Barrel Of Ninjas

Crime Fiction by J. Marquez Jr.

Sunday:

The Pomona Valley Hospital Medical Center

The gods must have been feeling undecidedly mischievous on the day Nathan was born. The gray days in Southern California can be easily and accurately counted by the fingers on the hands of a notorious math flunky every year—even in November. And the trees are indifferent to the weather with their dull shades of green, gray and black, whether it is warm or cold. Every year they shrug off the joy that spring represents. During the summer, specifically in the presence of the Santa Anas, these troublesome rascals show their sadistic personality when they protest with heat, fuel and oxygen. Then, when the rest of the nation is celebrating the colorful festivities that autumn brings with pumpkins patches of radiant shades of orange, red, yellow and brown, the trees in Southern California say, meh, with their charred shades of ash gray and tar black skins. In the winter, their skeletal rubble houses the local ravens, fruit rats and your typical rabble of squirrels.

This was November, however. The fires were over. The sky was gray, for the second time, according to the two fingers the math flunky held up. And the temperature was…meh. At home, however, the excitement of expecting was more colorful than any fall festival in the Mid West and brighter than any Christmas parade. Our firstborn was coming and not even the leprous skin of mutinous trees was going to ruin our mood. Angie finally came out of the bedroom, her dark brown hair neatly collected in a bun on the peak of her head. Although her smooth face held no traces of make-up, it testified of the existence of natural beauty. She wore the brand new 2-piece set of light blue pajamas we’d purchased with little figures of kittens jumping out of brown bags all over. The words: THE CAT IS OUT OF THE BAG were printed all over and across them like writing lines on a chalkboard. She wore a pair of white Crocs that promised ease and comfort in exchange for an offensive and ridiculous look—also brand new. The big bulge of pregnancy, however, stole my attention. Our appointment at Pomona Valley Hospital Medical Center was at eleven thirty. Her labor was to be induced. It was a quarter to eleven. In addition to our spring-loaded nerves, the bubble of time was constricting around us and threatening to pop like a pregnant woman’s water bag. Angie, however, always the most composed and optimistic of the two, released a bouquet of sunshine with a smile that communicated patience, warmth and love.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she said for the third time that morning. “Let’s go.”

“Well it’s about time,” I joked as I adjusted the backpack I’d slung over my shoulders the first time she’d announced she was ready. “Jeez Lou-eeze!”

“Oh, wait. Let me get my purse.”

“Here,” I held up her purse. “I also have your bag with your extra clothes, toothbrush and stuff.”

“Oh, thank you, honey.”

She took her purse. I grabbed her bag with one hand and opened the front door to our apartment with the other. She toddled out.

“Ay, Johnny! You might wanna get this thing fixed,” Angie referred to the swaying D on our apartment door. The screw that held the top had fallen out and now hung upside down. “ I keep telling you. It’s confusing. One of these days, our neighbors’ gonna get our pizza delivered to them.”

“Come on, babe. Anyone can see this is apartment D, especially if you’re dyslexic.”

“I’m serious, Johnny.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll fix it this weekend.”

“You keep saying that.”

“This time I’ll do it. I promise.”

“Mmm-huh.”

I stepped out behind her and turned to lock the door.

“I swear, those people have to be selling drugs. There’s no doubt in my mind about that,” she said.

I turned around. A scrawny figure walked out of the apartment from across the walkway below. His face was a construction zone on a torn highway with a collection of active gashes. He hurried down the stairs and disappeared around the corner of the building, mindless of the world around him, including Angie and me.

We’d talked about our new neighbors many times before. Ever since they’d moved into apartment B on the duplex across ours, we’d observed a ridiculous amount of activity and foot traffic in and out—day after day, night after night and at the most random times. They had different faces. They were different races. Tall. Short. But they all had the same sinewy physique, the same vacancy in their faces and the same quiver in their step. They all wore the same tatters of suspicion and they all exhibited the same desperate urgency to disappear.

“Somebody needs to call the cops…”

“Somebody,” I cut her off. “Like somebody else, babe. You and I will not get involved, remember?”

“Yeah, but look at that,” she pointed to the apartment across the way from our balcony. “Is that what you want around your baby?”

“Babe, we talked about this.”

“I know. I know. I get it. It’s just that every time I see one of those addicts walk up the steps to that apartment which happens to be less than thirty feet across ours, I get the shivers. I’m scared, Johnny. Nobody’s doing anything about it. First, those gang members moved into apartment C and now this.”

“Baby, you’re right. But, remember, we have a plan. With the raise I just got at work, we’ll be able to afford a nice two-bedroom apartment in Rancho Cucamonga before the baby turns one. I promise.”

