The Father & The Gun

Here's a butt-kicking hardboiled story to kick off the new year. It's about a Catholic priest living in a small Mexican border town who gets involved with a bunch of drug traffickers in a very bad way. His name is Father Gibbons, and this is his story.

In El Concito, a little town near the Mexico/California border, there lived a priest. His name was Father Gibbons.

Father Gibbons lived and preached in a small one-room church situated in the center of El Concito. He slept upstairs in the church attic, with its creaky floorboards and rotting wood. The townspeople thought it strange that a white man had been sent to their town to preach in their language. Regardless, Father Gibbons preached every Wednesday night, Sunday morning, and Sunday night, no matter how many or how few parishioners came to hear his message.

Father Gibbons knew the people of El Concito didn't like him. He could see it in their sideways glances, could hear it in their lowest whispers, could feel it when they shouldered past him. They hated him, not because he was white, but because he preached a message nobody wanted to hear.

El Concito served as a stop for drug traffickers. The cocaine, produced in Mexico, was driven through the desert and up into California, where it was sold for profit. The traffickers always spent a night in El Concito before they traversed the sand to the California border.

One fateful night, a trafficker by the name of Suarez entered the little blue church that served as Father Gibbons' home. Father Gibbons, with the oppressive summer heat and the lack of air conditioning, wasn't in a preaching mood. Suarez asked the priest if he could confess his sins. Father Gibbons stepped into a confessionary, and Suarez took his place on the opposite side.

"Please forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Suarez began.

"Cut that shit out," Gibbons replied. "When is the shipment crossing the border?"

"Tomorrow. One o' clock. Two at the latest."

"Where?"

"Toward Yuma. Then Winterhaven. It's picked up by another crew from there."

"What's the signal?"

"I'll piss inside my canteen."

"Shit. Seriously?"

"Seriously, amigo. These fuckers don't fool around."

"Fine. My agents will be waiting for you."

"Should I look for them?"

"No, you imbecile," Gibbons snorted. "You look for them and you'll draw unwanted attention to yourself." He sighed. "Have you got that?"

"Got it."

"Good. Now get lost, my son. Find yourself a whore for the night. There's plenty of them in this dump."

Suarez exited the confessionary and walked out of the little blue church. He made his way up to Rita's, the local brothel, and stepped inside. The townspeople gave him a curious glance and wondered if he had confessed sins he'd already planned to commit.

Father Gibbons stood on the front steps of his church and reached for the flask of whiskey he kept in his robes. A loose chicken clucked at him.

"Go with God," Gibbons told the future McNugget, "and all that good shit." He took a slug of his whiskey. Took another. Replaced the flask. He didn't want, or need, to get drunk tonight.

After all, if everything went as planned, tomorrow would be Father Gibbons' last day in El Concito.

***

Father Gibbons woke with a start when he heard a mighty fist slam against the side of the confessionary he was napping in. Gibbons snatched up the wrinkled Playboy he'd been reading before he fell asleep and stuffed it under his robes.

"Father Gibbons!" a voice called from inside the church. The voice sounded angry and carried enough venom to kill a snake.

"Over here, my son," Gibbons replied in his priestly voice. He slid his side of the confessionary open and waved. There were three men, all of them of Mexican origin. One of them, the angry one, stormed over and dropped into the confessionary's seat.

"Well, we meet at last," the angry one said. "Wait a moment. I don't believe we've been properly introduced." He drew a large revolver from his back pocket and cocked the hammer. "My name is Alberto Ricardo Rodriguez." He grinned. The teeth he had left were all yellow. "But you already know that. Right, Agent Gibbons?"

"Do you have something to confess, my son?" Gibbons said. "If you do not, then please leave this--"

Rodriguez fired his revolver. The weapon roared inside the small church and tore a hole through the confessionary, past Father Gibbons, and out through the wall next to him. Lord only knew where the bullet went after that.

"Let's drop the bullshit, shall we?" Rodriguez said with a twitch of his neck. "I heard all about you from your buddy Suarez. You remember Suarez, right?"

Remember Suarez? In Father Gibbons' eyes, using that word when it came to a person was never a good sign.

Rodriguez cocked the hammer on his revolver again. "You're wondering what happened to Suarez. You're wondering what happened to your little squad of D.E.A. agents." Rodriguez snapped his fingers at his closest comrade. "Julio! Bring me the bag!"

Father Gibbons didn't like the looks of this. Rodriguez was a psychopath and had a gun that could blow a hole through the thickest Bible. He was also blocking Gibbons' only escape route.

