Dougout

I Was a Teenage Hitman: Volume 1

There’s a fifth season in Arizona that not many know about. It comes along at any point in the summer, when the pressure from the heat swells to the point of bursting. Monolithic clouds fill the sky and spill into the atmosphere; the humidity boils until it bursts and rain finally surrenders itself from the sky. It’s called the monsoon, and helps to keep the deserts alive.

Today wasn’t one of those days in Green Valley. Phoenix and the rolling desert stood two hours south, but still, the local temperature threatened to overtake triple digits. The streets were usually overrun with children; walking, talking, riding their bikes, and playing basketball.

Not a soul dared to venture outside. This weekend was a record setter, and not the cool kind: a heartstopping heatwave and no rain in sight. Stay hydrated. Do not work outside. Check for symptoms of heatstroke. The news stations were plastered with warnings.

Doug didn’t care; he almost liked it. He sprawled out in the grass and stared up at the cloudless sky. Sweat beaded from every pore on his body.

Somewhere down below, a muffled thwack! got his attention. Doug sat upright and scanned the field for any action.

Mr. Lombardi piped a long shot. The little white ball sailed for at least a hundred yards before touching down in the sand.

“God dammit!” Mr. Lombardi screamed across the green. He sunk his club into the bag and folded his arms across his chest while he waited.

Doug’s father, Carlton, meandered over to his tee. Doug raised his arm in the air and waved--the white cotton of his karate gi slid down his violently bruised forearm.

Carl brought his own hand up and drunkenly waved back.

Doug snickered and leaned back on his elbows; this was one of the best parts. Dad wasn’t the best golfer, but he could hustle just about anyone in town. He knew the time of day to play them, what to say to throw them off, even what alcohol to have around. Carl could play 18 holes front to back and be blackout drunk while he did it.

He lined up his shot and let it rip: the ball cut hard across the course and damn near almost found the hole. It rolled within inches of the opening.

Below, Mr. Lombardi shook with silent rage. Doug thought he could see a heat haze come to life just above his head.

The golf course was filled with pairs of players, as a poorly scheduled charity game landed on the hottest weekend of the year. Charity meant small donation, which also meant a cheaper round of golf. The prizes weren’t worth the time, but many of the participating golfers had a substantial betting book on the side. The dueling pairs bet against each other, and then the overall top three were awarded as well.

Dad said he could make up to a thousand dollars this weekend.

For as fun as it was to watch, Doug wasn’t here for the game. The charity brought up a world class karate master from Phoenix for the weekend. He gave seminars and pep talks throughout the day to generate foot traffic on the green; he also pitched copies of his new book, Living Lethal: Knowing Your Truth through Combat by Master Ken Sterling.

Doug thought the guy was a hack, but he came anyway. It was late enough in the day that he could go to his normal karate class, sparring afterward, and still make it to the exhibition. Master Ken did a round of demonstrations on leg kick technique before bowing out to the heat. Doug liked Ken’s style of movement, but thought his footwork left a lot to be desired. For a Master, he seemed clumsy and distracted.

The other kids chalked it up to the temperature.

Whatever it was, it ended early. Between the karate classes, sparring, and the sweltering heat, Doug decided to wait for his dad; getting a ride home was preferable. He didn’t even have shoes on. The boy wore only a silver necklace and his karate gi most days.

“Good fuck, it’s hot,” someone said from behind him.

Doug turned to find a middle aged man in a sweat stained business suit. He pinched the fabric at his collar and fanned it toward his face, which was tomato red under the sun.

The man ascended the hill until he was level with Doug. He spotted a bench beneath a tree at the top of the slope and lumbered toward the shade.

“Unbelievable, who would live here?” he muttered as he walked.

Doug watched him collapse on the bench before turning back to the green. His dad and Mr. Lombardi were quietly loading their equipment into a golf cart.

“Are you Karate Master Ken?” the stranger asked from across the grass.

“No, that’s the guy they brought up from Phoenix,” the boy replied. “I’m Doug.”

“Doug? I’m Franco Galante--you can call me Franky G.”

Doug squinted at him from his place on the hill. He was older than he first looked, wrinkly around the eyes and forehead. He talked funny, too; like a gangster from the movies. Doug didn’t know which city the accent was from, but he knew his dad would’ve called it ‘East Coast’.

He looked over Franky’s fancy clothes when it dawned on him; the guy was here for the golf tournament.

“Are you still in the running?” Doug asked.

