the cash from his wallet. He briefly drummed his fingers against the worn faded wood of the counter before taking the pint glasses from the barman and walking back to the table, sliding the beverage over to Ricky, who was eyeing everything and trembling. Sipping the froth from the top, he let the icy liquid slide down his throat, the calming effect of the alcohol instantly noticeable.

Josh briefly tipped the glass towards his mouth, saying; “Good enough for you?”

“It’s all right…” came the reply, “Thanks. Now…um…the briefcase?”

Josh took up the briefcase from the seat and placed it on the tabletop, grinning. His fingers worked the locks and he slowly opened the case, teasing the man’s nerdy eyes with the contents. As his bony fingers reached inside, they withdrew just as quickly as it slammed shut. Josh wagged his index finger.

“Nuh-uh-uh.” He smiled, “We had a deal.”

“Ah yes, uh…” Ricky grunted, hastily pulling out a thin piece of folded paper from his pocket and sliding it across the table. Josh unfolded it, eyeing a cheque for half a million; fraudulent, no less. He kept up appearances, smiling at the numbers.

“That’s quite a lot of money you’re giving me there.” he said coolly, “A lot of zeroes. Lots and lots of zeroes.”

“Now…the white?”

Josh opened up the case again, revealing small packets of white powder neatly stacked in two rows, sealed with gold bands. The man’s eyes lit up and he instinctively snorted, grinning only slightly.

“It’s…real, right?”

“Would I screw you guys?” Josh said confidently, “I mean, seriously. You’re looking at a lot of keys, white gold. There’s probably…seven-fifty or one mil worth here. Wanna try before you buy? Come on, give it a go.”

Ricky reached into his pocket, pulling out a switchblade. Flicking the blade open, he punctured one of the packets, getting a small lump of the powder onto the edge. He brought it up to his nose and snorted sharply. One hand on the edge of the briefcase, his nose twitched as if a foul odour had invaded it. His voice became edgy.

“What the hell?” he grunted, “That’s talcum powder!”

In an instant Josh leapt up, he foot bringing the case slamming down onto the man’s fingers. Screaming in agony as his bones were crushed by the force of the impact, Josh whipped the revolver from its holster single-handedly, pointing it firmly at him, using his other hand to remove the aviator shades and place them back in his pocket.

“Joshua Jones, Miami P.D!” he bellowed, “And you are screwed!”

As police cars squealed into the parking lot outside the bar with their sirens blaring, patrons began panicking and made a stampede for any exit they could find. As they fled, the Latino bodyguard slammed a rock-hard knee into the underside of the table, sending Joshua flying to the ground with a loud thump.

“KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” Ricky screamed, clutching his bloodied digits in agony

The bodyguard flipped the table, leaping towards Josh. He rolled, barely missing the impact of his feet. Getting to his feet, he pointed the revolver firmly at him. The taller man ripped the gun from his hand with next to no effort, twisting the metal backwards as if it were nothing at all and throwing it aside. Josh merely stood petrified as he was lifted up by one arm, their eyes coming to meet.

“You remind me of that guy from that James Bond movie…”

Josh barely finished before he was heaved up and thrown like a rag doll through the stained glass window. He slammed into the hood of a police patrol car spawning cobweb cracks down the length of the windshield. He rolled off the hood whilst muttering several choice words, clutching his right arm in pain. The officers opened fire with their pistols and shotguns, peppering the bar with bullets, several reaching their market as the burly minder fell to the ground.

Josh got up, looking around for signs of Ricky. He heard the door flying open and smashing against the wall; he watched as the man went sprinting off, running in a very peculiar fashion with both arms flailing in the air. He turned briefly, revealing a Browning Hi-Power as he fired two shots, both hitting an officer in the chest. He fell without a sound. Looking at him run, Josh grunted, running up to a rotund man with a thick handlebar moustache and forcibly taking his Beretta 92 from him.

“Give me that!” he snarled. The officer put up no resistance and watched in disbelief with the rest of the squad as Joshua began sprinting after the man.

The terrified Ricky bounded over the chain-link fence onto the road, running across a busy intersection as a symphony of car horns sounded. Josh made it over the fence clumsily, dropping to the pavement before getting to his feet and running through the traffic to the other side of the road. His tie lashing about in the wind, Ricky pushed aside elderly women and young children whilst screaming threats and curses. He looked behind him, seeing Josh gaining fast. He fired behind him, his shots missing entirely.

Eyeing an alleyway, he turned abruptly, his thin legs struggling to kick the boxes and other clutter out of his way. Josh rounded the corner, putting the gun in his holster as he exercised both arms in an effort to leap over the rubbish skip ahead of him. Leaping up, his feet missing the mark as he went flying into the pile of black bags. He peeled a banana skin from his ankle in disgust before leaping out as quickly as possible. His target was nowhere to be seen. He cursed himself, hurrying down to the other end of the alley.

Ricky was at a red light and having just ripped open the door of a taxi and demanded its handover, kicked the cabbie out onto the street and dove it, slamming the door sharply and stamping on the accelerator. He peeled out, spinning around a corner and speeding down the road. Josh exited the alley, seeing the cabbie in the middle of the road. Hearing the roar of the engine, he guessed that he was the former owner and ran straight past him, sprinting down the road as fast as his legs could carry him.

The man eyed his pursuer in the rear-view mirror and panicked, leaning out of the window and firing off a few rounds to no effect. The shells landed harmlessly as the taxi screamed round another corner, the force sending a hubcap flying off. Josh barely dodged it, eyeing it in the road as a loud horn filled his ears. He turned to see a sedan slamming on its brakes. The mild impact was still enough to throw Josh onto the hood. The driver yelled curses at him as he leapt off and ran onto the pavement, not wanting to get hit by a bus or something equally unfortunate.

Josh, seeing the taxi screech round another corner in its effort to get away, rounded into an adjacent alley running parallel to the street. Leaping over boxes, he kept a mental picture of the taxi being just behind the row of houses on his right, confirmed when he saw brief flashes of yellow. Running out of the alley, he stopped, seeing another intersection behind him. As the came towards him, he waited patiently. People on the pavement watched in horror at the man waiting for speeding death. At the last second, he pulled out the Beretta, firing a shot squarely at Ricky’s shoulder. The man screamed in agony and swerved violently, missing Josh completely as he screeched towards the intersection. The taxi slammed into a bus. From the three corners, all manner of vehicles began smashing into each other in the centre and the symphony of screeching tyres and car horns filling the air.

“Anybody got a video camera?” Josh grinned, “This has to go on World’s Worst Pileups.”

As white smoke hissed from the engine, the front of the taxi crumpled like a can, Ricky coughed. A line of blood trickled down his face and his glasses had fallen from his broken nose. He groaned in pain. A hand grabbed the collar of his shirt as the door was ripped open and he was dragged out. As he went for the gun in his pocket, Josh twisted his arm, causing his to yelp in pain. He forced him up, placing the Beretta firmly against his head. It was a matter of seconds before the patrol cars came squealing round the corner and screeching to a halt yards in front of him.

Two officers came and took the man from Josh, handcuffing him and leading him away. The Chief walked up to him, his face stern as always. He put his hand out.

“Can I have my gun back now?” he grunted

Josh placed it firmly in his palm, saying nothing.

“I have to give you credit.” The Chief said, grinning slightly, “I was half expecting you to kill the guy. Good job, Jones.”

As the Chief walked away, Josh reached into his inner breast pocket and pulled out his aviators. He sighed heavily; they were beyond repair. He made a mental note to stop breaking his shades and casually discarded them in the street. He turned away from the mass pileup of vehicles and walked briskly away in search of his beloved Mustang.