Let Me Be Your Lethal Weapon

Return to Downtown

The four of us were in an unmarked police car as Rog drove us back to the club we visited before. Leo was actually sitting in silence as Riggs, Rog, and I tried to come up with a theory as to who was really in charge of this whole drug and weapons trade.

"Okay so the guys we met are not the ones in charge. Just some underdogs." Rog spoke as we neared the club.

"Right. Anyone know how they were killed?" I pondered from the back seat, staring out the window to avoid getting car sick.

"Yeah I read the report before we left. Says the older guy was shot in the bathtub and the other one was stabbed to death in his flat", Rog continued.

"Hea-vy shit." Riggs added as he lit up a cigarette.

"Motha fucka! How many times do I have to tell you cut that shit out?! Fucking shit will kill you!" I leaned from the back seat, snatched the cigarette from his mouth, and threw it out of the window. "Dumbass".

"That was my last one!" Riggs yelled looking out the window as the car grew further away from his cigarette.

"Good!" I sat myself back down only to realize that we had arrived at the club.

"Okay, can you two please behave yourselves?! I don't want to hear any shit from the captain!"

"Fine. Whatever. Let's go." I hopped out of the car, then turned back to Leo, "you stay in the car".

"But I want to go with you guys!"

"No Leo! Stay here and don't move!"

"What the hell do you think I am?! A dog?!"

"Leo, just shut the fuck up and look out for anything suspicious".

"Okay! Okay! Okay!"

The three of us made our way into the joint. It definitely wasn't as vibrant as it is at night time. The place was illuminated inside but nothing was going on. It almost looked abandoned. Nobody was in the club except for a custodian.

"Too quiet", Rog whispered.

"Mhmm", I looked around as we stepped further inside. Not even that shitty band was playing. It was a fucking ghost town.

"Excuse me, sir!" Riggs yelled out to the custodian who was mopping the floor. The older man peered up, putting the mop back in the bucket. He was a man of about sixty years. A full, white mustache rested atop his lip and complimented his lanky body.

"Can I help you folks with something?" He questioned in a friendly tone as he wiped his hands on his jumpsuit. The three of us walked toward him side-by-side.

"Yeah. We're uh-- in need of some information and we were wondering if you could help us out." Riggs placed his hands on his hips, parting the blue jacket he was wearing.

"Well, I can certainly try!"

"So uh-- I don't know if you're aware, but the owners of this club were killed last night in their own homes. Shot and stabbed to death."

I butted in, "We were wondering if you knew anything about the people that come around here, the people they work with, the trading that goes on, stuff like that".

"Trading?" The man questioned, throughly confused.

"Yeah. The drug and weapons trade."

"N-no ma'am, I have no idea. I only do this during the day and nothing ever seems to be going on. Exactly how you see it, is exactly how it is every single day. I promise you if I knew anything I would tell you, but I don't."