Julio returned with "the bag," which was nothing more than a leather sack that looked better suited to Indiana Jones than Mexican drug dealers. Rodriguez laid his revolver down, undid the clasp on the bag, and emptied it onto the wooden shelf in the confessionary. What Father Gibbons saw nearly made him throw up--Rodriguez had gathered Suarez's index finger, and those belonging to Gibbons' squad, and lined them up in a neat display of savagery.

"Well, Agent Gibbons?" Rodriguez said with another twitch. "What do you think?"

"I think you're a sick fuck, Rodriguez," Gibbons replied. "I also think I'm going to kill you."

Rodriguez stared at Gibbons through the confessionary's latticework window. Then he burst out laughing.

"You? Kill me?" Rodriguez asked through his tears of laughter. "That's, that's...what's the word you gringos use?"

"Rich?" Gibbons offered dryly.

"Exactly!" Rodriguez roared with laughter. "How do you plan to kill me when you don't even have a gun?!"

"I don't need a gun," Gibbons said. "I've got yours."

Rodriguez searched his side of the confessionary. His revolver had vanished into thin air.

"What--the hell--?" he stammered.

"Adios, amigo," Father Gibbons said. He squeezed the trigger on Rodriguez's revolver and delivered him into the devil's eager hands. The recoil from the gun threw Gibbons against the wall and made him slide to the floor, as Rodriguez recoiled from the confessionary and blasted across the floor, his blood mixing with the dusty sand that coated the ceramic tiles.

Julio and the third bandito knelt alongside Rodriguez's dead body as Father Gibbons kicked the confessionary open and dove for the floor. Julio spun around and drilled the wall with his Uzi, emptying half of his clip into the picture of The Holy Virgin that hung on the wall.

Father Gibbons snaked across the floor, following the path of the wooden pews, as Julio took careful steps down the center aisle, which led up to the pulpit and the baptismal. The third bandito stayed by the entrance and watched for any escapees with his wild eyes and his finger tickling the trigger of his Ruger M-12.

Julio stepped up to the pulpit and stared at the picture of Jesus Christ on the wall behind it. Sunlight was filtering down from the attic windows, and it landed right on the picture, making Jesus look almost life-like. Julio seemed overcome with the Holy Spirit at that moment, took one hand off his Uzi, and crossed himself. He finished up by closing his eyes and whispering a short prayer in Spanish.

Father Gibbons couldn't believe his eyes. He also couldn't believe Julio could possibly be so stupid as to take his hands off his gun. Gibbons lifted the beastly revolver, cocked the hammer, and fired, the bullet tearing a hole through Julio's head and exploding it. Gibbons slid back against the wall and crashed into a clay pot, which shattered on impact, leaving shards of hardened clay in Gibbons' back.

Gibbons looked up in time to see the third guy sobbing and screaming at the top of his lungs. He took his Ruger in both hands and fired it in every direction but Gibbons', destroying the holy place and everything in it. Gibbons crawled to the front pews, trying desperately not to get shot, and ducked out from his cover long enough to pop a bullet in the bandito's right ankle.

The man fell flat on his face, screaming and cursing in Spanish, while his Ruger slid across the floor and stopped next to Gibbons' feet. Father Gibbons stood, keeping both hands on the revolver, and gave the bandito a kick in the groin before he stepped outside.

The sunlight had never felt better. The stickiness of the heat almost felt cool against his skin. The clucking of that chicken almost made him smile.

That's when Father Gibbons noticed the white Ford Pinto pulling up in front of the church. He sat down on the front steps, sat the revolver next to him, and removed his flask of whiskey. As he drank it straight down, a short, spectacled man in a plaid suit and bow tie emerged from the Pinto and combed his thinning hair back.

"Who are you supposed to be?" Father Gibbons asked.

"Father Gibbons," the rotund man replied. "Who are you?"

The priest threw his empty flask at the chicken and limped toward the Pinto.

"Nobody, apparently," the priest managed to say. He pointed to the church. "She's all yours." He climbed into the Pinto's driver's seat, but stopped and waved for the real Father Gibbons' attention.

"Yes, sir?" Gibbons asked. "What is it?"

"Watch that trap door on the first confessionary," the priest said. "It's a killer."

The priest closed the door on the Pinto as Father Gibbons, carrying three suitcases and a laptop bag, found his way to the church. The priest smiled, put the Pinto in drive, and headed for Yuma. Maybe he could get in touch with his D.E.A. contacts and set up another operation there. Maybe he could find a nice church with a nun who had loose morals. Or maybe he'd just get drunk and dance the night away.

The latter sounded like a good idea. 

