Chapter 3 of Roque Mendez, Debt Collector

Roque Mendez exited out of the building after successfully taking a mound of Cliff Daniels' money from his supposed safe. It was filled with money after all, and he took just the right amount ( by estimation) to cover Daniels' debt. He took out his phone and then called Roberts' number. It didn't take too long before it was answered. "Who is this? How did you--" "It's me, your number one debt collector." "Didn't I told you to--" "Well in case you haven't noticed, we haven't got a place to do a transaction." "Of what?" "The goddamn money, man. I've got it. Cold, hard-earned cash. I could've just prevented myself from calling you, ran away with the eight hundred grand, and make myself a happy man. But hey, I've gotsa respect my business. Negócio é um negócio. So I'm asking you again: where shall we meet?" "I'll call you back." The other end of the phone was hung up. Roque sighed. 

Mendez hefted the duffel bag filled with the money and headed to the nearest coffee shop. The way Mendez recalled it, it's no further than two blocks. There, he sat and ordered a cup of coffee. While lounging and taking a couple of sips at a time, he noticed something. Many, if not everybody, at the coffee shop took more than a second look at him. He immediately figured they were actually eyeing his bag. Of course a duffel bag that big would've attracted anybody, mugger or not. He immediately finished off his coffee and took off. A couple of steps from the coffee shop, his phone rang. It was Roberts. "Meet me at Tuck Street. Look for the white muscle car. I'll be inside an alleyway." Mendez knew the place. It wasn't far. 