“Meanwhile, what?” Angie held her belly as we got to the bottom of the stairs. “We have to put up with that. All I’m saying, someone needs to call the cops.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “But it won’t be us. I don’t want any problems…” 

“Hey, kids!” Our conversation came to a halt when Mr. Jones, the neighbor below us called out from his apartment window. He was a mountain of a man with white, scarce yet rowdy hair. He had a baritone voice that complemented his towering height. It was a voice that always demanded attention. And although, the evidence of an athletic life lingered, Mr. Jones was a giant teddy bear. Everyone in the neighborhood respected and loved him.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” Angie and I responded as we walked past his window.

“How’s Mrs. Jones?” Angie inquired.

Mr.and Mrs. Jones lived in the apartment below us with their teenage granddaughter, Monique. The rumor around the neighborhood was that their son was serving a life term in prison for murder. Monique’s mom disappeared shortly thereafter and left her in the care of Mr. and Mrs. Jones. The Jones’s were in their late sixties and were one of the few black couples in an apartment complex that housed mostly Mexican immigrants and/or Mexican immigrant descendants.

“Oh, you know Mrs. Jones,” Mr. Jones peeked from behind grandfather glasses. “Always busy. It’s like she has ants crawling inside her pants. She went to the laundry mat early this morning. She’ll be home anytime now. How goes it with you? Is it time yet?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I replied. “Our inducement appointment’s in half an hour…”

The upstairs neighbor’s door slammed shut again and robbed our conversation momentarily. Another sinewy creature walked out. It looked both ways, descended the stairs and disappeared.

“Those people are up to no good,” Mr. Jones said.

“I think they’re selling drugs.”

“Now, baby, we don’t know that for sure…”

“Come on, it is obvious,” Angie cut me off, then turned to Mr. Jones. “All those people that go in and out look like drug addicts. Don’t you agree, Mr. Jones?”

“Absolutely…”

“Mr. Jones, please don’t encourage her…”

“But it’s the truth,” she retorted. “I say we report it.”

“We’re doing no such thing, babe.”

Mr. Jones held his tongue and played referee while Angie and I sparred.

“If you don’t want to call the police, that’s fine, but at least we should talk to management.” Angie suddenly held her inflated belly. “I think we gotta go, honey. The baby feels like is kicking his way out.”

“Ya’ll go,” Mr. Jones shooed us away. “We can finish this conversation when you guys come back.”

Angie turned around and headed toward the carports.

“Someone needs to call the authorities, is all I’m saying,” she said as she waddled away, her hands resting on her belly.

“I agree,” Mr. Jones called back with his baritone voice. “But more importantly, Angie, I also agree that you need to worry more about being at peace. Don’t concern yourself with these other matters. I wish you a speedy labor. Go on and hurry back with your little one. I want to meet him. And you, Johnny,” he turned to me. “Make sure and do whatever means necessary to keep her comfortable and at ease. Don’t stress her with unnecessary nonsense. This labor business is no joke. Yah hear?”

“Yes, sir.” I turned around and followed my wife like a puppy. By then she had already turned the corner and was out of our sight, so I hurried. A new life awaited us at Pomona Valley Hospital Medical Center. I knew this was going to be the greatest day of my life. What I didn’t know was that, emotionally, it was going to be one of the most challenging as well.

Monday:

The Pomona Ninja Department

After a long night of anticipation to finally be rewarded with a firstborn son, I was drained and couldn’t wait to get some rest. My emotions had been through trauma the night before and now suffered what felt like the remnants of a brawl in an 1800’s Wild West saloon. Angie had been in labor for almost fourteen hours. Although the pain isn’t physical for the father-to-be, it sure as heck is emotional. Witnessing one’s wife suffer for such a long period of time will definitely take a toll. After approximately an eternity of watching Angie breathe, push and breathe, my son finally popped his head out, took a lungful of unfiltered oxygen, glimpsed the new world for his first time and threw his first tantrum. I gulped down the Grapevine Knot in my throat while I watched from behind glassy eyes. I cut the umbilical cord, held my son for several minutes and went home to rest. I had to go to work in a couple of hours. I would not dare call off. It would only set our plans to move out of Pomona back. No way. It was a quarter past five in the morning, and the precious memories of the previous night circled around me like a halo while I drove home. My head was heavy, my eyes were fading in and out and the streets were sound. Even angry cities in desperate need of therapy sleep on occasion. When I finally got to the apartment, I stumbled into my bed, didn’t even remove my shoes, and was immediately asleep.

