REDEEMED IN PHOENIX?

The screen door slammed behind the two men upon entering the cafe, which sat in Grey Mountain on the side of the highway about 75 miles north of Flagstaff, Arizona. Adam Ackerman, owner of the cafe, stood behind the bar. Without missing a beat he continued to wipe it down as the men walked in. 

“We’re closed.” Ackerman said without looking up. Hearing the sound of their expensive soft leather shoes rather than boots, slapping the hard wooden cafe floor, Ackeman knew that they were not his usual customers looking for cheap food and craft beer. With a ragged cloth that might at one time have been white, he continued to wipe the counter, rubbing it to an almost polished sheen. Casually he dropped his left hand down below the bar’s countertop. Slowly he slid his hand until he found it. With a firm grip he held his pistol. It rested, snuggled in its leather holder, under the bar to discourage robbers, thieves and other idiots from messing up his establishment. And for the past few years it proved to be a successful deterrent.

“That’s okay,” one of the men said “I . . .” 

“We,” he nodded to his companion, “we didn’t come here to eat.” They stepped over a lingering puddle of spilled beer. The heavier man, wearing Italian leather loafers, stepped straight toward the bar avoiding discarded peanut shells piled up in fat mounds resembling a minefield. The second man, thinner and taller with a slight limp, stopped to survey the cafe. Like a running back avoiding tacklers he made his way to the bar on a circumspect route dodging tables and chairs. His hands remained buried deep in his pockets. His eyes remained locked on Ackerman. The two men looked like Laurel and Hardy except they were larger, darker and not funny at all.

“Well whatever it is you want, we’re still closed,” Ackerman said. Never looking up he told them, “Come back later.” 

“I . . .”

“We,” Hardy corrected the man who resembled Laurel. “We,” he pointed to his partner, "came looking for someone.”

“We,” Ackerman said looking up for the first time, “isn’t here.” With a crooked patronizing smile he waved his arm holding the tattered rag around the empty room, while still holding a firm grip on his hidden pistol, and said, “So, now you can leave.”

The two men stood before Ackerman separated only by the white oak and cottonwood bar. Putting down his rag, Ackerman said, “Look, I know you two are cops. You’re wearing off-the rack suits from Sears and Sears has been closed for a few years. Did you ever think about getting new clothes?”

Laurel and Hardy looked at each other and shrugged before leaning on the counter. “And besides,” Ackerman said, “your car has a chrome spotlight above the side mirror. If the fleet of antennas protruding through the trunk don’t stand out, the front tag, ‘CITY’ does. And besides, your nondescript green Ford is parked in a no-parking spot. Only cops do that. And judging by the dust, you drove up from Phoenix. Most cops don’t leave the barn with filthy cars - so you came up through the desert. For what?” Ackerman picked up the rag and thumped it a few times on the bar. “Just to harass me?” he asked.

The one that looked like Hardy pulled a picture from his suit pocket. Placing it on the countertop he tapped it several times before looking Ackerman in the eye. “So, this isn’t you then?”  

Ackerman looked down at the picture. He pushed it back across the bar, “Nope, haven’t seen him.” With a scowl that could kill he looked across the bar to Hardy. With his arms crossed he declared, ”Nope.”   

“Take a better look, Enzo.” Hardy stabbed the picture. “This is you,” he insisted. The one who resembled Laurel grabbed the picture. He held it up in front of Ackerman’s nose. On the back of the photo in faded blue ink Laurel read the caption, “Enzo Vitale.” 

Passing it back across the bar Laurel said, “This is your file photo when you joined the force.”  

“It’s you alright,” Hardy said. He grit his teeth like a lion ready to devour its prey. He took a breath before roaring across the bar, “It’s you!” Locked on Ackerman’s eyes he studied the old photograph. “You didn’t have a ponytail then or a long beard, but it’s you.” Pointing to the embroidered name on the starched apron, “Adam,” he snickered, “this is you and you still look like you’re in pretty good shape.” He cocked his head as if to get a better look.

“Yeah, well, that may have been me then. But I’m retired now. I own this cafe.”

Laurel shook his head, “You didn’t retired, you walked away.”

Hardy jumped in, “More like ran away.” He shook his head. 