“What? Golf? I don’t play golf, ‘cause I don’t swing nothin’. My wife hates it, but I stick to the old school,” Franky G explained. “Believe it or not, I’m here for the karate.”

“Really?”

“Yeah--you believe that? With all my threads on, I’ll look like a kung fu master on the mats,” Franky said as he mopped the sweat from his brow. “That’s if there’s anything left of me.”

“They say it’s the hottest day of the year,” Doug said.

“Who? Never trust the news, kid, or any other ‘theys’,”

“You’re funny,”

“You have no idea,” Franky conceded. “So now I gotta ask.”

Doug leaned over on his elbow to listen.

“Dougy!” his father yelled from the course.

The boy looked down and locked eyes with Carlton.

“We’re moving up the green,” he hollered, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go!”

“I’m coming!” Doug yelled back.

Carlton and Mr. Lombardi rocked back and forth in the cart as it u-turned and made for the next hole.

“Nice one,” Franky said. “Back to business.”

Doug sat up this time.

“I’m in town on a very special errand. Do you know where I could find Master Ken?”

“I don’t know,” Doug said with a shake of his head. “He cut his demonstration short ‘cause it was too hot.”

“Heh,” Franky chuckled. “Sounds like a fuckin’ pussy.”

“That’s what I said!” Doug shouted.

They both shared a laugh.

“That said,” Franky started. “It is hot. Hotter than New York traffic. I wouldn’t do shit in this.”

“He’s probably downtown at a hotel by now,” Doug offered. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“I’m on a jet tonight,” Franky said. “I really missed him?”

The boy nodded.

“Look, kid, I’m on a time crunch and the sun has my brain in a stew. You’re gonna have to do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Today, you’re gonna be Ken Sterling.”

“Why? He’s not even that good,” Doug complained.

“This isn’t about karate, you dumb little shit,” Franky said as he checked his watch. “What do I look like to you?”

“An asshole,” Doug said with a grin. He leaned back on his elbows and let the butterflies flutter from his stomach.

“Wow, a wiseguy on the west coast,” Franky reflected. “I’m a hitman.”

“Yeah?” Doug asked. Sweat pooled in his palms.

“Yeah, and my errand is to put a bullet in Master Ken for fuckin’ the wrong lady,” the stranger explained. “But you’re the only prick in a karate outfit that I see.”

Doug swallowed and looked for his dad; the golf cart disappeared around a grassy knoll.

Franky stood, pulled a flask from his jacket, and said “Just us, buddy.”

Like the heat, Doug liked danger; it was one of the reasons he took karate class. He thought he’d have to train his whole life for this moment, but alas, he didn’t even have to wait for his driver’s license.

The hitman took a slug and put the canister back in his coat pocket, swishing the alcohol around his mouth as he took a look around the park. There was a gap in the players’ progress, as no one appeared to be moving forward to the hole they overlooked. In fact, Doug didn’t see anyone around at all. Franky G timed their little encounter perfectly.

“I’m not Master Ken,” Doug repeated. “They’re gonna know you killed a kid.”

“Actually, my client lives back on Staten Island. He won’t hear shit about this hit, so he’ll rely on me for proof of execution.”

Doug pushed himself to his feet and shrugged.

Franky pointed to the orange belt around Doug’s waist.

“That stupid thing’ll do. He knows as much about karate as I do, which is zero,” the hitman said.

Doug brought his fists up and put his feet a little wider than his shoulders; he wanted to keep his balance in either direction. The guy admitted he didn’t know a thing about karate, so Doug figured it was his best bet. He took a series of breaths to try steadying his heart.

“Come on, don’t give me this Bruce Lee bullshit,” Franky postured. “This ain’t Enter the Dragon.”

Doug flashed forward and fired a kick into Franky’s lead knee cap. The old man doubled over, howling in agony.

“You little shit,” he hissed. “I’m gonna kill you!”

Doug danced to the right, lept forward, and threw a dirty one-two combo. Both fists collided with Franky’s nose.

Franky flung himself at the boy and snatched him up in his arms. They fell to the grass in a breathless heap, fighting for control of the other’s hands. The hitman reeked of alcohol and body odor, but his breath was even worse; they were nose to nose in the scuffle and Doug could smell the coffee and decay.

“Fuck this,” Franky said.

He grabbed Doug’s head and smashed it into the earth with one enormous hand. The boy’s vision turned to static at first, then a black, narrow slit of awareness. Stars and fireworks filled the blue sky behind the hitman.

“It’s too hot to be wrestlin’ around out here,” he wheezed. “Just like it's too hot to wait for ol’ Kenny. Guy’s a prick, but so are you, huh?”