Minutes later he was on an alleyway, the kind shady drug deals took place or some bored middle-class workers stop for some seemingly good time he's gonna spend with an attractive girl from the side of the road. That kind of alleyway. Mendez saw the said white muscle car, and then he saw Roberts. He looked like a big shot-- an upper class businessman, at least by his looks, wearing a white set of suit, trousers, loafers, and even his fedora was white. The only thing that contrasted with white-ish colour were his pair of sunglasses and a black sweater underneath his blazer. "Well, Mr. Mendez? I assumed the job was well done." "Yeah, it's not like every road don't got their fair share of bumps, but yeah, it's well done enough." "I also assumed you got the money, yes?" Mendez zipped open the bag to expose a tempting sight of lots and lots of green papers inside his duffel bag, before handing it to Roberts. Mendez asked, "You do remember about my cut, right?" "Oh yes. About the cut--" Roberts took out a gun and aimed at Mendez. At a split-split-second, Mendez was startled, thinking how could this guy suddenly attempted to gun me down? Instead, at a split-second, Mendez dropped the bag and charged at Roberts.
Roberts  was stunned by the lightning movement Mendez presented, and discharged a shot. The shot instead hit nothing, as Mendez had swiped the gun away from himself with his right hand and jabbed Roberts' face with his left. Roberts flinched but not out cold. Roberts did a backhand, trying to bash Mendez with his gun, yet missing again. This was due to Mendez ducking under his backhand. Mendez stood straight and in a quick motion booted Roberts on the chest.
Roberts was knocked back, but his gun was still on his grasp, something Mendez was disdained about. Roberts raised his hand, training his gun at Mendez again, finger on the trigger. Mendez did not wait long to disarm Roberts; he kicked upward, hitting the aiming hand, flinging the gun high above their heads. Roberts was shocked, yet again. In between his startled look, Mendez did a roundhouse kick with his right foot, knocking him flat to the ground. Finally, Mendez thought.
About the gun, Mendez caught it firmly on his palm the second it approached the ground.
Mendez caught sight of Roberts' muscles trembling, flinching, looking submitted. He could have just shown the ultimate irony of getting-shot-by-your-own-gun to Roberts. He could have just taught this crook a lesson of a lifetime, something he would've maybe acquired had he survived the gunshot. Had he not, maybe at afterlife he'll think how experience is your best teacher.
But no.
Mendez disassembled the gun. Discarding the gun magazine, jerking away the slide, and throwing the gun away. Then he crackled his knuckles. "Sorry about the gun, I'll make it up for you. For now, why don't you show me what you got?"
Roberts got on his feet, swiping away the blood splattered around his mouth. He was taking a fighting stance when Mendez interrupted, "Oh, and why don't you take that nice suit off? I'd hate to mess your fine tailoring." That taunt just made Mendez' victorious grin a lot wider.
Surprisingly Roberts  did as Mendez said, albeit with an obviously disgusted look. He threw it on the ground, tainting it with dirt. But Mendez won't give a mind to that.
And with a battle cry, Roberts, in his fedora and his rolled-up sleeve shirt, charged at Mendez.
Surprisingly, Roberts' punches and jabs were quick, at least compared to countless low-rent thugs Mendez had put down. But Mendez was ultimately faster. For the majority, Mendez rarely countered, he instead just blocked, parried, ducked, and sidestepped from Roberts' supposed hits. Mendez quite enjoyed the dissatisfaction of his opponent as he failed to hurt Mendez. But Mendez himself was getting bored, as this particular opponent was, so to say, quite relentless. Roberts hadn't shown a pint of fatigue. Mendez almost thought about countering and ending this tiresome battle once and for all, but then he saw it.
Roberts, after a missed swing, took a step back, and inhaled a deep breath. It was brief, but it was the brief moment Mendez needed: his opponent losing strength. After that deep breath, Roberts charged at Mendez, this time he attempted to boulder Mendez a wide hefty jab to the crown. It was heavy and overcharged, lest its slow motion.
Mendez exploited it.
He caught Roberts' hand, and knee'd him on the rib. It was all before he shoved Roberts' to the side doors of his white muscle car. Roberts' made contact with the car body in an ensuring, at least to Mendez, thud. Mendez took two wide swings across Roberts' face, both unblocked. The second one knocked his white fedora off. When he was taking the third, Mendez' rhythm of beatdown was halted.
Roberts blocked his hit.
Mendez didn't have time to react, as Roberts punched his abdomen. He took the pain and cleared his reflexes. It didn't hurt that much, but it sent a jolt he hadn't felt in quite a time: the pain of getting punched. His reflexes were back on when Roberts swung his fist again. He saw this coming, and ducked. He felt a boulder of knuckles passing over him harmlessly. He gave Roberts another jab on the cheek. Roberts retaliated, this time Mendez perfectly anticipated.
Roberts attempted to kick Mendez' hip. But instead, he caught the thigh, and used the momentum of the kick to swing Roberts clockwise, away from the car and to the ground. Roberts landed on his back. Mendez briefly saw Roberts poking his head from his lying position, in the middle of Mendez doing something.
Shooting his foot to Roberts' face.
Blood splattered to the wall behind Roberts. He, sadly, was not out yet, but he obviously just experienced pain. He held his bloodied face, covering it with both his palms, in either shame or, just plain pain.
On the other side, Mendez just pulled out his engraved revolver, and casually aimed it at Roberts. "Who are you working for?" As cliche as it sounded even in Mendez' head, he just couldn't find a more badass quip. Roberts, still dazed, spat out blood. He then faced his would-be murderer. "F--"
Mendez pulled the trigger. "At-ta-ta, senhor Roberts. Língua. Watch that mouth of yours."
Nicely enough, Roberts didn't respond.
Mendez stepped away from his assailant and walked to the fedora Roberts dropped earlier. He wiped the dust off it, and fitted it on his head. Not my style, he thought. Instead of hauling it away as a loot, Mendez gently put said hat on Roberts' chest, as a sign of honor. Given Mendez' attitude, it was just one last taunt from Mendez to his adversary.
Not to forget, the loot. That is, the debt ripped from Daniels' pitiful hands, and Roberts' deceitful arms.

Roque arrived at his apartment, after depositing a three quarters of his take to the bank. He'd put the rest into the stash in his apartment, the one those unlucky muggers tried to pry open. Unfortunately they didn't even came close to even getting a bead on it. Then he went to his kitchen to get himself some snack, only to find his fridge morbidly empty. He realized he'd ran out of grub stock since three days ago, the time he went to collect a debt from a kitchen-knife wielding Japanese deadbeat. So, he went down to the streets and went to the nearest mini-market from his apartment, just across the street.

