Free Wet Work - A Greg Kelton Short Story by Brian Springer

 
     
    1
    Greg Kelton headed towards the front doors
of the Hoover branch of the San Diego Public Library, stopping only
to hang the clipboard on the wall of the walk-in supply closet
before walking out into the cool San Diego night.
    After locking the doors behind him, Kelton
closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. It was amazing
how wonderful the salt-tinged air tasted after having spent the
last six hours working exclusively with bleach and lemon-scent
disinfectant.
    Not that he minded cleaning bathrooms and
mopping floors. Quite the opposite, in fact.
    The monotony and brainless nature of the
work allowed his mind to wander freely without affecting his
performance. In almost every way, being a janitor was the exact
opposite of his other life, which is one of the main reasons why he
had sought out the job in the first place. Well, that and the
fringe benefits. Which mostly consisted of being around books all
the time.
    Kelton lived two miles from the library, and
he walked to and from work every day. His shift ended at midnight,
and while that was prime party time in certain parts of downtown
San Diego, in Kelton’s neighborhood, the streets were usually
empty.
    Tonight was an exception.
    Kelton was scarcely out of the library when
he spotted four young men huddled next to a ‘61 Ford Mustang parked
at the curb directly in front of him.
    Unlike the street-wise predators that Kelton
saw on a regular basis in this part of the city, these four young
men lacked the animal instincts that could discern predator from
prey. They were simply young men who believed in the strength of
numbers and the invincibility of their youth.
    They had absolutely no clue what they were
dealing with.
    One of the young men said, “Henry, here he
comes,” in a harsh whisper and pointed at Kelton.
    The one in the center of the group—Henry, no
doubt—looked up and began to saunter forward, smiling benignly, as
though he recognized Kelton. He was two steps ahead of the other
three, who had begun to fan out behind their fearless leader.
    “ Hey man,” Henry called out into the
warm, windless night. “You got a light?”
    Kelton didn’t answer. He didn’t even
acknowledge Henry. He was too busy sizing up the young man. He
didn’t bother worrying about the other three.
    Henry was four inches shorter than Kelton,
but he weighed at least forty pounds more. He had a shaved head and
a perfectly trimmed goatee. His shirt read LIMP BIZKIT and the
cuffs of his jeans covered the tops of his Doc Martens.
    “ You got a hearing problem, buddy?”
Henry said, his smile growing wider with every word.
    Whispers and barely suppressed laughter
escaped from the mouths of his three cronies.
    Kelton held his ground as Henry came to
within two feet of where he stood.
    “ Fuckin-A pal,” Henry said, smiling no
more. “You better answer me or you’re gonna get hurt.”
    Kelton let his cold stare wander from Henry
to the other three, pausing to lock onto each one’s eyes for just a
second before returning to Henry. “You have no idea what hurt is,
kid.”
    Henry returned the stare. “Is that
right?”
    “ Yes,” Kelton said. “It
is.”
    Henry laughed and reached behind his back,
but before he could bring his arm forward, Kelton stepped towards
him, brought his right hand up and grasped Henry’s throat.
    Henry’s three friends took a collective step
forward. Kelton shot them each a glance and very calmly said, “Back
the fuck off.”
    One by one, each of them took a few steps
back.
    Henry also tried to take a step back,
forcing Kelton to squeeze his thumb and forefinger together,
tightening his grip on Henry’s larynx. A soft gurgling sound came
from the young man’s mouth.
    “ Not a good idea,” Kelton said. “Now
show me your hands. Slowly. And leave whatever you were grabbing
for in your waistband behind your back.”
    Henry’s throat clicked as he attempted to
swallow. He brought his empty hands to a position in front of