It sounded like a real good idea.

Rick Ricochet: The Case of the Drowning Doorman

RICK RICOCHET #2: THE CASE OF THE DROWNING DOORMAN

by Justin Swartz 

Detective Rick Ricochet frowned at the body of Hank Sturgeon, lying face up on the floor of the Speedy Service Hotel.  Sturgeon had drowned when rain water filled the hotel elevator.

"What do you make of it, Rick?" Drake Derringer, Ricochet's longtime partner, asked.

"Well, he's wet," Ricochet observed dryly.  "What did he do here at the hotel?"

Before Derringer could say anything, an aquiline man approached the detectives and spit out the details in a torrent.

"Hank was our doorman, Mister Ricochet," he began.  "He was coming back from his break when the elevator doors opened and all this rain water came gushing into the lobby.  I checked Hank's body, and when I saw he wasn't breathing, I dialed nine-one-one."  He made a point of throwing his arms up in the air.  "It's going to take all night to dry this carpet out, and with this rain we've been having, the carpet cleaners won't get here until tomorrow afternoon!"

"That's Detective Ricochet," Ricochet informed him.  "And you are...?"

"Frederick Lymangood, the hotel manager," the man said, shaking Ricochet's hand.  He had one of those limp fish handshakes.  Ricochet caught a whiff of Lymangood's strong cologne as he pulled away.

"Have you had any leaks because of the rain?" Derringer asked.

"Leaks?  Leaks?!" Lymangood gestured to the parade of buckets and trash cans that filled the lobby.  "It's raining as much inside as it is outside!"

Ricochet stepped over Sturgeon's body and into the elevator.  A few drops of water plunked against his fedora.  He looked up to find the emergency door in the ceiling had been left open.  He hoisted himself through it and looked around the elevator shaft.  More water dripped onto his fedora and trench coat.  Ricochet looked straight up the shaft, receiving a drop of water directly in his eyes.

Ricochet had seen enough.  He climbed back down into the elevator to find another individual speaking with Drake Derringer.  He was older than Lymangood, considerably shorter, and dressed in mechanic's overalls and a white shirt.  Ricochet noticed a lipstick smear on the man's collar.

"This is Gus Jones," Derringer said as Ricochet entered.  "He's the maintenance man for the hotel.  He also services the elevators."

"What can you tell me about rain water leaking into an elevator car?" Ricochet asked Jones.

"It's impossible, Mister Ricochet," Jones replied.  This drew a look of alarm from Lymangood.  "Elevators are designed so that if they filled with water, it would drain out of them while they're in transit.  There's no way a person could drown inside an elevator car."

"That's Detective Ricochet," Ricochet corrected.  He made thinking noises and looked down at Sturgeon.  The man had drowned, all right...but if not in the elevator, then where?

A trim woman in gym clothes approached them.  She was drying her hair with a towel as she extended her hand to Ricochet.  "Evening, Mister Ricochet.  I'm Roberta Roscoe, the hotel detective."  Ricochet could smell Lymangood's cologne on her.  "You'll forgive my appearance; I just finished working out in the gym."

Derringer's eyes lit up.  He snapped his fingers, dashing toward the main desk for one of the hotel brochures.

"It's Detective Ricochet," Ricochet told Roberta.  "Did you ever have any issues with Mister Sturgeon?"

"Not at all," Roberta replied.  "He was a fine employee, and his background check came back clean as a whistle.  He also passed all the mandatory drug tests with flying colors."

Derringer returned and lit into Roberta as he said "Miss Roscoe, you said you just came from the gym, but Speedy Service hotels don't have gyms, pools, jacuzzis, or spas, as indicated on the brochure in the lobby!"  Derringer pointed a finger at Roberta's chest.  "Why did you kill Hank Sturgeon?"

"She didn't kill him!" Jones interjected. "I did!"

"Gus is lying!" Lymangood shouted.  ”I killed Mister Sturgeon!"

"All of you did," Ricochet said calmly.  "All three of you killed Hank Sturgeon...and I can prove it."

"You can't prove a single thing!" Lymangood said.

"You've got no evidence!" Jones said.

"And besides that, it was an accident!" Roberta said.

"Boy, this is a screwy bunch, isn't it?" Derringer whispered to Ricochet.  "First they confess to it and then they deny it!"

"I've got it under control, partner," Ricochet said.  "Watch me work."

Ricochet turned his attention to the three hotel employees and said, "Mister Jones, you told me that nobody can drown inside an elevator."

"That's correct," Jones said.

