The Night Banker

A drop of blood hit the sink, and Derek pushed his tongue against his cheek. Steam danced across the glass in a fluid motion of graceful harmony. Above, a middle-aged man of thirty years of understanding removed the stubble that often itched him. He had just finished a shift at Comerica Bank. He dropped his head then walked into his small brown paneled living room and sat on his old brown flannel couch. He opened a notebook and took out a folded map. He moved his glass of coffee that said “#1 Loan Officer” and set the map onto his glass coffee table. He thought of his sister Sherri. Then of her absence, and his mind drifted to a memory:

Sliding into the parking lot of the old Detroit shotgun-style house in the middle of Brightmoore subdivision. Derek threw it into park, jumping out of the driver’s seat, with a crowbar in his right hand. The door to the old Ford Taurus was left open and swung subtly, giving faint popping sounds to prying ears nearby. A rusty stripe of brown stretched across his jeans just below his right pocket from the crowbars sitting on Derek’s lap during the drive over. Basically, in its very own dugout before the big game. Storming across the yard, he walked right through a children’s pool full of water, gracefully, only the water disturbed. He never made an offbeat step. Determined.

“Yo, yo,yo mothafucka what you got there?” Leon went to school with Derek, and he chuckled as he asked the intensely curious question.

BINK.

Leon fell, and Derek moved onto the porch. From Derek’s view, a man jumped up from a recliner through the window, and shouting began.

“Where the fuck is she! I know you know Dominic! I know you do!” Derek demanded his shaky eighteen-year-old voice. The old door opened behind the security screen and slammed against the furniture, labeling it a victim.

“Who D? Motherfucker you hit my cuz?” Dominic stood up on his toes and leaned, peering around Derek’s steaming shoulders.

“Damn white boy! Are you fucking crazy? You wanna die?”

Derek lifted the crowbar and pointed at Dominic’s face. The end was only a half inch from Dominic’s nose. "

“You want today to be the rest of your life? I will come inside of there RIGHT FUCKING NOW, and play for keeps, WHERE IS SHE!” The grit and determination in Derek’s blue eyes pierced Dominic and from inside a guest chimed in.

“Hey Dom, is that that motherf-”

“Shut up, Kilo! Yeah, that’s him, that’s him!”

“Fuck that, I’m out!”

Dominic briefly recalled Derek in handcuffs after he took down three jocks from the football team over the same sister that he had in his bedroom. The problem was she had been passed out naked and high as hell for days, and her big brother was here right this very moment.

The observant guest darted out the back door, and Dominic stepped to the side in a quarter turn backward, signifying forfeiture, then rocked his head to signal that she was in the back. Without a moment’s hesitation, Derek entered and shortly after had her covered with his coat, and in his arms, walking back out. He didn’t say a word while he loaded her into the car and left.

Derek’s sister, Sherri, became addicted to cocaine, then crack at the age of 16, and died a few years after that memory in the same house where she was rescued many times. Domonic served 15 consecutive years for involuntary manslaughter and was due to be out in a year or so. Derek, with bitterness in his heart, hated all gangs and all drugs with a deep passion. So much that his basement was filled with weapons and gadgets that no one would ever know about. The map trickled and settled down. Upon it were red x’s marked across it. With a torn piece of a brown paper bag taped to the outer parts of the map portion itself, over the legend. Names were written on it, some crossed out, and some remain. Hand-drawn sketches of barns and other notes tag along.

Tonight was Anthony “Two receipts” Pillory, also known as Slim T. had been supplying Cocaine and Heroin to Detroit for many years and was feared by almost everyone who cared about dying. Derek thinks to himself:

“I bet this motherfucker microwaves fish in shared spaces, war criminal behavior.”

He slurps his coffee.

“There are five to six that hang out there if I recall correctly. A den of beltless Harvard educa-’

HA, Derek laughed aloud, amusing himself.

“This is either a country song or a bad joke waiting to happen! Seven thugs, one barn, and meeeee,” A made-up country song fills his mind. “They all bled from their kneeeee”s…… Bawomp womp was wompa…..” He circles a spot.

“This guy!” Derek picks up a picture of a thug standing on an old farmhouse porch, with binoculars, smoking a cigarette.

“He’s probably allergic to cows. I’m gonna throw a hamburger patty at him, and watch him have the allergic reaction take him to Poppa Jesus.”

He pauses and circles another spot.

“He definitely has a negative account….. and a pending extra hole.”

Derek puts away the stack of papers and stands up, holding them under his arm.

He begins to sing much louder and more abruptly than before.

“My pickup burst through the walls, I kicked him in theeeeeeeeeeee baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllls…”

He walks to his basement stairs and descends. His joking persona faded with every step, into a calm and cold killing machine. No expression, only determination and thoughts of revenge.