Doug did his best to shrimp away--no dice. The fat old man had both hands around his throat. The tunnel vision seemed to be getting slimmer as his oxygen ran out.

“I’m not. Master. Ken,” Doug spat as he fought for air.

“I know, kid, shut up,” Franky said.

“I’m way. Fucking. Better.”

Doug grabbed one of Franky’s thumbs and cranked it back until it popped out of place; then he twisted it some more. The hitman started to howl again, but Doug wasn’t done. He pushed Franky’s hands up at the wrist while forcing his chin down, which freed him from the fatal grip. Doug found himself curled up under the old man’s flabby gut.

He did the only thing he had time for: kick Franky in the balls. Doug even rolled onto his back so he could really dig both heels into the goods. He felt all the air escape his assailant, who went rigid and collapsed to the ground.

“Yeah,” Doug cheered. “You should've gone looking for Ken.”

Franky G rolled around and moaned like he was dying.

Doug caught his breath and scanned the golf course. There still wasn’t a single player along the green, not even coming up the backside. It was like they all melted under the sun.

A hand gripped his ankle and brought him back to the situation at hand; Doug looked down and found Franky crawling for him. Doug leaned back and threw another low kick, obliterating the hitman’s nose.

Franky roared and barreled forward, picking Doug clear off the ground before slamming him into the hillside. A blinding pain sprouted from the middle of the kid’s back and fogged up what little vision he had left. The sky, the trees, the killer; they all blurred into one mass of panic. Doug swallowed the blood in his mouth and tried to remember everything his muscles knew.

Franky G straddled the boy and tried to get his hands around his neck again but every movement proved a struggle. Doug was like his dad; he wasn’t the best at karate, nor the strongest student, but he brought a tenacity that earned him respect on any mat. Franky shot his hand in again, and Doug grabbed his broken thumb and damn near tore it off.

Doug worked his other arm free, laid it flat against the grass, then sent it flying into the hitman’s exposed ear. His palm bounced off Franky’s head and made his eyes crisscross.

He didn’t stop there; Doug grabbed the collar of Franky’s shirt as if it were a gi and yanked him to the ground. He shrimped under Franky’s slumping form and scampered back to his feet, then checked his arms and legs for blood. No one seemed to have a real wound yet, short of the steady trickle of blood out of the hitman’s nose.

Doug realized he was free. Bouncing on his feet, he turned and started the long haul to the next hole.

“Fuck no!” Franky shouted with that same grimy accent. “Not a fuckin’ chance!”

Doug heard something he’d hear for the rest of his life; the unmistakable click of a hammer drawing back. He turned and caught the flashy frame of a chrome revolver. The hammer was pulled open and ready for business, just like his ears had told him. An impenetrable blackness lingered inside the barrel, and Doug found it so distracting he hardly noticed it was pointed right at his face.

“Oh,” Doug whispered.

“Yeah,” Franky G agreed. “‘Oh’ is right.”

They both looked around the empty hillside. Far off, Doug could see a cart rambling between the second and third holes; that was a quarter mile away.

“Take the belt off,” Franky instructed.

Doug put his shaky hands on the fabric. He blinked away what was surely a concussion and ran through what options were left. The gun’s reflection prevented him from thinking too hard.

“Come on,” the hitman encouraged. He held his other hand with the palm up.

Doug counted the space between them at five paces, maybe ten feet. It was a little far now with the revolver in the mix. He undid the belt knot and took a step forward--no devastating gun report. Now it was nine feet. He picked at the knot again as he took another step. Eight feet.

The boy felt like a great white shark closing in on a wounded tuna.

“Actually, now that I think about it,” Franky said as he brought the gun up to eye level. “It’d look even better with a little blood on it.”

Doug stopped unfastening it, grabbed both tails, and yanked it tight again.

“Come get it, fatso.”

Franky stifled a laugh and looked down the iron sights.

Doug had a move left; one he’d been working on in sparring. Coach made them wear all kinds of protective equipment like shin guards, gloves, and full headgear. There was a small hole on each side of the headgear to allow for hearing, but Doug got in the habit of throwing high kicks and hooking his big toe in that hole. He’d use it to spin the headgear around so his opponent couldn’t see.

The hole was about the same size as the trigger guard.

Doug threw his fists out before him and exhaled as loudly as he could. His legs danced to life beneath him as he prepared for the fatal showdown.

Franky G took a last look around the green and cleared his throat.

