Runner-up 1

Hans’ left leg was a pain in the neck; his neck was a pain in the butt. His flippers hurt, his knuckles blanched; he didn’t dare loosen his grasp on the steering wheel. The late afternoon sun blinded him - or was it the Light at the End of the Tunnel? For the first time in his aimless life, Hans had not only missed his target but had no idea where he was headed. Carmen was lost in Los Angeles’ wanton sprawl. The couple he had nabbed the car from would have alerted the cops by now.

“I’m dead, no matter what,” he said aloud -- and with that rasped vocalization, anger burgeoned. Palmieri had talked to him as if he was a dummkopf, not a paisano; he, Hans, who had served Palmieri for 15 years with a loyalty as solid as concrete and a button man’s efficiency unmatched even by the notorious Abe “Kid Twist” Reles.

But evening was descending, and Palmieri with it. Hans needed help. Of all Palmieri’s henchmen, he trusted only one. Hans pulled up by the curb in a deserted street and wrested his cellphone from his pants pocket. Thank the Lord he’d had the foresight -- and enough working memory cells -- to remove it from the bloody jacket he’d left behind at the hospital.

* * * * *

“I’m dying,” thought Hauser, “bleeding to death.”

That was the only explanation he could think of for his visual hallucination, as he lay injured on the cobblestones beneath Falco’s bay window.

The phone number on the screen of Dead Goon No. 2’s vibrating cell phone was one Hauser had never needed to inscribe in his little black book, never thought he’d actually see. It was emblazoned in his mind, ever since he’d traced it to its owner two years ago. He’d not had the guts to call. Or perhaps it was denial or shame, or both, about the brother he’d not seen or spoken to, for over 15 years.

With trembling fingers, he raised the phone to his ear.

“Nico,” Hans’ voice was ragged, his words barely discernible, “it’s Hans. I need your help bad. Palmieri’s after me.”

Hauser could feel and hear the thunder of his heart. “Hans . . . “

“Nico? Nico, is it you? You sound different.”

“You do, too”, Hauser managed a shaky laugh. “Hans, Nico’s dead. It’s me . . . Hermann.”

* * * * *

Hans Hauser’s emotions roiled in his head as the taxi he’d hailed took him to the address Hermann had given him. Hermann! “The good one”, he’d heard Papa say once.

Hans had set out to prove their now-deceased father’s words every way he could. He’d succeeded.

“You sure this is the address, mister?” The taxi driver stopped in front of a mock Tudor, a behemoth of a house. Through its partially open security gates, Hans saw shrubs in disarray. There was an eerily deserted look about the place.

Hans dispatched the hack, limped inside the grounds -- and stopped. Three bodies decorated the place, two of them goners for sure. And Hermann was the third, slumped beneath a big bay window, blood staining his shirt. Hans crouched beside him, stifling his scream of agony as his leg folded. Hermann was conscious; his pulse was faint but steady.

“Whadda way to meet, huh?” Hermann’s face was ashen. “You look as hellish as I feel, little brother.”

Hans peered cautiously through the window. His gaze angled. He gasped in disbelief. He lowered himself again and when he spoke, his voice shook.

“Evelyn,” he choked.

“You know her?”

“I’ve seen her -- at Palmieri’s.”

Bhuvana Chandra of Northridge “gave up my stethoscope for the pen.” Her poems and essays have been published in various medical journals, and she’s writing a book of short stories.