An old bookshelf that had belonged to his mother sat against the far wall in the cold, echoing basement. The only other fixtures in the subsurface room were a washer and dryer, which he used daily. He pulled on the string attached to the swinging solo light, and it illuminated the concrete walls. The shadow of the beams that supported his life above swayed to and from on the ground silently. He grabbed the bookshelf and pushed it aside, revealing a small six-foot by five-foot cutaway that was built when the house was erected. It was simply part of the floor plan. Derek had no ideas as to why, but it served him greatly. He removed a couple of duffel bags and a barrel from the area and unzipped each bag after placing them on the floor.

He grabbed a black suit of clothes and a ski mask from one bag. Then he pulled out a backpack and then a Remington break pump action shotgun. Inside the other bag, a pair of small pocket-sized binoculars and six magazines that accompanied the Beretta 92FS he grabbed next. The barrel gave a gong sound when he dropped the lid on the ground. Reaching in, he smiled and pulled out some bank tubes that said CoAmerica Bank on the sides. He had swiped them about a year ago from the drive-thru center. Inside the bank, tubes were perfect amounts of black powder and the white powdery catalyst that worked best. Fuses were plugged into the hole-drilled sides, and the openings had been sealed tightly.

Derek got dressed with the newly acquired midnight-shaded articles and strapped the pistol-hiding holster to his leg. He threw the backpack across his back and carried the shotgun in his hand back up the stairs.

Que the rock n roll.

The farmhouse sat quietly in the night, like a calm demon. The grass surrounded it and swayed in a dance. The moonlight scattered across the blades like a shine to wet hair. The wind blew and cooled all it touched. The farm appeared haunted and quiet. A barn sat behind the peak roofed white house. Paint chipping from both wood-made accomplishments as they held their historical secrets close. Some lights and distant tunes of hip-hop were the only hints of life inside the white house, and the barn sat dark, lurking behind the looming dwelling. Sweating from the outskirts of Detroit air, Derek snuck in closer, the grass sweeping and sweeping beneath his feet. He moved low, but quickly.

“I got ya. Them motherfuckas told me all about her, them big ol’ titties man, I didn’t care.” Laughter erupted from the speaking thug as he walked out the front door and toward the side of the house with a trash bag in hand. Derek looked around, keeping low, and found a stone the size of his fist. He threw it and hit the side of the house just beyond the thug. Making him turn away, the tall gangster investigated.

“The fuck?” He walked carefully.

Derek repositioned himself right around the corner in the path of the man’s return, and waited.

“Fucking animals man.” The thug shook his head and headed back inside.

Closer.

Closer..

Closer…

He rounded the corner, and Derek Spoke

“Have you ever heard about your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?”

“The fuck is you?”

CRACK!!! Derek slammed the butt of the shotgun right in the thugs chin as hard as he could. The poor guy hit the dirt. Derek leaned down and took his wallet and watch from his wrist, and picked him up.

The barn door opened slowly, and Derek stepped inside. He dropped the body of the unconscious man and grabbed some rope from his bag. Looking up he couldn’t believe his eyes, crates and crates stacked up some four some five high and labeled General Motors. He walked over and struck the corner of one downwards. The side panel opened up slightly. He grabbed and pulled down firmly. Bricks of cocaine and hay straw fell to the floor. He took a deep breath and looked at the unconscious man, then at the rope. Angrily, he tied the man’s feet together and put one of the banking tubes near his head. He tore the strike strip from a box of strike anywhere matches inside his backpack and taped it, the fuse from the banking tube, and a bundle of matches to the back of the man’s head with duct tape. He weighted the tube down with the corner of one of the crates. Then walked back toward the house, unraveling the large wad of rope slowly. Deviously kneeling at the corner of the old house, he listened. The conversation came from inside the house, but not near. Understanding the coast was clear, he stood and looked into the open window above him. The room was not empty by far. Three thugs sat facing away from him on a couch, passing a joint and watching Johnny Carson on a tube television. The same room had another open window only feet from the one Derek checked, just around the corner.

He threw the rope through the corner windows, threading them like he meant to wrap the corner of the house. Only he did not wrap the rope, he instead continued the rope into the backyard yard approaching the cattle. Inside the fenced-in pasture stood a few heifers and a bull staring at Derek.

“Y’all are creeping me the fuck out.” He approached, tying a lasso. “I have a gift for youuuu.” He looked at the bull. “Wait right here.” The bull chewed and continued to watch his new guest. Derek threw the lasso around the bull’s neck gently. The bull was unfazed. Creeping back to the house, Derek grabbed one of the unfriendly tubes from his bag and lit the fuse.

Pffffsssstttttttt…………..

Orange light danced across his face, revealing his malicious expression.

The glow from the fuse was just enough for the leader, Slim T, to spot him through the kitchen window. He stood up quickly, knocking his chair back and alerting his crew.

“Hey Mothafucka!” Slim T yelled in a blast of sudden wonder.

“Well, hey mothafucka!” Derek smiled and waved slowly at Slim.

Then he threw the sparking container through the kitchen window, breaking the glass. It landed on the floor, and Slim walked toward it and picked it up.

KRACKOOMMMMM!

