Walter Wizknoski (Wallace to his friends) pressed down
harder on the accelerator peddle. The heavy Bentley
dutifully dumped more atomized fuel into all 12 cylinders and the foreground
blurred appropriately in response. Early morning wind
whipped leather and new car smell into a froth Wallace brought deep
into his lungs, like a high school swimmer hits a bong. Together they were speeding at over 100 MPH headinh west on Franklin Ave. passing Gower St. in Hollywood.
He knew what he was doing was wrong in fact for the past month or so he had been floating in a sea of wrong actions, bad decisions, and half thought out plans.
He knew what he was doing was wrong in fact for the past month or so he had been floating in a sea of wrong actions, bad decisions, and half thought out plans.
Wallace felt good. Good enough for that thought to come to the
front of his mind push past the clutter and present, itself. Wallace smiled. These past weeks had been the best so far in life. Life
lay out before him like a new relationship urging exploration, fun and excitement.
He could see up ahead red and blue flashing lights. The sight talked directly to his foot lifting it from the accelerator even before he consciously thought to do it. The smile vanished from Wallace’s face the same way. Two tones of automobile slowed. At this moment many might be concerned at not having a valid drivers license, or that the car he was driving was bought with stolen mob money. Wallace was not. As the full scene came into view he knew none of that would matter. At the corner a small yellow car, lay on it’s roof. Across the intersection at an angle a Chevy pick up truck smoked under the, streetlights. It’s grill mostly missing, badly crumpled half way up the hood. Bits and pieces of headlight, turn signal lenses, and other automotive detritus crunched under the Bentley’s wheels as Wallace rolled past the accident.
He could see up ahead red and blue flashing lights. The sight talked directly to his foot lifting it from the accelerator even before he consciously thought to do it. The smile vanished from Wallace’s face the same way. Two tones of automobile slowed. At this moment many might be concerned at not having a valid drivers license, or that the car he was driving was bought with stolen mob money. Wallace was not. As the full scene came into view he knew none of that would matter. At the corner a small yellow car, lay on it’s roof. Across the intersection at an angle a Chevy pick up truck smoked under the, streetlights. It’s grill mostly missing, badly crumpled half way up the hood. Bits and pieces of headlight, turn signal lenses, and other automotive detritus crunched under the Bentley’s wheels as Wallace rolled past the accident.
Wallace cruised under the 101, freeway and turned right up
Cahuenga Blvd. towards the house he shared with his mom. Up until 29 days ago they were a family of
modest means. Wallace turned the key
pushing the weather cracked wooden front door open. The first thing he noticed was the
smell. Cordite, he had been around fire
arms all his life and he knew the smell at once. He put his hand into his coat pocket and
around the Smith & Wesson 629 and drew it out. He slipped off his shoes walking slowly his
mind all at once in full attention mode.
He walked around the floor-boards; the ones he knew creaked and headed
for the bedrooms at the back of the house. Wallace stopped halfway down the hall noticing light spilling out from under
the bathroom door. The master bedroom
where his mother slept had it’s own bathroom and being a child of the 90’s Wallace
always turned out the light when leaving a room. He could hear the sound of a person, a man
closing his pants kind of grunting to pull the waist band over his paunch. Wallace backed into a darkened corner of the
hall and pointed his revolver at the door.
He pressed his back to the wall and waited. When the door opened Wallace fired twice
hitting the man in the chest and neck and the man fell backwards crumpled into
a half sitting position propped up by the bathroom counter. Joseph (the hammer) Morraino, the appointed
minder of the aforementioned cash and mid level muscle for the Cordavino crime family:
lay dead on the floor. Eyes still
open. Wallace headed for the master
bedroom knowing what he would find before he opened the door.
His mother lay with her feet on the bed and face down on the
floor. A bloody sloppy blotch stained
her light pink bathrobe mid back, Morraino had also shot her in the back of the
head; like they do.
Wallace tenderly lifted his mom’s feet off the bed and lay her out on the floor rolling her onto her back. Her robe had flipped up when she fell exposing her panties. He slowly moved the robe to cover her, turned around and walked out of her room. He grabbed two more boxes of shells for the gun and another pair of shoes from his room. They felt light in his hand. The touch of the leather was soft yielding but strong touching the leather felt good to him. They ought to feel good they had cost $1,100.00, each. Wallace walked back down the hall. His eyes fell upon the dead hit-man who had seen fit to shoot his mother in the head and, returned the favor. A dark red spray of tissue coated the cabinet door behind him. Wallace went to the garage and found the 5 gallon Jerry can still mostly full. He walked through the house spreading out the gas being careful not to get any on himself. When there was just a splash left in the can he poured it over Joseph Marraino. He used his zippo lighter to light a piece of newspaper. Once alight he slipped the lighter; the only thing his father had left him; into his pant pocket. He tossed the lighted paper and ran from the house. He backed the car out of the driveway and put it in drive looking back just as the first wisps of smoke were coming out the living room window.
Wallace tenderly lifted his mom’s feet off the bed and lay her out on the floor rolling her onto her back. Her robe had flipped up when she fell exposing her panties. He slowly moved the robe to cover her, turned around and walked out of her room. He grabbed two more boxes of shells for the gun and another pair of shoes from his room. They felt light in his hand. The touch of the leather was soft yielding but strong touching the leather felt good to him. They ought to feel good they had cost $1,100.00, each. Wallace walked back down the hall. His eyes fell upon the dead hit-man who had seen fit to shoot his mother in the head and, returned the favor. A dark red spray of tissue coated the cabinet door behind him. Wallace went to the garage and found the 5 gallon Jerry can still mostly full. He walked through the house spreading out the gas being careful not to get any on himself. When there was just a splash left in the can he poured it over Joseph Marraino. He used his zippo lighter to light a piece of newspaper. Once alight he slipped the lighter; the only thing his father had left him; into his pant pocket. He tossed the lighted paper and ran from the house. He backed the car out of the driveway and put it in drive looking back just as the first wisps of smoke were coming out the living room window.
With no destination in mind Wallace drove and found himself
in Santa Monica checking into the Lowes hotel on the beach. He used the fake ID and credit card he had
purchased in Echo Park for $555.00 and the bellman walked with Mr. Sanders to
his suite. Wallace tipped the bellman
$100.00 and requested extra towels. He
opened the mini bar and started to sip vodka from a small bottle shaped like a
polar bear. Sliding open the patio door
he let pre dawn air into the room and felt the ocean on his face. He sat in the white and blue striped chair
and put his feet up on his black bag that had slightly over 2.5 million dollars
in it, closed his eyes and thought of what the next move aught to be.
