Squad Stories: Cats in The Cradle 4/4

On the airplane, Floyd had watched as a father, about his age, jerked on his child’s arm to keep her quiet. You could tell it was her first time on an airplane, and it wasn’t an experience she enjoyed. Despite that, her parental figure offered no comfort. Just the stern, hard, beratement of a parent on the edge. It disturbed him to see, and the fact that it disturbed him made him maybe even more uneasy than the sight itself.

 

Once landed, the man dragged his daughter bodily, kicking and screaming through the terminal. Floyd shouldered his bag, grimaced, and made himself forget the sight. Instead, he shouldered his bag and trudged to the pickup zone where, just barely, he managed to hail a cab.

 

It was rare times like this when he was glad he wasn’t dead.

 

The cab pulled up to Vern Reed road, and Floyd had him stop there. His subconscious paranoia forbidding him from letting the cab driver see where he was really going. He payed the man, and watch him recede and disappear into the urban prairie. He took in the heavy, November air and started to walk. From the shadows of a nearby alley, beady eyes watched him. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that at least a few of the locals didn’t hold animosity towards him, not after what he did those three fateful years ago, but at this point, there was too few of them for it to matter. They knew who he was. They knew their place.

 

Finally, Floyd reach it: Schwartz Court. He was almost to the door when he realized he hadn’t lit a single cigarette the entire day.

 

Before he could have another thought, the door was slammed open, and an eleven year old girl was hugging him around the waist fiercely, shouting in joy, nearly hopping up and down.

 

“Hey Kiddo,” he said, “Surprise!”

 

In the doorway leaned Michelle Torres, her mother, arms crossed, smiling warmly. She called him ‘Killer’ as he approached, the girl’s hand in his, and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled as best he could, and begged her not to call him that. No promises, she told him, and led them both inside and up the elevator.

 

Floyd Lawton would never consider himself a family man. After shooting his mother in the back in return for what she had done to him, family was barely a word Floyd was used to. The idea of family ran him cold, and dropped him back into that same emotional stasis tank that he remained in almost exclusively. However, there was a warmth that filled him every time he walked through that door. A dull glow that maybe he didn’t notice himself, but Michelle picked up on every time he was around her.

 

He glowed even brighter around Zoe.

 

Proudly, she sat at the kitchen table, showing her father her drawings; her unintentionally impressionistic renderings of Supergirl, Wonder Woman, and what looked to Floyd like Aquaman in Power Girl’s boots. He beamed pouring over every shoddy line, and told her that she was a damn fine artist. He balked however, when she asked him to draw Batman, chanting the caped crusader’s name continuously, prompting dark laughter from Michelle, and nervous sweating from Floyd. Roughly, untrained, Floyd heaved a crayon between his fingers and began to hew away at the paper. The result was a primitive, blocky swath of shapes that, from the right angle, almost looked like the cape and cowl of The Bat.

 

Zoe narrowed her eyes at the drawing, and a look of intense concentration came over her face, until finally she declared to her father that Batman looked dead. He’s not dead, he told her, but maybe Robin accidentally smacked him with the Batmobile.

 

Everything was going almost unsettlingly well. After his brush with Psimon, Floyd would be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little suspicious that maybe, just maybe, none of this was even real. The thought, however, of this entire scenario being fantasy, drove him to a place that was darker than even he was used to, and with some effort, he pushed it from his mind. They were halfway through dinner when Zoe declared she wanted to be just like her dad when she grew up, and all the color drained from Floyd’s face. Before Michelle could say anything, before Floyd could stop himself, he gently laid his hand on hers and told her that was sweet and all, but Kiddo, his job’s not all that great, and he’s not around nearly enough, and she was gonna go to school, and get a damn fine job that put what he did to shame.

 

When she asked him what he *did* do, he took a deep breath, and told her he was a cleaner.