Roque was now at the cool drinks fridge at the side edge of the mini-mart. He'd greeted the Indian shopkeeper before as he does everyday. Both had went along well, with the hospitality of the shopkeeper kept Mendez' prejudices of Indian people at bay. "So, have you stocked the tequilas?" "Ooh, I apologize Mr. Mendez, I'm really sorry but we haven't stocked at tequilas for the day? Shall I--" "No, it's fine. Don't bother yourself, man. I've had a really bad hangover from drinking 4 shots of tequilas straight, so I don't mind having a break from tequilas." "Ah, Mr. Mendez. I don't feel so good for not being able to oblige to a customer's request. Are you sure you're okay with this?" "Man, Eu não me importo." "Excuse me, what  was that?" "Eh, I just said 'I don't mind it'." When Roque just clamped his hand on a pack of beers, suddenly a shotgun fire was heard. "THIS IS A ROBBERY! EVERYBODY GET DOWN AND DON'T EVER GET ANY IDEAS!" Roque said silently to himself, "Ach, seriously, twice in two days?" Roque heard the shocked shopkeeper, his words shaking. "Wh-wh-what are you doing?" There were two robbers, as there was a second voice, different as the one shouting to everybody to get down. "What do you think are we doing now? Health inspecting? Now you get all the cash out of that register machine, or I'll get all of your brains out from your head. With this thing." Roque saw the guy with the second voice pulling out a gun. Not a bigger threat than HIS gun, actually. He also noticed the other guy got a shotgun, sawed-off one, then it looked like this one was heading his way. He playacted and pretended to browse items from the freezer. "Hey you! Blondie! Didn't I tell you to get down!?" Roque slyly replied, his back was on the man. "Oh, what was that? Thought I heard two sanduíches bisteca de porco walking into this fine business." "What did you say?" Now he sensed the shotgun pressed on his crown. "Ah. Nothing." Then he abruptly spun his arm around and deflected the shotgun's aim from his head. The robber was caught off-guard. Roque gripped the shotgun and gave the robber a solid, hard headbutt. Now the robber was dazed. While the robber stumbled, Roque seized the opportunity to lay down some serious beatdown, such as grabbing the robber by the hoodie and shoving him into the freezer he opened. After that, he swung the door closed, hitting the robber the robber with a very thud. Roque was somewhat dissatisfied with the fact that the robber's body prevented the door from being successfully closed. But, the slam from the door had stunned the robber and knocked him flat.
Roque picked up the shotgun and then aimed at the other robber, who was standing near the counter. The latter noticed something went wrong with the crowd control and started to ready his gun at Mendez. Mendez pumped the shotgun, shouting, "Yo, senhor shopkeeper! Get down!" and started firing at the robber. The distraught shopkeeper was startled, but immediately did as he was told. Roque fired a shot, of which a little amount of the pellets grazed the robber. He screamed in pain, but he still stood tall. Instead of firing back, he immediately got into cover at the end of one of the aisles. Roque fired again to suppress the robber and preventing him to return fire. When he pulled the trigger for the third time, the gun only clicked. It was jammed. The robber taking cover heard the click, and stepped out of cover, aiming high at Mendez. "What my man told you about getting any ideas? You got some balls and a serious deathwish man.. amateur." "Man, you are the amateur. Well, at least your friend is. You don't go on a simple stick-up job with a goddamned jammed shotgun! And no, I don't got a serious deathwish. I've had at least ten deathwishes since I signed up for my job." "What job, blondie?" The reply was the shotgun hurled towards the robber. The robber, as Mendez didn't expected, was fast enough to dodge the flying shotgun. Mendez instead charged to the robber and pulled the gun-holding-arm, snatched the pistol, and whipped it to the robber's face. He also didn't forget to knee the robber on the chest and punched him across the face. The robber staggered sideways. Roque then kicked the robber on the chest with his heels, sending him flying backwards, to the aisle behind him. The aisle took a sudden shock, and the aisle went down due to the robber's weight, much of the structure broken, with the robber on top of it. The robber was still trying to get his eyes straight when Roque grabbed him by the shirt and threw him to another aisle headfirst. He bashed the robber's head against the aisle once then released the shirt, only to gave the robber an uppercut with a canned food from the aisle.
The robber, surprisingly still up, crawled on the floor, trying to create some distance between him and a scrawny leather jacket clad man giving the two the opportunity to experience eating from a straw. But, it's not like Mendez was satisfied with his work. He grabbed the robber by the shirt, got him standing, lifted the robber using his momentum and shoulder, and put him not-so-gently on the cashier. After he landed, the last thing the robber saw was Roque's fist launched against his face. Finally, to wrap the daily-grocery-shopping gone wrong, Roque slid the robber from the counter to the floor.
And after all the cahoots, Roque'd just recalled he hasn't even grabbed the pack of beer he was actually trying to purchase. So he fetched the pack and then put them to the counter. The shopkeeper, his face was a combination of relief and astonishment, said, "No need to pay, Mr. Mendez! It's free! This is the only way I can thank you!" Mendez was flattered. "Não. I've seen here that you've had a very bad day at work, and paying for these are the least I can do to make it a little better. Besides, I've gotta pay you for a good service through and through. And uh, I'll pay for the damage. How much?" "Ah! Er.. oh.." the shopkeeper did a transaction and checked out the items Roque bought. "That would be ten dollars, sir." "And the damage?" "You don't need to pay for that, Mr. Mendez! You paying for the beers are far more than enough!" "Ah, eu sou tocado. But like I said, you'll need a pick-me-up after a bad day at work and a payment for your good service." And with that saying, Roque put one hundred fifteen dollars on the counter and left the mini-mart.  The skies outside was getting dark, as it was approaching evening, but Roque didn't actually mind, as he got what he came for. He practically left the mini-mart in shambles.     