"But let's suppose that the elevator wasn't in transit. Let's suppose that it was on the bottom floor, and let's say that the water had no place to go.  Couldn't someone drown inside an elevator then?"

Jones looked uncomfortable.  "I suppose, yeah..."

"I looked at the elevator," Ricochet continued.  "The emergency door is open and water's dripping down from up in the shaft.  The problem is that it's not rain water.  It's water from the fire hose in the shaft, which is used in the event of a fire in the elevator.

"What I'm suggesting is that Miss Roscoe used her feminine wiles on Hank Sturgeon, distracting him long enough so you, Mister Jones, could turn on the fire hose and use it to fill the elevator car with water.  The only other thing you needed was someone to watch the lobby...and that job fell squarely on your shoulders, Mister Lymangood."

"But what reason would I have for killing Hank?" Lymangood asked haughtily.  "What reason would any of us have for killing him?" 

"I suspect it has something to do with your cologne being on Miss Roscoe," Ricochet said to Lymangood, "and Miss Roscoe's lipstick being on Mister Jones's collar."

Lymangood and Jones exchanged a glance, giving each other the once-over.

"You didn't...!" Lymangood said.

"You wouldn't...!" Jones shot back.

The two men turned to Roberta, who had her hand over her face in exasperation.  "We may as well tell him the truth," she said with a sigh.  "He's figured out the rest of it."

Lymangood frowned.  "I'm not admitting anything."

Jones glared at Roberta.  "And neither am I!"

"You two are impossible," Roberta muttered, shaking her head.  "You were right that all three of us had a hand in murdering Hank Sturgeon, Detective Ricochet.  He stumbled into the break room while Gus and I were having a...intimate moment...and threatened to report us to management."

"But you had that angle covered," Ricochet pointed out, "because you had Lymangood in your pocket."

Roberta nodded.  "When Frederick heard Hank's report, he decided that we'd have to come up with some way to get rid of him, in case he decided to report us to corporate management."

"I still don't see what the problem is," Derringer said.  "What's so wrong about you sleeping with Jones?"

Lymangood supplied the answer from his corner.  "Because, boy, Speedy Service corporate policy dictates that no Speedy Service employee shall engage in an intimate relationship with another Speedy Service employee at any time, or risk termination of their employment."

"So you three cooked up this scheme to take Sturgeon for a swim in the elevator," Ricochet said.  "That's why you were drying your hair when you came in, Miss Roscoe--you came out of the elevator the same time he did...only you held your breath."

Roberta gave him a small nod.  It was all the confirmation Ricochet needed.  He and Derringer removed their handcuffs and slapped them onto each employee's wrists.  Ricochet read them their Miranda rights and handed them over to Derringer, who led them outside to his car.

Ricochet stepped outside as the car holding Hank Sturgeon's killers pulled away.  A pair of uniformed officers approached him a few moments later.

"What do you want us to do now, Detective?" one of them asked.

"Nothing," Ricochet said, smiling a little.  "Consider this case closed."

Rick Ricochet: The Case of the Broken Broker

Here's an experiment: post whatever writing you do that gets rejected on this blog and see what people think of it.  Sound good?  Sound scary?  Then you're in for a real surprise!

###

RICK RICOCHET #1: THE CASE OF THE BROKEN BROKER

by Justin Swartz

Detective Rick Ricochet stepped around the dead body on the floor of Madison Clark's apartment.  The body belonged to her husband, Roger Clark, who had taken six bullets right in the heart.

"What do you make of it, Rick?" Drake Derringer asked.  He was Ricochet's longtime partner.

"Well, he's dead," Ricochet said dryly.  "Where's the gun?"

Derringer kneeled by Clark's left foot and pointed to a Comanche .38 Special.  "Looks just like the ones we carry."  He then pointed to the casings in front of Ricochet.  "Those are the six casings that match the six slugs he took."

Ricochet made thinking noises and surveyed the apartment.  A sliding glass door led to a balcony, where two uniformed officers were interviewing Madison Clark.  The glass was broken, but there were no bits and pieces of it on the apartment floor.

"What's the widow's story, Drake?" Ricochet asked.

"Says a guy climbed onto the balcony and used a rock to bust the glass," Derringer explained, reading from his notepad.  "She came rushing in from the bathroom to find a stranger in black pumping her husband full of lead."

"I take it she fought him off?"

"After he emptied the gun into Mr. Clark, she says he left through the front door and took the stairs."

"Is that when she called the police?"

"You got it."

"What did Mr. Clark do for a living?"

Derringer flipped through his notes.  "Seems he was a stock broker."