Doug leapt forward and pivoted on his lead foot; his rear leg came sailing in a perfect roundhouse kick. He kept a little distance and threw it a little low in the hope it looked disarming. If Franky made the mistake of letting him swing, it would be.

The kid’s big toe jutted out from the rest, aiming for the trigger.

“Swingin’ a little short-” Franky started, cutoff by the sudden impact of his hand. He looked down, expecting to see the gun kicked clean from his grasp. He found instead both his finger and the kid’s toe jammed in either side of the trigger. Each squeeze was jammed up by the bruised skin beneath it.

Doug followed up with a back kick and hit Franky right in the chest, where the sternum takes your breath away.

He landed back in his karate stance and returned to position, but his muscles didn’t all cooperate this time. Doug’s right arm wouldn’t extend anymore, and his left shoulder felt like crinkled aluminum. Both knees wanted to fold from the adrenaline.

“Punkass piece of-” Franky spat.

“DOUG!” Carlton’s voice boomed up the hillside.

Doug whirled around to find his father storming across the green, Mr. Lombardi not far behind. They each carried a golf club.

“Dad,”

“Get in the cart,” Carlton instructed, jamming a finger behind him. Veins burst to life along his forehead the closer he came.

It took Doug a moment to realize he’d been crying. Hot streaks painted his cheeks and chin, and he could taste the salt on the back of his hand when he wiped them away. Blood and grass stained his knuckles.

“You alright?” Carlton asked. He took Doug by the chin and inspected both sides of his head.

“Yeah,” Doug whimpered.

“Go on,” Carlton said again. “Get in the golf cart.”

“Mister, there’s been some kinda mixup,” Franky protested.

“Shut the fuck up,” Carlton said.

Doug tore down the hill, despite the overlapping wounds sustained throughout the day. He didn’t make for the golf cart, but the softball fields just beyond the creek bed. There would be cops and paperwork, and who knows how many grumbling adults upset about the spoiled golf game. Franky could take all that heat.

He chanced a look behind him and saw both his dad and Mr. Lombardi lifting their golf clubs overhead again and again. Franky G laid unmoving at their feet.

Something ached in his foot while he ran; strained muscles between the toes, or a bruise along the top. Doug took another step and winced. Whatever it was, it was bad.

He looked down and found the culprit. Buried between his toes was the chrome frame of the hitman’s revolver. Doug kicked it so hard it wouldn’t come off his foot.

The boy yanked it free and stuffed it in the pocket of his karate gi, but the walnut grip was still visible. He beelined through the wash, up the gulley, and then jumped the fence in the field. It was too early for any town leagues, so the stands and parking lot were empty. He cut along the sideline before reaching the dugout.

They weren’t like the chainlink dugouts over at the high school--these ones had a stall backing and a concrete foundation. It was a lifelong hiding place among the youth, made evident by the scrawling graffiti on the walls and ceiling. Doug tucked himself at the back end, where the concrete made a barrier. No one could see him unless they entered the dugout.

Doug liked that. Dougout. He snickered and looked down at the gun in his hands. The handle was a dark, beautiful wood with a prickly texture, while the rest of the finish was chrome. It read Smith & Wesson on one side and Model 38 SPL on the other. He played with the mechanism until he got the cylinder to release. Five brass cartridges stared back at him.

After he learned the cylinder button, he moved on to the hammer, which was still cocked. With the cylinder ejected, he pulled the trigger and watched it strike the firing pin. The pin struck the primer which finally ejected the bullet. All of it made sense from a purely physical perspective.

He snapped the bullets back into the gun and brought it up to eye level; the sights were bright, even in the shade.The barrel bobbed from side to side as he tracked invisible targets.

The gun felt good in the boy’s hands, even if it wasn’t his--Doug wagered it was now, though. Franky G would be going to prison, probably forever, and he’d be too humiliated to say who got the better of him. Master Ken would likely take the glory in the end. After all was said and done, there’d be one less hitman on the streets.

Although Doug wasn’t so sure; he seemed to be pretty good at it.

Dougout had a ring to it.

____________________________________________________

This story is for my father-in-law, Doug, who's badass stories of growing up in Florida inspired the series. All the karate action comes directly from his biography; I look forward to writing more installments of I Was a Teenage Hitman!

For those interested in the series: it's further inspired by the hit HBO original Barry. I Was a Teenage Hitman follows the story of a young karate student's transition from pupil to perp after a lethal encounter with the world's worst hitman.

Happy Birthday to the Karate Kid, Deadeye Doug himself!