Chapter 4 of Roque Mendez, Debt Collector

Mendez had had a good time snoozing with a good supply of beers. Not to mention going back to the mini-mart, still in shambles, and grabbing some tortilla chips and a pack of canned sodas. He then laid on the very same couch he slept on before the Cliff Daniels job. He thought about the stunts he'd pulled off in the last two days and three nights, how lucky he was to still be breathing, much less laying on his apartment, in this line of job. But he thought that, he didn't actually fit in the society after his duty in the Gulf Wars. He once tried to be a janitor in a taco place, but he was fired when he viciously beat a fellow co-worker who was being a racist to Hispanic people, like him. And then countless other occupations, such as a taxi driver, a mechanic assistant, an underground fighter, and a civil worker. He got sacked from all, save for the underground fighter thing, he retired after discovering his price money was rigged by the manager because he'd just defeated his favorite, ten-fights-not-beaten-yet fighter (whom Mendez thought was a little less in a disarray than those mini-mart stick-up artists). 

Then he recollected the last two days, and then was fast asleep. 

Sunshine broke through the windows, and the sounds of the cars roaring, honking, and skidding on the streets was heard well enough from Roque's apartment. Mendez woke up, stretched, and then stepped from his impromptu bed. He realized he hadn't changed for the last three days; so he dug his wardrobe and changed his white t-shirt to a olive green t-shirt, and his black trousers was changed to a pair of woodland camouflaged cargo pants. But he kept the black rolled leather jacket and his brown boots. He still hadn't removed his double gun holster, he thought, it would look good on his appearance. At least intimidating, with that .44 Taurus Raging Bull. But he thought a touch of truculence would fit. He removed the mattress off his couch, to reveal a chest just as long as the couch beneath. It was locked with a combination of four numbers: 8736. He opened it, and then unveiled a weapon of choice: a machete with a wooden handle, long and thick  silver blade, with intricate engravings on each side of the blade. The size of it was enough to make a meat cleaver look like a fork. Of course, with a sheath, of which would be carried on his back. In a flash, it would've looked like a quiver, but it's actually a machete sheath. 

All things considered, that would've made street muggers think way more than twice to rob him. He was thinking about his when a call went into his phone. Big T, a city contact who hooked him up with jobs. And mostly, the closest to a friend he had since he moved into the city. "Yo yo yo Rocky, it's T man. What is up?" "Oi, Big T my man, you doin' good?" "Hell  yeah my boy! Doing good as everyday. So, that mysterious dude, you met him?" "You mean Roberts?" "Oh yeah! Wait, the dude's name is Roberts?" "You told him about me, right?" "Uh-huh. He do any good to you?" "As a matter of fact, he immediately gave me a good ol' job. Same shit, different day. Then get this thing man, he tried to rip me off." "Aw shit man! For real?" "Yeah, sério. Tried to kill me, even." "Holy shitcow man! Literally, man?" "Sadly, yes. But it's  not like he succeeded, anyway." "Haha, who am I kidding here? The best one in the business! Look man, I'm really sorry this happened to you. Honestly man, I don't know this would've happened, man. Carter just told me--" "Back it up a sec. Who's Carter?" "Oh right, forgot to tell you. Carter is my new employer. Ran some mob of hoodlums, protection, stick-up jobs, that kind of shit. New name on the streets. Pays nice." "Yeah, well some low-rent hood who pays nice ain't the thing I had in my mind for your future.." "Bro, at least I got someone who pays me now! Rather than looking up names that need light whacking for some light cash. Not that I said the game we've been playing didn't pay nice, but.. I need to step up the ladder, bro. Make some real and steady flow of cash. " "Not gonna argue with you. This game I'm playing is fine by me." "Whenever you wanna step up the food chain, you can always let me know! Anyways, I got a job for you. Di-rectly from Carter boss himself." "What's the deal with Carter anyways? What you just said about him?" "Dude, real sorry for the botched deal. But Carter told me someone wanted some debt collection job. He told this.. who this guy called?" "Roberts. As in, Robert De Niro, with an s." "Right. Roberts. He told Roberts, the someone, to ask me and see if I can hook him up to you and get the business done." "Well you better tell this Carter boy his Roberts pal kicked the bucket. Otherwise, he would've thought it's either me, or you, or both of us." "Yeah, I'll see to that. Should I mention who kicked his bucket?" "That's a good question.. can't you make something up? 'Some two-bit rent-a-hood shot him in an alley.' Or some shit like that. Você me pegari?" "What?" "You get me?" "Oh. Right. I'll come up with something, man. Don't you worry about nothin'. In the meantime, I'll text you Carter's number, and contact him when you're ready for a job." 