My dreams conquered my reality in seconds with glimpses of a wonderful future with my newborn. I dreamed of Nathan as a toddler, learning the art of speech, pluralizing nouns. Instead of Scooby, he’d say Scoobys and kakas instead of kaka. Then Nathan was a small boy, exercising his newly learned talents as he climbed around jungle gyms throughout the local parks. I dreamed of Nathan training in Mixed Martial Arts in an extra-small Gi that looked extra-large on him. Nathan riding a white GT bicycle, playing football in high school and taking his first girlfriend out to the movies. Then Nathan graduated high school, got his first job and bought his first car. Angie and I were so proud to see our son grow up to knock on the front door of our apartment. Then in my dream, Nathan announced that Angie and I would soon be grandparents and that someone kept pounding on the front door. In my dream, his face was handsome, he had a million-dollar smile and wavy long hair, when suddenly a hairline crack appeared across his forehead and reality began to seep through. Knock, knock, knock. The glass that separates a dream from reality shattered and soon gave way to complete reality. Knock, knock, knock. I woke up to pounding on the front door. Pound, pound, pound. I rose and walked towards the commotion taking place at the front door.

Pound, pound, pound.

“I’m coming,” I called as I shed the scales of surrealism. “I’m coming.”

What time was it? And who could it be? Maybe Mr. Jones wanted to congratulate me—

“POLICE!” Came the answer from the opposite side of the door. “OPEN UP!”

I unlocked the door, still lightheaded and hypnotized by the lack of sleep. An unexpected resistance pushed the door open against me and knocked me across the living room.

“PUT YOUR HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

Instead, I waved my arms around to keep my balance.

“I SAID, ‘PUT YOUR HANDS UP’, OR I’LL SHOOT!”

The threat of falling was greater than the threat of getting shot, because I kept swinging my arms as I toppled backwards and over the single couch I owned, courtesy of my parents. One second I was falling, the next second I was being manhandled by several pairs of arms. They were arms with black gloves and anger issues. They grabbed me, flipped me and threw me on my belly. They twisted one of my arms while the other was anchored to the floor by the weight of a boot. I felt another boot on my back, and I shifted. The boot on my back became weightier and my twisted arm tested my shoulder’s limits.

“Don’t move!”

My cheek rested on the floor, my legs were kicked apart to form a Y and my arms were yanked together behind my back. I could see half a dozen pairs of black boots pacing around from my viewpoint several inches from the ground. I heard a rapid fire of clicks and felt the stone cold presence of handcuffs around my wrists.

“Is there anyone else home?” Asked a male voice.

“Nuh-uh,” I responded to it.

A pair of hands frisked and patted my body, then I was suddenly craned up by the handcuffs and sat on the floor of my living room, my legs still separated apart. I sat face to face to a masked figure for a moment. Behind him, a roomful of ninjas with rifles, handguns and black ski masks scattered about. Just like that, the euphoria from the previous night was taken away as the status of the new father became that of the criminal.

“What’s going on?” I tried to croak.

One of the ninjas towered before me, shoved a piece of paper I took to be a warrant into my face and said from under his black ski mask, “I ask the questions around here.” Three pairs of threatening eyes glared at me under tactical gear. One of the ninjas went down the hallway that led to the bedroom while another searched the cabinets in the kitchen. A third ninja hit the restroom. Rifles slung over shoulders, handguns rested in holsters while black gloved hands busied themselves through the contents in my apartment.

“Hey! Look at me,” the towering ninja said. Two other ninjas stood behind him. “Where are the drugs?”

“There’s gotta be a mistake, sir. I don’t have any drugs…”

“Don’t you lie to me, punk! WHERE-ARE-THE-DRUGS?”

I heard a loud crash come from my bedroom.

“I-I-I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about, eh?” The ninja grabbed my ear and shook me. “I’m talking about the heroin, the crack, the crystal, the whatever it is you’re selling out of this dump!” He pushed my head away from him. “This is your last chance. Where are you hiding the stash? If you don’t tell me, I swear that by the time we’re done here, I will personally see that you get the max. I will book you for sales, distribution, obstruction of justice, impeding my investigation, resisting arrest and any other charge I can muster! Do I make myself clear? I will make sure your life becomes a living hell when you hit the county. You hear? Now, what will it be?”

Before I opened my mouth to reiterate my innocence, the bedroom ninja walked out shaking his head no. Seconds later the bathroom ninja also walked out, shook his head no and busied himself around the living room, almost as if confused of what to do next. My interrogating ninja looked up and directed his attention to the kitchen ninja, who’d slammed the final cabinet shut.

“Hoskins?”

“Nothing to report here, sir,” declared Hoskins.

