Armed and Dangerous
By Terry Boskovich

We went with cheaper coffee, and Larry wouldn’t drink it. After a day, he fell apart. He would sag on the counter, lift his head when you talked to him, tuck it back down when you were done. He’d be rude on the phone, or sometimes just let it ring. You could see him hating life.

I told him, “Go get a cup at Mickey D’s.”

He’d lift his head, squint from the light, put his head back down.

“OK, forget it,” I’d say.

It went on like this for a couple of days.

Then one morning Pete came in. We would call Pete The Wino because of his slight alcohol problem. We had a breathalyzer under the counter, but Larry didn’t use it. He just let Pete through. “Happy shooting,” he said. He was being sarcastic.

He had tea or something, in one hand, but he wasn’t drinking it. “What are you drinking?” I said. “Tea?”

He looked into his cup.

“Why don’t you call Folgers?” I said.

That’s when Lee Grasso called. By now it was me answering the phone. I said, “Hey, Lee.”

He said the bank was coming down to lock the doors.

“Whoa,” I said. “When?”

“Two minutes,” Grasso said.

I looked at Larry. “Two minutes,” I said. He didn’t care.

“All right, Grasso,” I said.

Lee Grasso actually worked for the bank, but he had a Browning 1919A4 on consignment with us, so he had to tip us off if he wanted it back. “Have it outside,” he told me. “I’m coming by right now.”

I hung up. “Whoa,” I said.

I called The Colonel. The Colonel was an old guy who lived up the street. We had his Spencer Rifle. Also a McLellan horse saddle from the Civil War.

“Two minutes,” I told him.

“Dang!” he said. “I’ll be right down!”

I hung up. Grasso was coming.

“Larry,” I said, “can you help me with this?”

Larry lifted his head.

“Grasso’s coming,” I said.

So Larry budged.

We were like soldiers carrying that machine gun to the door. I had the weapon, and Larry had the tripod and ammo. 

“Should we call Jack?” I said.

But Larry was sick of Jack. Jack owned the place. “Nah,” Larry said.

We decided not to leave the Browning in the parking lot. We left it lying down by the front door.

Then The Colonel came in, shouting: “Where’s my Spencer rifle, son?” He had come down in his undershirt and suspenders. The Colonel wasn’t really a Colonel. Unlike The Wino, The Colonel’s nickname wasn’t really accurate. I don’t know where it came from, but I knew he was a civil war buff.

 I got him his rifle and his saddle.

“You know!” he shouted. “The feds don’t classify this rifle as a firearm!” 

“I think they’ll seize it,” I told him.

That’s when we heard gunshots. Much too loud. It took a second, but I realized the sound was coming from the archery range. I looked at Larry. “The Wino,” I said.

Larry closed his eyes and shook his head. He kept his eyes closed.

Then something exploded in the parking lot. I ducked. So did Larry. The Colonel stood there with his rifle. I looked at Larry, but Larry was hunkered down, waiting.

I looked out the window. And I couldn’t believe my eyes. Lee Grasso’s truck was on fire in the parking lot. A split second later Grasso was coming through the door with a pistol drawn.

“Who fired on me?” he shouted.

I held my hands out. “Lee! Don’t shoot!”

He was holding his .50 caliber Desert Eagle, the one I’d sold him in April.

He saw The Colonel holding the rifle, and he aimed his pistol at the Colonel’s head. I froze, waiting for the shot.

There was no shot.

After a second, The Colonel got mad. He gripped his rifle with both hands, and said: “Son! Let me explain somethin’ to you…”

Grasso raised his weapon and CRACK! fired a round into the ceiling. “LEE!” said Larry. Larry was holding his ears. A shell casing hit the floor. Debris was drifting down from the tiles. I was blinking my eyes. My teeth hurt. I saw Larry holding his empty hands out, coughing. “LEE!” he gasped.

Grasso’s arm and handgun were extended once again at The Colonel’s face.

 “Did you fire on me, Old Timer?” he said.

The Colonel glared right into the barrel. His eyes were big and fierce, like an owl’s. Then he eyed the machine gun resting by the door. He looked the thing side to side.

“Son!” he shouted. “There’s a part missing in you! And all this hardware ain’t never gonna put you together!”

I looked at Larry, but Larry was cringing, barely listening, just waiting for an end to it. I looked at the Colonel. “Colonel…” I said, but I couldn’t finish. His eyes caught mine for a moment, then returned to Grasso.

He was brave, The Colonel. But Lee Grasso could not be picked apart or broken down. Lee Grasso was just plain dangerous. I kept that thought to myself.

