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."
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