After taking out the trash, the laundry, and the impressions of him being a scrawny, frail-looking blond Hispanic, Mendez went out for some fresh air. Then he arrived at the mini-mart. Looks like police line were everywhere, in spite of the fact that no actual murder was committed. There he saw the shopkeeper, standing in front of who seemed to be a detective of some sorts. He wore nothing resembling those police officers on duty doing crime scene investigation inside. Those inside wore dark blue investigator jackets with 'CSU' in capital letters with smaller 'Crime Scene Unit' written below, and matching dark blue caps. Those outside wore standard beat cop uniforms complete with batons, police dispatch on shoulder, and hosltered guns. While this guy wore striped polo shirt, blue casual slacks, brown loafers, and a digital watch. Roque identified him as a detective due to his police badge strapped on his hips. He was being interviewed by the officer, as it seemed. He mustered the guts to greet the shopkeeper, with the risk of him getting interviewed as well, and then getting booked for gravely injuring those poor thieving souls. Honestly, he thought, the freezer-door-bashed guy wasn't going to recover anytime sooner than two weeks. 

But he did, anyway. 

"Bom dia, my shop man. How is it going?"

The Indian turned around to see the vigilante who just either saved his life or probably dissolved two others. 

 "Hey, Mr. Mendez. It's been somewhat fine since last night's incident. The police are here to run an investigation on the robbers whose fine stick-up job you just terribly botched. Oh, by the way, have you met Mr. Detective yet?" "Actually no, not yet." Mendez and the detective, or at least the officer in charge, shook hands for an introduction. "Detective Callum McConley." "Roque Mendez, prazer em conhece-lo." "I'm sorry, what was that again?" "Nice to meet you. That's how they say it where I came from." "Oh. What's with the machete, anyway?" "Ah, just a reminder." "Of?" "It's more of a 'to', actually. A reminder to people who got a glint of idea to try to rip me off." "Well, Mr. Mendez, that was less to a reminder than to an impression. That you're not to be messed with. Remind me that, will you?" "You don't need any reminder. You seem nice enough. Anyways, senhor shopkeeper here told you who acted in self-defense and took down the muggers?" 

"Yeah. You."

"Oh, so he's already told you alright. Why did nobody gave me a call for an interview last night? It's not like I'm gonna be like 'go eat donuts and to hell with your mini-mart robbery case' if you guys actually called." By saying that, he knew the risk of this man actually attempting to background check him back at the precinct after the interview. But then again, he recalled haven't been booked for the last nine months for any crime. Any known crime, anyway, considering he just killed one and heavily injuring eight in just two days. "Well that would be because the call for robbery in the mini-mart just came in this dawn. But anyways, I would appreciate any insight you can lay down for us in this case. After all, you and this shop guy are the only witnesses we got." "Very well then. When shall we start?" They started right there and then, and Mendez told him exactly what he did in the last chapter. 

A call came in after Mendez waved goodbye to McConley and good old shopkeeper. "Mendez, isn't it?" "Yeah, and who might you be?" "Carter." "Ah, you're Big T's boy." "I say you control the words comin' outta your mouth, pretty boy, coz' first, Big T is MY boy, and second, I'm in charge here. You answer to me, and you talk nice to me when I'm talking to you. Got it, pretty boy?" Mendez' blood went lukewarm, but his voice stayed calm. "Look, you want a job done or a lump of cash gone? Just get on with it and you'll get your money soon enough." "Watch it, pretty boy." Roque tried to pretend his words are made of anything less than a sound. "How much does this human being owe you?" "Seven hundred seventy five thousand." "And who was it?" "Trey Becks."