Holding the picture up against Ackerman, Laurel asked, “So, where did you change your name? California? It wasn’t in Arizona.” “Billings. Why?” 

Hardy elbowed his partner, “I knew we should have searched farther.”

“Listen”, Laurel said. “The shooting . . .”

“It was a righteous shooting. We all know it,” said Hardy. “We all know it. You know it.” He poked Ackerman in the chest, “So, are you ready to do something about it?”

With a smirk, Ackerman said, “So, you came all the way out here just to tell me that?”

Laurel frowned. His voice was smooth and almost convincing, “Really the shooting was righteous. And your partner . . .”

“I don’t want to talk about Phoenix." He poured himself a beer from the tap. “I don’t suppose you want a beer. Oh, I guess not; you’re still on duty.”

Laurel pointed to a round table near the wall. “Can we sit down and talk a minute?”

Ackerman took the seat against the wall so he could keep an eye on the front door as well as on the counter in the rear of the cafe. Hardy pulled another photo from his suit jacket. “Do you recognize this picture?”

Ackerman glanced down at it and just as fast slid it back across the table. “Yeah, I know him. Or rather knew him.” His voice wavered and softened and yet it had an angry edge to it. “That day in Phoenix,” he pointed to the face of the picture, “he started the shooting.” 

“And your partner . . .”

Ackerman stood up interrupting Hardy. 

“Just sit down, okay?” Laurel said as he glared at Hardy. His voice was reassuring. 

“Eaqarab 'the scorpion’ Khalil. His name in Arabic means the scorpion.”

Shaking his head in disgust, “Who would name their child, scorpion?” added Hardy. 

“Anyway,” Laurel said, “he has scorpions tattooed on his wrists. And like a scorpion, he is fast and deadly. We tracked multiple deaths in the desert back to him and to his . . .

“Friends,” added Hardy as he stroked his smoke-gray mustache. “And friend, we can use your help.”   

“My help? I don’t think so.” Ackerman waved his arms around and said, “And give all this up?” pointing around the cafe. The warped floor where the wash bucket is permanently stationed to collect rain water caught his eye. The roof has leaked in the same spot since1990. It never seemed to bother him before. Now the building seemed tired. Almost as tired as he felt.

Laurel leaned across the table. It wobbled slightly under the new pressure. “Just think about it. Will you?”   

Ackerman took another sip of beer. He cringed. “It’s a little bitter. It might be time to change out the keg.” 

“Change can be good.” Laurel said with a slight grin. 

“Yes.” Like an old married couple Hardy jumped in and reinforced Laurel’s thoughts, with a Cheshire like grin. “Change can be good.” Both men slid their cards across the table. In unison they stood up. Glancing down at Ackerman, Laurel said “Give us a call.” 

“The phones are on and we’ll be in the area for a while.” Hardy said as he slapped Ackerman on the back and headed for the door. 

Ackerman stashed their cards in his shirt pocket and watched them walk away.

+ + +

That evening as the crowed thinned out, Ackerman tossed his apron behind the bar and stood outside on the sidewalk littered with cigarette butts. The moonless night sky was clear and crisp. Looking up Ackerman noticed the stars and their brilliance. They appeared so close. It was almost as if he could reach up and gather them in. Breathing the night air a flood of memories came rushing to him. It was a night like this, he remembered. A night that smelled of spilled beer and stale cigarettes. But it was also a night overtaken with the sounds of gun fire and screams. The smell of gun powder erased the scent of stale beer. Then there was nothing but dead silence.  

Staring at the empty barn across the highway at Grey Mountain Ackerman remembered another barn in southern Arizona, just outside of Phoenix. He was the undercover agent. He was sent into the barn to make the purchase. Then the capture and the arrest. But something went wrong. The team came in early. Shots were fired. His informant dead. More gun fire. The barn exploded. Like a rag doll Ackerman was thrown through the rear door. When he came to his team his partner were all dead. Eaqarab 'the scorpion’ Khalil vanished in the night with all the money and guns designed to trap him.  

With his eyes glued on the Grey Mountain barn Ackerman pulled the business cards from his shirt pocket. He studied them for a minute or two. Then he lifted his cell phone from his back pocket. Even though it was 2:10 in the morning he punched in the number to Laurel, or was it Hardy? He didn’t care.