20070106

Jerusalem Sandberg paused. The Miami sun bleached the concrete building to a bare white, the walls granulated and dry as a bone. In the distance, he could hear the dull roar of traffic rushing along Route 325, but otherwise things were quiet. Dry grass stretched out in all directions, torn to shreds by the 4-wheel drives that were routinely rented out to run this hilly race course. Sweat prickled across his brow, ran down the nape of his neck into the sodden delta that was his sticky shirt between his shoulder blades. The gun was heavy, large, and mostly for show. If things came to a head, and he had to fire it, it would already be too late.

Easing forwards, gun held with both hands and pointed down at a 45 degree angle, he approached the door. It was plastered with stickers, ranging from deliriously doped up happy faces to caustic opinions about Bush. It was ajar, from from the crack emanated the sweet smell of Mary Jane. Jerusalem shook his head. Somebody was smoking reefers.

Moving right up to the door, he peered in through the crack to the dim interior. All seemed still. He couldn't see Marco anywhere. Or his albino rottweiler, Pugsy. They were in there alright though. Marco's bright pink VW bug was parked outside, with Pugsy's empty sidecar tacked alongside. They were in there right now, getting high and dreaming up ways to spend the MPD's money.

Deciding to be direct, Jerusalem kicked up the door, booting it with his heel so as to not crunch his toes, and barged in. The shoulder rebounded and caught him on his shoulder, knocking Jerusalem to the side. He was a big man, but not everybody knew how bad his balance was. It had saved his life twice, and he'd decided since the first time to keep it a secret, his trump card in a potentially fatal encounter.

"Marco! I know you're in here!" bellowed Jerusalem into the empty building. His voice echoed in the dark, cavernous room. "Marco?"

"Polo," came a sarcastic drawl, the voice echoing out of nowhere, seeming to come from all corners and none at all.

Jerusalem spun around, almost squeezing off a shot, raising his gun and darting it menacingly in several directions before forcing himself to pause. "Listen, Marco. Give me the money back. It wasn't mine to give. It ain't yours to keep. So give it back, and I'll pay you in a week or so. Understood?"

There was a pause. "Are you for real? You come barging in here with a gun, demanding my money back?"

"It isn't your money," said Jerusalem through gritted teeth. "It's the MPD's raffle money, and if I don't get it back you'll be dealing with the entire force tomorrow when they come barging in here with SWAT teams and tactical squads and everything."

"They can't come in without a search warrant," said Marco. Jerusalem could still not pinpoint his location.

"Probable cause," he bluffed.

"Probable cause?" asked Marco. "Do you even know what that means?"

Growing desperate, Jerusalem decided a show of force was called for. Raising his arm, he turned his face away, closed his eyes and squeezed off a shot. The boom was deafening, and the kickback sent his arm jack-knifing up.

"What the fuck?" yelled Marco. "What the fuck was that?"

"You know what that was," stammered Jerusalem, turning to stare into the darkness once more. "And there's another five of those coming your way unless you pay up."

A dull, moaning growl emanated from the depths of the building. "Pugsy?" asked Jerusalem cautiously. "Is that you?"

There was a patter of feet, a second, raw growl, and then a white ghostly shape emerged from the shadows and began to charge Jerusalem, snot-like drool splattering from his red open maw. Jerusalem panicked, raised the gun, and placed a bullet in Pugsy's head. The crash of the gun firing was terrible, and the rottweiler spun around, back spasming, and fell to the ground.

"Shit," said Jerusalem, looking down at his watch. "I've got to go catch a movie." Turning, he shoved the gun into his belt, and ran out the door.