Chapter 1

I’d come home a bit early from an obligatory Friday night of drinking. Stumbling down the hallway toward my apartment, despite my inebriated state, I had a premonition something was amiss. I was drunk, yeah, but not blackout or vomit drunk. I was still cognizant. Listening to my guts rumble, from both booze and bad vibes, I unbuttoned my blazer, reached up and lifted out my Glock 19, unclicked the safety...

Pushing open my front door, a bar of yellow light began to widen. Always, and I mean always, I click the lights off before I go out. But the lights were on. And then I saw why, when I spotted the heavily tattooed young man, in skinny jeans and a white T-shirt, standing in my living room. The asshole emptying a shelf of my collectible CDs, DVDs into his backpack!

Then my heart sank as I saw my autographed Dan Marino jersey had been stolen out of its frame on the living room wall!

Fucking with my serenity, swiping my CDs, DVDs, was bad enough. But my Dan Marino jersey ... That’s way out of bounds ... Fucking with Dolphin Dan...

“Drop the backpack, shitbag!” I commanded, holding my gun with both hands. Pointing the barrel right at the youth’s chest, the young thug swung his shaved head toward me, his small black eyes popping wide open. Then he turned on his heel, made a run for it but slipped on the hardwood floor and landed on his side, his right elbow piledriving into a puddle of broken glass.

(The cleaners had come today and, as usual, left the hardwood floors slick, unwittingly thwarting the thief’s escape plan... )

“Argh!” screamed the intruder. Not only had he bloodied his arm and side, but he’d also landed at an awkward angle. And it appeared that he’d dislocated his shoulder. He was struggling to get up in a pathetic way that reminded me of an insect trying to swim out of a sink or toilet bowl.

But now that he was down, a playful (yet terribly evil) drunken idea ran through my mind, and I decided to embrace it, let the evil in ... Have a little devilish fun...

I holstered my gun, lifted a metal baseball bat from out of the umbrella bin by the front door (strange place to keep my weekend league bat, by the door, I know, but I’d rather sleep next to my gun). Then I approached the intruder and proceeded to whap him over the head with a nice hammering blow to his left temple that sent the miscreant straight to the stars.

Confident he was out cold, I patted him down, fished out a small .22 hidden in his waistband. Naughty boy! Then, in his pants pockets, I found an ancient iPhone with a cracked screen and a Velcro wallet with a faded Golden State Warriors logo on it and only $11 in crinkly ones inside. No credit or debit cards or anything. No wonder this loser was breaking into houses. I’d bet he was the asshole who broke into 4B and 8A.

Looking at his driver’s license ... shit, born in 2002? The dude was only 21. 21 and this is what he’s spending his Friday evenings doing? He ought to be in college, at a nightclub, dancing on TikTok, working his side hustle, or even just jerking off and playing video games in his mom’s basement like most dudes his age ... Jeez, the fuck is this world coming to...

Then I noticed his name. Luis Javier Gomez ... Why did that name seem so familiar?

Then I gazed at his driver’s license photo. He looked so sinister. The photo just oozed evil. Maybe it was his slight sneer coupled with the tilt of his long, protruding jaw. Or the vague menace in his eyes. Whatever it was, it was the sort of driver’s license photo that if he did a mass shooting or turned out to be a drug trafficker or terrorist, people probably wouldn’t be surprised once that photo made its way through the news.

Then my thoughts circled back to my evil idea. Since he wanted to come over for a visit, I figured I should make him my guest. For an extended stay.

I have a spare closet, in my hallway, that’s larger than the closet in my bedroom. I use that hallway closet to keep my gun safe, to store my rifles, and nothing else. The closet also came with a design that enables the door to be locked from the outside and is unable to be opened from the inside. What’s more, the door’s made from thick, solid red oakwood, making it practically impregnable. I’d also set up a camera inside to monitor my gun safe, just in case I experienced any unexpected guests. Like tonight’s.

Unknowingly, I’d created the perfect accommodation for my visitor.

I dragged the grimace-faced, incapacitated Luis, by his feet, into the closet and set him down. For a second, I wondered if he was dead. But I hovered a finger under his nose, felt warm, wet pulses of breath, so I wasn’t a murderer. At least not yet. But since I had no intention of calling the cops, I was, technically, a kidnapper. However, I preferred to think of my role as more of an enthusiastic host. Maybe a life coach...

After depositing my guest into his accommodation, I rushed into the kitchen, grabbed some packaged foods- chips, cookies, peanuts- and a couple of plastic bottles of water, along with a bucket from the kitchen closet. Then I moved fast back to my new guest’s room, brought him his supplies and clicked the overhead light on. But before I closed the door, tucked him in for the night, I decided to dash over to the living room, bring Luis a few books. Then I locked him in and set about cleaning the mess he’d made and retrieving the stuff he’d stolen.

Scooping my CDs, DVDs out of his biggish blue backpack, I began placing them back on the shelf, in alphabetical order too. My guest’s unexpected visit had really sobered me up.

I took out my autographed Dan Marino jersey, which, luckily, hadn’t been harmed. Then I found a crowbar and saw that Luis had moved through my bedroom and taken my iPad and two gold chains. The fucker had also snatched my grandpa’s retirement watch.

My gramps had boarded a boat from Ukraine, as a 10-year-old, to come to America and had slaved in an automobile factory for years upon years, doing back-breaking labor so he could provide a better life for his kids. And he did. And while he didn’t make a lot of money, one of the things he most prided himself on was his work ethic. That he woke up, every day, and did backbreaking work for decades. That gold watch and the message from the company inscribed on it had really meant something to him.