 

After dinner, Michelle sent Zoe up to brush her teeth and get ready for bed. Floyd sat at the table, nursing a whiskey, and staring intently at the drawing of Batman. I think you’ve got a career ahead of you, Michelle told him. Floyd smiled softly, said art was never his calling, and pushed the drawing away. He asked her if she was doing alright, his hand resting on her cheek. There was darkness under her eyes, but she told him she was doing just fine. That she missed him sometimes, But she was glad he wasn’t around all the time, even if Zoe maybe would do better with a father.

 

He told her he understood though. He brought danger and destruction everywhere he went. The first time he had visited the Triangle, had learned of his daughter’s existence, he left a long and bloody trail in his wake. It was to assure their safety, but it was done in the most brutal way possible. The only way Floyd knew.

 

Despite that, they were happy to see each other, and as evidenced, Zoe was absolutely thrilled.

 

He asked her if anything had come up lately. If anyone had been trying to shake down the neighborhood, or threatened her or anyone in the building. At that, a spark lit up in Michelle’s eyes as she told him sternly, oh no, you’re not shooting your way though anymore problems. Not here, Lawton, not in this town. Please, if not for her, then for Zoe.

 

It was then, as if on cue, that there was a knock on the door. Floyd volunteered to get it, and made his way to the door. On the way, he stopped by the hallway’s chest of drawers, and withdrew a pistol he had hidden, taped to the bottom of the cabinet. Slowly, he creaked open the door just enough to see the three ill-dressed young men outside. He recognized their beady eyes, and the shiftiness in their posture. He recognized the colors on their arms. They wanted to talk to him. They wanted in. They wanted to deliver a message. Floyd shut the door, slipped the gun into the back of his pants, declared to Michelle that he was stepping out for a moment. If she had any protest, any consternation for what she knew was about to happen, she kept it back, and just told him to be back in time to tuck Zoe in.

 

He stepped out, and told them quietly what they were doing was suicide. That no matter the outcome, they would not survive. That this was sacrilege, to follow him to where his child and her mother lived. They sneered and leered, and told him they were taking their turf back. And no old man with a pedo-stache was going to stop them. His time was over, it was time for the gangs to take Star City’s Triangle back for themselves.

Floyd sighed, and offered them an out. He bade them follow him, and was mildly surprised when they did. He led them out on the street and asked if they were armed. In response, they each withdrew a pistol. Alright, Floyd said, let’s make a deal. He flipped open the near-antique six-shooter and dropped all the bullets out of it, save for the one in the chamber.

 

Here’s the deal, he said, leading them through one of the dingy side streets to a warehouse a few blocks away. You ever see Westerns? Well this is a shootout. You all get one clip’s worth of bullets to kill me, and I get one whole bullet to kill all three of you. You win, Triangle’s yours. I win, you’re dead, and I’ll make sure your posse knows it. Deal?

 

The three young men all smiled maliciously, agreed, and instantly withdrew their pistols, firing with wild abandon into the night air. Floyd grimaced, or was it a smile, and whipped behind some crates. Feeling the impact of the bullets on the wood, and gauging his surroundings. Finally, he saw it. With the crates being torn to pieces behind him, Deadshot whipped his arm out in one smooth, whip-like motion, and with a crack of thunder, fired at an overhanging steel lamp. The bullet pinged off the lamp and ricocheted back down to collide with an iron crossbeam, erect and rusting, and sending the bullet tearing through all three young men’s necks. Deadshot shook the ringing of gunfire out of his ears, returned the smoking gun to the back of his pants, and stepped out into the inky black night.

 

On his way back, he found the bullets he had dropped scattered on the ground. The metallic detritus of so many bloodsheds. He scooped them all up and dropped them into his pocket, jingling them around like change. In the distance, on the other side of the otherwise almost empty street, and older man in a long blue coat tugged viciously on the arm of a young girl in a pale pink dress, dragging her along behind him. Floyd grimaced, rolled the bullets around in his fingers, then went home to tuck in his daughter.

 

Done