Ricochet cringed.  The man had probably lost millions when the economy went down the toilet.  "Anything else I should know, Drake?"

"Not really," Derringer replied.  "Mrs. Clark said she had just come out of the shower and was brushing her hair when she heard the gunshot.  I don't know if that helps, but--"

"It does," Ricochet said.  "Thanks, partner."

Ricochet entered the apartment's bathroom and felt the shower head.  It was cold to the touch.  Ricochet then put his hand under the bathtub faucet.  It and the tub were completely dry. 

Ricochet reentered the apartment and picked the revolver up off the floor.  He opened the chamber and found it empty.  Ricochet snapped it closed, a fury building in his eyes.

He stormed past a confused Drake Derringer and stopped at the doorway to the balcony.  A large Tiki god sat on a nearby stand.  Although it was a dark black, Ricochet could see several scratches on its surface.

Ricochet stepped onto the balcony and told the two uniformed officers to get lost.  They shrugged and retreated inside.  One of them crunched a piece of glass under his shoe as he left. 

Ricochet could see from Madison's puffy eyes that she'd been crying, but he couldn't tell whether they were tears of pain or joy.

"Are you a detective?" she said, tugging at her bathrobe. "Please, you have to find the man who did this to my husband."

"I just did," Ricochet told her, "and he ain't no man."

Madison gave Ricochet an alarmed look.  Either she was truly ignorant or she was just good at faking it.

"You murdered your husband in cold blood, Mrs. Clark," Ricochet said, "and I can prove it."

Madison threw her head back in defiance.  "So tell me, Detective--how did I supposedly kill my husband?"

"First off," Ricochet began, "there wasn't any stranger who climbed onto your balcony.  And there wasn't any rock.  If there were, the glass would be on your apartment floor, not on your balcony.  You took that Tiki god and threw it at the glass door after you killed your husband to make it look like someone had broken in, but since you threw it from inside your apartment, the glass landed outside on the balcony, instead of the other way around."

Madison shook her head.  "Glass is glass," she said.  "It still doesn't prove that I killed Roger."

"You're right," Ricochet continued, "but the bullet casings you scattered on the floor do."  Madison frowned at him, but he pressed his advantage as he said, "I checked your husband's revolver.  It was never fired because it wasn't loaded.  And in case you don't know, Mrs. Clark, a revolver doesn't eject bullet casings...but an automatic pistol does."

The widow of Roger Clark made a dismissive sound and waved her hand.  "Details, details."

"You're exactly right, Mrs. Clark--it's all in the details.  Like how you told my partner you'd just gotten out of the shower, but the shower head is still cold and the faucet and tub are still dry.  There's also the fact that your hair is completely dry...and so is that bathrobe.

"You didn't take a shower, Mrs. Clark, and trust me, when we search your apartment, we will find the pistol you used to kill your husband, and it will be minus six bullets."  Ricochet frowned.  "What I don't understand is the why."

Madison's bottom lip quivered for a full moment.  She looked off toward the lights of the city and closed her eyes.

"Roger was drowning in debt," Madison explained.  "The stock market hasn't been the best, in case you haven't noticed."  She opened her eyes and looked at Ricochet.  "I decided it was time to cut my losses and start over...but I wouldn't start over poor."

"You're talking about life insurance," Ricochet interjected.

Madison nodded.  "I thought that if I made it look like a home invasion, the insurance company would pay me the full benefit for Roger's policy."

"And how much was that benefit?" Ricochet asked.

Madison hesitated, hesitated again.  Then she spoke.

"A quarter of a million dollars," she said softly.  She wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed.  "The credit cards, the rent, the price of gas even...I thought I could pay it all off with the insurance money and start over somewhere, anywhere else!"  She sobbed again.  "I'm sorry, Roger...I'm so sorry..."

"Save the theatrics for the jury," Ricochet said.  "You'll need them."

Drake Derringer stepped onto the balcony.  He was holding a Bersa Firestorm .22-caliber pistol.  It fit perfectly into the palm of his hand.

"Look what we found in her underwear drawer, Rick," Derringer said with a smirk.  "I already checked the clip.  It'll hold ten bullets, but there are only four of them left inside."

"I think you'll find the rest of them inside Roger Clark," Ricochet said.  He removed his handcuffs and applied them to Madison Clark's wrists.  He then read Madison her rights and handed her over to Derringer, who led her downstairs to his car.

Ricochet stepped into the apartment again as one of the uniformed officers approached him.

"What do you want us to do now, Detective?" he asked.

"Nothing," Ricochet said, allowing himself a smile.  "Consider this case closed."