THE BRIEFCASE   

By, JW James

 Patrick Keen walked quickly along Almond Road, one hand shoved deeply into the pocket of his long, wool coat, the other clenching the handle of the black briefcase as if his life depended on it.  It did actually.  He didn't know much about the client, nor anything about the contents of the case he carried, but from the amount of money he was being paid to deliver it, he knew that it had to be something important.  Keeping that in mind, he knew that it had to be there on time.  If his boss had the slightest clue that he'd spent the entire afternoon in a sleazy hotel with a hooker, he'd be in deep shit.  Jason Granite could be a very unforgiving, brutal man.
     Turning down Fifth, from Almond, Patrick picked up the pace.  Although he could handle himself, and do it nicely, the streets in this part of town had a widely known reputation for being anything but friendly.  Even with the snub-nosed .38 tucked in his jacket, and the .22 on his ankle, he didn't feel comfortable here.  One slip up and his life was  over.  He never wanted to have to tell Granite that he lost a delivery.  Still, with his intended drop off address being only a block away, he was certain that he had nothing to worry about.  Mentally, he scolded himself for getting the jitters.
     Allowing himself to get too wrapped up in his thoughts of what could be in the briefcase, he failed to notice the derelict who strolled across the street and fell into step just a few yards behind him.  Dressed in the traditional, black apparel of a mugger, right down to the nappy, black skullcap that hid the single white streak in his otherwise perfectly raven hair, the stranger closed the gap between them.  By the time Patrick heard his footsteps coming, it was already far too late.
     Before he could turn about or reach for the silver-plated stub nose under his coat, the mugger had the barrel of his own gun pressed firmly at the base of Patrick's skull.  "O.K. Pops," the mugger, who's street name was Griff said,  "let's do this real quiet.  You cooperate wit' me an' you get to go home in one piece tonight."
     "Here," Patrick stuttered, reaching towards his coat," take my wallet.  Lots of money in there.   I just got paid today."
     "Whoa, Pops," said Griff, tapping the barrel of the gun against his victim's neck.  "Don't be reachin' in your coat.  Just stay cool and you stay breathing'."
     Griff let out a sharp whistle, summoning a second man, this one taller and thinner, from a doorway just up the street.  Stifling the groan that he felt building in his throat, Patrick knew for sure that he was screwed.  Had he gotten his hand inside his coat, he knew that he could've taken Griff by surprise.  Now that there were two, he only hoped that his boss wouldn't kill him.
     Jake, the second mugger, stepped up in front of him, his eyes surveying Patrick the way a cat does the mouse that it traps under it's paw.  "What ya' got in the case, ol' man," he said, his eyes falling to the thick chain that attached it to the handcuff on his wrist.  "You carryin' dope or somethin'?"
     "Look," said Patrick, hoping that the fear he was feeling was well hidden from the two of them.  "Just take my wallet.  All I got in here are some papers that I gotta get some idiot to sign so that his wife can go off and marry some other idiot.  There's plenty of...."
     The knife flashed into Jake's hand so quickly, that Patrick's cheek was cut before he ever saw it.  "I'll take whatever I want!" Jake shouted, reaching into Patrick's coat with his free hand.  "We're in charge here.  Not you.!"
     Just then, things got worse.  The look on Jake's angry face distorted into idiotic fury,  his probing hand coming to rest on the .38.  "Well, well," he said, pulling the pistol out of its holster.  "Hey Griff, the ol' turds wearin' a piece.  He wasn't goin' for his wallet.  He wanted to get the drop on ya'."
     Patrick felt the barrel of Griff's gun as he pressed it deeper into his neck.  "You was gonna shoot me, Pops?" he asked, his tone full of sarcasm.  "Shoulda' listened when I told ya" to be cool.  Now we're gonna have to hurt ya'."
     Patrick felt dread washing over him.  Searching his mind for a solution as they two of them laughed in his face, he came up with only one answer.  Licking a bit of the crimson blood that flowed from his injured cheek.  Readying himself, he waited for just the right moment.  He knew that there was little chance for him now, but if today was the day that his name got added to the dead book, he was going out fighting.
     As Jake closed the knife and returned it to his pocket, Patrick made his move.  He stepped backwards, slamming into Griff as hard as he could.  "What the..." was all Griff said before Patrick swung the briefcase, catching Jake square in the side of the head, knocking him over.  Before either of his attackers could react, he was off and running.   He only hoped he could make it to cover before they caught up with him .
     Jake got to his knees, pointing the .38 at the fleeing man's back.  Tracking his movements, he took aim and squeezed the trigger.  The thunder that erupted from the gun sent the pigeons on the overhead wires scattering, their fear matching Patrick's.  Instantly, he felt the bullet tear into him, knocking him down.  Still fighting, he refused to give in to the darkness that called his name.  He would never surrender to these two.
     Griff stood as still as a statue, in shock that his partner had actually shot Patrick.  Like a man possessed, Jake walked slowly, methodically across the street, the .38 in his deadly hand.  "Jake!" he shouted, shoving his own gun into the waistband of his jeans.  "We gotta get out of here.  You're gonna get us thrown in jail."
     "Shut the hell up!" his partner ordered, continuing the short journey to his victim, his voice lacking any emotion whatsoever.  "Son-of-a-bitch saw our faces.  Gotta make sure he's dead. Now get over here and help me find the key to this case."
     Patrick lay there, stunned and losing blood.  Luckily, the shot had missed his spine, leaving him alive and still able to move.  Reaching carefully for the .22 on his ankle, he prayed that the others didn't notice his movements. If he could get the one called Jake, he thought for sure he could talk his way out of being finished off.  Griff seemed to him a coward.