“You with your Desert Eagle handgun there!” said the Colonel. “Look at this Spencer rifle, Son! This here is a piece of history! This here is The American Spirit!”

Grasso’s knuckles rippled as he worked the grip. His eyes scanned the room quickly, sizing up the environment.

That’s when Pete came out of the firing range, holding his Glock Nine.

Grasso turned on him. “DON’T MOVE!” he had both hands on the pistol now. Pete froze. Grasso held him still with the gun. Then he torqued back and forth, back and forth, between Pete and the Colonel. He was clocking the angles.

“Pete!” I said, “Pete!” I was crouched down with zero cover, holding out my empty hands. “Pete!” I said. “Were you shooting tracers on the archery range?”

Pete had his gun at his side, held it out slightly from his body. He was motionless, but full of potential. His hair was in his eyes, but I could see him deciding—obey Lee Grasso, or go down shooting. 

“Pete!” I said. “I think you blasted right through the wall and hit Lee’s truck!”

“Well!” The Colonel shouted. “There’s your shooter!”

Grasso turned once on The Colonel, then quickly back to Pete. “Drop that weapon, Pete! Or I’ll put you down!”

Pete gave him a greasy smirk. He looked briefly at the gun in his hand, then back at Grasso. He worked his jaw a bit, and said: “I’m exercising my second amendment rights…”

“I’m gonna unload my second amendment rights into your head!” Grasso told him.

Sirens were coming in fast, outside, from every direction. Grasso’s stance grew wider, as this third front developed in his elaborate standoff. Fire, police, ambulance, who knew? Tires were screeching, and car doors slammed. Men were hollering. It was the fire in the parking lot. Grasso kept Pete in front of him as he backed up. There were twenty or so sirens out there. Blue lights, red lights strobed through the windows. Grasso tried to peer outside.

Pete made his move. CRACK! He spun backward. CRACK! The killshot dropped him.

Grasso spun and CRACK! dropped The Colonel with one shot.

He wheeled on us—me and Larry. We crouched, unarmed, hands up.

“DON’T MOVE!” he said.

“Shots fired,” I heard, deadpan into a bullhorn.

Grasso held us there, trained the gun first on me, then on Larry. Larry was cringing. Probably I was too. He had us immobilized.

Now he backed toward the window, flattened himself against the wall, and peered outside.

The sirens had died down, and it was mostly just coordinated hollering out there. Lights continued to flash through the windows. Larry was staring at The Colonel, who lay dead next to his Spencer rifle and horse saddle. The Browning 1919A4 still waited by the door, snaked over with belts of ammunition.

“Lee…” I said.

He squatted down beneath the window and loosened his tie. He looked at me, nodded toward the firing range door. “Is anyone else back there?” he said. “Seal that access point.”

“No one back there,” I said. Pete’s body lay in the doorway. The Glock Nine lay at his side. I kept low and made my way over there. I paused.

“Lee,” I said. “I have to move this body.”

“Kick that gun into the corner,” he said.

The gun lay there, loaded. I kicked it away. I grabbed Pete by the boots, peered into the empty corridor once, then pulled the body out of the doorway. The door fell shut.

Now the phone rang. Grasso answered it. “Lee Grasso,” he said.

It was the cops. Grasso laid it out for them. “We’ve got two dead in here, killed in self defense. Two more unharmed. They’re hostages. We’re staying put for now.”

He covered the mouthpiece. “Larry,” he said. “Larry!”

Larry raised his head.

“I need fifty caliber AE cartridges. As much as you can carry. Go!”

Larry looked at me helplessly, then made his way, hunkered down, toward the counter.

“Get back here,” Grasso told me. And now into the phone he said, “I’m calling my lawyer. Reggie Carlson. He’ll be down here soon. You let him through. That’s my truck on fire out there. I was ambushed. I fought back. So you let Reggie through.” He hung up.

I was creeping toward the front of the store when the window shattered. Suddenly bullets were ripping up the ammo shelves. Larry dropped down behind the counter—it was Larry they were shooting at. Grasso stood and CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! pumped three bullets out the window. The casings hit the floor as he ducked back down and pulled a fresh magazine out of his sport jacket.

“LARRY!” he shouted. “AMMO!”

“Jesus Christ, Lee! I’m shot!” said Larry.

They were shouting outside: “GET BACK! GET BACK! CLEAR THIS AREA NOW!”

“Lee!” I said. “Larry’s shot!”

“You set up that machine gun!” he said, indicating the Browning by the front door.

“Lee you’re shooting at cops!” I said. “You can’t win!”