I imagined sour expressions lurking beneath the six ski masks. The two ninjas behind my interrogator fidgeted behind while Hoskins walked out of the apartment. The bathroom ninja followed three steps behind Hoskins, but my interrogating ninja stopped him just before he reached the doorway.

“Richards?”

Officer Richards, AKA bathroom ninja, too, responded, “nothing to report, sir.”

My interrogator looked at the bedroom ninja, who’d suddenly found something of interest on his boots.

“Anything to report, Blackwell?”

Other than the oddity he’d just found on his boots, Officer Blackwell, AKA bedroom ninja, had nothing to report. Seconds later, he followed Hoskins and Richards, leaving the two fidgeting ninjas, my interrogator and me in the throes of an overturned apartment.

“Look, there’s been countless complaints of somebody selling drugs out of here. This is apartment…”

We both looked at the upside down D that swung on the front my apartment door.

“B,” he concluded with a trace of unease.

“D,” I corrected. “This is apartment D.”

“Oh my,” my interrogator said as he immediately turned me around to remove the handcuffs. He stretched out an arm I ignored. I stood. My left arm was sore, my ear throbbed and my self esteem pulsed. “It appears we’ve made a grave mistake…”

“I don’t care.”

“We thought this was apartment B.”

“I don’t care.” I wasn’t interested in anything this deadbeat had to say, including a half-ass apology. I just wanted to go back to bed. I was exhausted. I had to go to work soon. Every minute of sleep would be crucial and necessary. “I just wish you would leave.”

“Fair enough,” was his response. He took a few steps, his two goons were already outside. He turned back toward me. “Look, I hope there’s no hard feelings…”

“Get out!”

Once they were gone, the tentacles of surrealism engulfed me once again. In addition to being worn out, I felt confused, embarrassed, humiliated, bruised, angry, deflated, debilitated, isolated, rejected, dejected, misjudged, misunderstood, miserable and empty. What was the meaning of this intrusion? Here I was, in the subjugated condition Angie and I were working hard to flee from. Trapped. Helpless. Exposed to the elements of a sickly lifestyle. Then I thought about the timing. What if Angie would have been here? It could have been bad. Tragic. Devastating. In the midst of this emotional uproar, I determined that this was an event she didn’t need to ever know about. I looked out the open door the Pomona Ninja Department didn’t bother closing and, past the mocking upside-down D like a bokeh effect, lo and behold, another scraggly creature exited the odious apartment less than thirty feet across the way. I shook my head. I closed the door and then it hit me—Nathan. I wasn’t a criminal. I was a new father. My newborn would be home soon. He’d learn the skills of communication. He’d climb the jungle gyms in the local parks. He’d train in Mixed Martial Arts. He’d look cute in his oversized extra-small Gi. He’d one day ride a white GT bicycle. He’d play high school football and graduate at seventeen. He would one day take his first girlfriend out on a movie date. He’d buy his first car, and would someday—a very special day—announce to Angie and me that we were going to be grandparents.

All of a sudden, I smiled.

                                    J. Marquez Jr.—August 25, 2024

                                    Previously published in The Literary Hatchet, Issue #38 (PearTree Press, 2024)

Author’s Side Note (And Gratitude):

As a newbie to the art publishing, I am more than grateful to sites and publishing presses like The Yard: Crime Blog and The Literary Hatchet who have been publishing me. In addition, I wish to offer a banana split of appreciation to those who’ve taken the time out of their busy lives to read my riffraff (especially my longer riffraff). And the cherry goes to each ‘like’, ‘clap’, ‘share’ and/or emoji my stories and poems have been awarded. Thank you.

Now, having said that, let me follow up with a joke and a pitch.

The joke: An MMA fighter walks into a bar/library. Four assholes get tossed out. Get it? No?

Well…here’s the pitch: to find out what happened inside this bar/library (and get the joke), please download issue number 39 of The Literary Hatchet, featuring my short story, The Four Horsemen, for free, at https://lizzieandrewborden.com/HatchetOnline/LiteraryHatchet/product/literary-hatchet-39-double-issue. In addition, this issue also contains a poem I wrote about the countless (and stinging) rejections I’ve received (and keep receiving). Did I mention that it’s free? Well, it is…till the next issue comes out.

Once again…thank you all.

—J. Marquez Jr.

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Bio: J. Marquez Jr. has never been interviewed before. However, if he’s ever interviewed, he will be happy to divulge that he likes Pink Floyd. One can find some of this riffraff on recent issues of The Literary Hatchet and/or at The Yard: Crime Blog. He sends his regards from Los Angeles with love.

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