 Griff was on him in seconds, his heavy, steel-toed work boots coming down on the arm  which held the automatic.  Over and over, he stomped on Patrick's arm, the pain rifling through his hole body.  Struggling, Patrick tried to retain his grip on the pistol, turning it slowly towards Griff.  Just then, he caught site of Jake's furious face.
     He stepped forward, taking careful aim with the .38.  "Should've just gave me the fuckin' case you piece of shit," he said, placing the barrel within inches of his head.  "I hope whatever's in there is worth dyin' for."
     The crackling thunder of the shot echoed up and down the deserted street, scaring what few birds had returned to the wires above.  Patrick was dead the second the hollow-point round hit him, most of his face disintegrating into the blacktop.  Jake suddenly began to laugh, a cold, maniacal sound that lasted for nearly a full minute.  To his right, Griff stood staring at the body in disbelief.  Never had either of them done something like this.  Fear swam through him .

     Jake turned casually to his partner.  "Check his pockets and see if you can find the key," he said, calm as day.  "I'll keep watch for the cops."
     Griff looked at him, terrified at the lack of emotion in his voice, but turned quickly to task.  After seeing what he'd just done to their victim, he wouldn't put it past Jake to do the same to him.  The sadistic look on his face spoke enough to let him know that his partner wouldn't think twice about it.  He was in over his head.
     Rifling through the dead man's pockets, he found very little.  A hundred in cash, plus a few coins was the extent of his pay that he'd spoke of, a spare magazine for the .22, two speed loaders for the .38, and a small ring of keys was all he found.  "None of these look like they'll open the cuff or the case." he said, handing the ring to Jake, before double checking his pockets.  "Nope.  Nothin' else here."
     Without the slightest hint of warning, Jake pointed the .38 and fired.  The bullet made a sharp metallic sound as it severed the thin chain, leaving the case free for them to take.  "See that," he said, a mad smile forming on his lips.  "We had the key the whole time.  Now let's get movin' before the cops get here.   I want to get this open."
     Jake tucked the case under his arm and headed off down the street.  Griff took a last look at Patrick's limp body, a pang of guilt rushing through him like a wind in a hollow.  Shrugging, he picked up the small .22 and slipped Patrick's watch off his dead wrist.  "We goin' to Toby's?" he asked, jogging to catch up to his partner.
     "Not just yet," he answered, looking both ways as they paused at the intersection.  "I wanna see what was so valuable in this thing that fat boy was willing to die for it.  That whole divorce papers story was a cover for sure."
     The two of them walked for a few blocks, then stopped again.  "So where we goin', Jake?" he asked, looking back to see if the cops had reached the crime sceen yet.
     "Right here," Jake replied, slamming his shoulder into the boarded up door to one of the abandoned shops.  "We'll lay low for a couple hours and see what we got here.  Then we'll go to Toby's and get my money."
     Shouldering the door again, Jake got it open.  The dank smell of abandonment floated towards them from inside.  Looking again to see if anyone else was on the abandoned street, Griff followed his companion through the dark opening.  Letting out a low sigh, he realized that they were getting away with murder.