Wood and glass exploded from the window, releasing pressure and bone from all it harbored. Dust and debris waited to step onto the stage as fire and combustion finished their act, rocking the foundation. The walls of the old farmhouse blew across the room, sweeping the thugs on the couch with it.

The bull was not happy!

It took off in a mad dash of fear. Chasing safety and a better life, the bull broke for a dead run. The man in the barn left his sleeping bed and the matches struck the taped strip upon his fleeting head, and lit. Taped to their new explosive friend, they lit the fuse. As the couch potatoes stood up, ears ringing, they tried to regain their balance. One looked around, trying to decipher the code the universe had just written. Then he saw his crewmate fly through the leaning windows of the old farm house, ropes tied to his legs. He shot through the first window into the living room and then, as quickly as he came into view, he was gone, leaving behind his clothes and one of his arms in a bloody detachment. The deciphering gangster fainted in disbelief. The other two started to run and stumbled more and more with every attempt.

KRAKOOMMMMM!

The barn lifted into the air.

PLAKOW! The doorknob to the back door flew off and hit the floor, and Derek kicked open the injured door. He raised his gun, and BLAM BLAM, a 9mm bullet tore through his side.

PLAKOW! He rattled off a 12-gauge round into the shooting thug’s chest, dropping him where he stood.

“AGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH FUCKKKK!” Derek yelled in pain. Running, the footsteps of the remaining gangster grew further and further away. Derek broke into a fierce pursuit. Through the kitchen, Derek flew past Slim's remains.

The backyard went from silent to footbeating dust clouds and grunts. The two ran in a brutal dash. Both for different reasons. Derek stopped and raised the shotgun.

PLAKOW. The thug fell to his stomach and grabbed his leg.

He crawled toward his hopes in an agonizing grunts, trying to catch his breath. The dirt covered and caked the sweat of his troubles. A tall shadow darkened the ground in front of him. His breath fanned the soil. Derek nudged the wounded runner rolling him onto his back.

“Bet you wish you wore your brown pants today.”

“Fuck you!”

“Na, I would just lay there and fart on it.”

The wounded thug squinted his eyes, confused and dying.

“The fuck?”

“Hey , did you happen to see a black man, about five six, pass by here? He was walking a bull?” Derek used his hand and pointed in a this or that gesture. “Or rather, the bull was walking him.”

“Who are you, man?”

“Don’t you know?” Derek stood.

“I’m the Night Banker. Let’s cash you out.”

PLAKOW.

The thug’s head blew apart, and his feet twitched for about an hour after Derek walked away.

The next day.

“Richards, hey Richards!” A tall man with a white button-up, tan khakis, and a thick mustache called out. He held his hand high so the Detective could spot him.

Detective Richards walked across the farmhouse lawn toward the barns remains. Ashes and embers still floated about like fiery pollen.

“Did you see this?”

“No, it looks like someone took a breather here.”

“I’ll say, these marks start here where the blood stains are and go toward the main house like someone was dragged. Fifteen feet up, an Iceberg shirt, twenty feet more, a white undershirt, and a partial belt.”

“Then the house.”

“Then the house, pants, underwear, and a bloody basketball sneaker.”

“Don’t forget the vacuum tube from a bank with illegible lettering, stuck in the tree.”

“Right, I can’t even wrap my head arou…. Anyways, what do you make of that, Diana?”

“Detective.” Richards corrected the mustached man. “I think someone was dragged very fast, maybe attached to a vehicle? The only thing is that there are no tire tracks.”

The Radio buzzed, interrupting the two’s dialogue.

“Lead this is forty-four, Ummm, y’all are gonna wanna see this, over.”

Richards responded, holding the radio close to her chest.

“Go ahead, Jones.”

“We are at the back of the property just past the fence, over.”

“We are on our way, over and out.”

Richards and the man walked toward the back of the property.

“So we have two dead in the fire, A burnt up pistol, one man in the field, with no head to identify, and a bloody streak of expensive clothes across the property that just stops at the back fence. As well as a barn and house torched.”

“I have been a Detective for fifteen years, and I can say this is a new one.”

They noticed three uniformed officers and Richard’s partner standing in a half circle, looking down at a bull sitting on the ground in the shade.

“What’s up, James?” Richards called out and high-stepped over patches of tall grass.

James looked up and he stepped aside, revealing a naked man with one arm tied to a bull. His shoe was lodged into his thigh, and ninety percent of his skin was simply gone.

“Jesus.” The man who accompanied Detective Richards stepped aside with haste and threw up.

“Call the office and tell them we need hazmat and animal control,” Richards ordered one of the officers.

James looked at Richards,

“What do you make of it, partner?”

“Well, the bull got into the kilos of cocaine in the barn, and as one of the gangster rodeo clowns was trying to lead it to pasture, he got the ride of his life. It blew past the house so fast it lit the damn thing on fire. Soooooo one fucked up Rodeo!”

“Sarcasm and cowshit!” James took a deep sniff through his nose. “It’s gonna be a long day.”