Tyrone Rufkin had figured out his plan for his final initiation into the gang. He cherished the opportunity to run with the big boys. They did big heists, not petty smash and grabs like a few of his friends, who are awaiting trial or burial. His plan; rock the world of the most hated family on the block, the Martins.
His family said for years, “They ain’t shit.” Period.
Made sense to him, they were retired city employees who stayed to themselves, not socializing or gossiping with others on the block. But most of all they took care of their property. The dull, boring Martins spoke and kept on going. Disgusting. The old man used a walker and his wife barely crept along without one. But they had a 1969 Plymouth GTX that was in mint condition. The midnight auto supply boys at the garage admired it, but never spoke of stealing it. But getting that car would add to his street creds. Not being tech savvy the only way for him; jack it.
Tyrone knew old man Martin’s routine. He went no further than the gas station to get a six pack. He would make a full stop at the sign two blocks away. He wouldn’t be seen behind the over-sized bush on the corner the city refused to cut down.
Tyrone snatched the door open, jumped in and bashed him in the head. His eyes almost popped out of his head. “Pull up and go in the alley, old man before I shoot your old ass!”
“Okay, please don’t shoot, please!”
“Pull up, not by the light pole.” Tyrone shoved the barrel of his gun against his temple. Martin slammed on the brakes throwing him off balance. At the same time, he thrusted the shifter to park, grabbing his arm. They struggled back and forth. Martin’s grip got tighter and tighter. He tried to force the weapon out of his hand by banging it against the dash. It went. “Stop asshole or I’ll kill you!” he shouted. He punched the old man in the face, that loosened his grip. Tyrone snatched his arm back and fired. Martin slumped over…dead. But the grip on his arm was killing him. He looked around in a panic as his heart raced. Clear. He pulled at the fingers gripping him. The more he pulled the tighter they seemed to get. That’s impossible, he’s dead. Hurry up! Somebody will be down the alley any minute. The fingers cracked with each pull. Finally, he was free, his arm hurt like hell. He shoved the door open. Thank God, no interior light. At first, he stumbled down the alley then he broke into a full sprint. He left no prints; he wore gloves and a full-face mask. Later he disposed of the gun, piece by piece.
* * *
Tyrone looked at his swollen arm with the embedded palm and finger prints. Where did that old man get that kind of strength? His fingers were numb and the circulation was poor. It looked like he had been branded. He put the bandage back over it. As soon as it healed, he would be back on the street. If he was not seen that could arouse suspicion. He was clear, never been printed or DNA swabbed.
The imprint itched way too much. That OTC crap was not working. The doctor who did special favors, off the books, carefully removed the bandage. “Jesus…this is rare. How did…never mind. I got you.” He continued to poke and examine the mark. “I need an x-ray, be back in a minute.”
“Hurry, please, this thing is aching.”
A few minutes later the doctor wheeled in a machine with a large canopy and a monitor. “Place your arm in the sleeve and be still.” Tyrone obeyed and the doctor stepped behind a shield. A few clicks later he was finished. “I’ll have results shortly, but I’m prescribing an antibiotic and pain killers. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”
“Yeah, thanks doc.” Little did Tyrone know that with AI nowadays any x-ray that looks suspicious of something criminal related, gunshots wounds, strange punctures, lacerations and the like go to the national database. His wound was unique. He went home and dropped more than the prescribed pain killers. When he woke two big burly detectives stood over him.
“We need to talk to you about that thing on your arm. Get up, you’re coming with us.”
On the way to the station, it hit him that even though he hadn’t been printed or swabbed, Martin had. What could he say? No matter, he was in a world of trouble.