     Closing the door behind him, Griff followed Jake through the old deli, his eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness.  He looked at the outline of the big case that once held a wide variety of luncheon meats, his stomach rumbling at the thought of eating one of those sandwiches that the owner's of the place had made in days gone by.  "See if you can find something we can use for light," said Jake, igniting his Zippo lighter.  Maybe there's some candles or a flashlight hidin' in here.  I'll be in the back."
     Griff watched the other man leave the room, the faint glow proving useless in the front of the store.  Rummaging blindly through the area behind the counter, he found a flashlight with almost no life left in its archaic batteries, and a birthday candle in the shape of a nine.  Moving quickly to the office at the back of the store, he handed the items over to Jake.  In seconds, the room was lit.
     He stood there licking his lips, the anticipation of what was in the case almost too much to bear.  He needed to fix soon, the monkey beginning to climb up his back again.  Then something strange happened.
     Jake stood there perplexed, turning the case over in his hands, holding it closer to the light.  "What the hell is this?" he nearly shouted, spinning the case again under his squinting eyes.  "Damned thing aint got no hole for a key.  No locks or latches at all."
     "Whadda ya mean it aint got no locks or latches?" asked Griff, leaning over his partner's shoulder.  "Lemme have a look at it."
     Jake's temper immediately flared.  He couldn't believe that Griff would be so bold as to think that he would find something that he himself could not.  Turning ever so slightly towards Griff, he released his monstrous anger.  "Here!" he shouted.  "Get a real good look!"
     Before Griff could get his hands up in defense, Jake swung the heavy, dark case.  With a crushing blow, he connected with Griff's throat, the man letting out a choking gag as he fell to his knees.  Jake lashed out, swinging the case again and again, battering his partner's head.  He continued, even after Griff went limply to the floor, laughing as the case connected, Griff's skull crushed and oozing blood from several of the wounds.  Then, as quickly as he'd begun, he ceased the attack.  Griff was dead.
     Turning, he non-chalantly wiped his blood splattered face with the back of one sleeve and returned to his inspection of the case.  Breathing heavily, he let out a small sigh.  "I'll tell ya buddy," he said to the dead man laying at his feet," I'd give my soul to the devil to see what's in this case."

Suddenly, the case shuddered in his hands, a sharp clicking sound coming from inside.  Before he could do anything, the lid to the case popped open, a bright, almost blinding light seeping from within.  He stared at the contents in total amazement.
     Behind him, a scrape on the floor made him turn.  For an instant, he thought that Griff had somehow survived his tirade, but he was sadly mistaken.  Standing before him, dressed in a very expensive looking, well cut suit, was the most flawless man he's ever seen.  The man stared at him for a moment, his dark eyes seeming to burn right through Jake.  Then, as if he'd known all along, the man's identity floated to the surface of Jake's thoughts.
     "Are those what I think they are?" he asked, the man suddenly seeming to tower over him, almost as if he'd grown ten feet taller.
     "Yes," the man said, seeming as if he were growing larger still, his voice becoming more and more distant.  "And now your soul is amongst them."
     With that, the man closed the case.


                                                                     THE END