“They shot at me first!” he said. He stood and CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! started blasting out the window. He handled the blowback beautifully, a perfectly fluid motion back and down before firing again, while clink, clink, clink the casings dropped and hit the floor. Lee Grasso really did know how to handle a gun, if you didn’t factor in safety or morality.

The Colonel’s Civil War saddle lay near his body. “Lee!” I said. “I’m moving this saddle over to the door for cover!”

CRACK! CRACK! My ears were ringing. Grasso ducked down. “Don’t go near that rifle!” he told me.

“It isn’t even loaded!” I said. I got down on the floor and shimmied over to the saddle. I began pushing it over to the door.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE! HOLD YOUR FIRE!” I heard from outside.

“Get that tripod up!” said Grasso. “You’re feeding me ammo!”

I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I positioned the Browning with the barrel over the horse saddle and pointed through the glass door at the entire local police force. It seemed like the best of three or four dead end choices. 

Grasso hit the deck and scurried over to the machine gun. “Get those belts ready!” he said.

I heard the phone ringing again. Grasso gripped the handles of the Browning and aimed out through the glass. I lay beside him, draped over with belts of .30 caliber bullets.

“Get your head down!” he said. “The glass is gonna break!”

Just then Larry smashed the coffee pot over Lee Grasso’s head. For a moment there was no reaction, and then Grasso started saying, “AARRRRG!” I grabbed him by the neck. Steam was coming off his head. Larry started swinging with one fist. I felt burns on my arms. Grasso was big. He was solid muscle. He turned himself over and now I was underneath his weight, but still holding him by the neck. There was blood in Grasso’s hair. Larry was on top, punching him, but Grasso got his hands up and around Larry’s throat. “ARRG!” he was saying.

Larry was just grunting, or bellowing. Grasso too. Probably I was too. The three of us were basically primeval, writhing around on the floor in a death roll. I don’t know how it happened, but at some point I found myself next to the Spencer rifle. I let go of Grasso’s neck. Grasso’s torso sprang forward, and he gained some leverage now against Larry. But now I had the rifle. I spun it around and CHUNK! bashed it against Grasso’s head. He dropped to the floor.

The phone was ringing. Grasso’s weight lay on top of me. Larry sat on the floor, massaging his throat where Grasso had strangled him. His left shoulder was bleeding, a gunshot wound, fairly serious. The cops were shouting into the bullhorn: “LEE GRASSO! WHAT’S THE SITUATION IN THERE? WE’RE COMING IN!”

“DON’T SHOOT!” I said. “WE’RE COMING OUT!”

Grasso was out cold, but breathing, not dead. I pushed him off of me. “Larry,” I said. “We gotta surrender, pronto.”

The cops did a pretty violent job of restraining us, but fortunately Grasso had told them on the phone that we were hostages. We were off the hook.

Larry went straight to the hospital of course. They wanted to take me too, but my coffee burns were minimal. By that evening, after a couple billion questions from police and reporters, I was home in front of the TV, drinking a six pack, and watching it all on the news.

The media made a big deal out of it. We even got national coverage. In the end, Grasso had killed two civilians, wounded two police officers and a reporter, and strangled Larry halfway to death. All in self defense. His lawyer, Reggie Carlson, was facing tough odds. On the news, he kept emphasizing Grasso’s blown up truck.

A few days later there was a service for The Colonel. His family had actually arranged a 21 gun salute, even though The Colonel was not a colonel and he had never served in the military. They hired a team of riflemen and dressed them as confederate soldiers. The band played Taps and the riflemen fired skyward, “FIRE!” BANG! “FIRE!” BANG! “FIRE!” BANG!

I flinched every time.

Larry was there at the funeral, bandaged around the shoulder and throat. He and I both had new jobs, me at the deli and Larry at the five and dime. We were local heroes now, and everyone wanted to hire us. Still, Larry looked miserable. He sat shell shocked through the whole service, and then when it was over, he just gave me a weak smile and started to leave.

“Larry,” I said. “You wanna talk at all?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I’m gonna head home.”

“C’mon,” I said. “Most of the reporters have left town… C’mon, let’s go get lunch.”

“No. No thanks,” he said. “I’m tired, and I’m in pain.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.”

People were milling around, making their way slowly toward the graveyard gates. Larry mixed in among them, and he just looked so miserable. I felt worried about him.

“Larry,” I said. “Don’t be a stranger. Let’s get a cup of coffee sometime, when you’re feeling better.”

“No,” he said. “No more coffee for me.”

“Really?” I said. “Not even decaf?”

“Not even decaf,” he said. “I quit.”

Copyright © 2007 Terry Boskovich