Wrong Number

Keith fished the keys out of his front pocket and warily fingered through the dozen keys on his pewter crocodile keychain. He found the key to the deadbolt and slid it home. There was an audible click as the mechanism withdrew and he had access to his three bedroom townhouse.
He entered the foyer and dropped his keys on the oak table to the right of the entrance. They clattered musically in to the ceramic bowl that was the centerpiece, muffled only slightly by the pile of junk mail that half filled it. He sighed heavily as he shook off his heavy coat and hung it in the side closet. He walked down the unremarkably decorated hallway with the generic mountain scene watercolor painted by a relative with minimal talent. His footwear squeaked on the hardwood floor as he made his way toward the living room off to the right of the hall. He kicked his shoes off at the entrance and left the shoes where they fell, falling himself in to the leather recliner in the corner of the room.
He was dog tired. This had been the absolute king of all shit days. It was one problem after another, all day long until he was close to strangling that half-wit Wilson from the Maintenance department. God, but that guy was stupid. And Fitzgerald, that worthless old fart. Keith wouldn’t have half as much work to do if that bastard did a quarter of what he was supposed to do. He let out another long sigh. Shelly was supposed to be coming over tonight. He invited her over to order Chinese food and watch a movie. He was going to have to call and cancel. This was going to be yet another problem. Shelly would bitch and moan and pester him to talk about it. She’ll be disappointed with him for canceling plans on such short notice, and she had every right to be. He just could not deal with the company this evening.
He loved Shelly, she was a great girl. He always enjoyed her company, but its work to keep an interesting conversation going. You have to be tentative and charming and blah, blah, blah. Keith just needed to have a couple of strong vodka martinis and go to bed with a good novel. That was what he needed tonight. He braced himself for the inevitable argument that would follow his canceling of their plans. He picked up the cordless telephone off of the table beside the recliner and quickly dialed Shelly’s number. He leaned back and closed his eyes bringing the phone up to his ear. He listened to two rings before a gruff male voice picked up the other end and said hello.
Keith’s eyes flew open immediately and he sat up in his recliner. Shelly had some guy over at her place and he had the nerve to answer the phone.
" Who’s this?" Keith demanded angrily.
"Huh?" The guy puzzled, and then angry himself. "The fuck you mean ‘Who’s This’?
"Who am I speaking to?" Keith demanded again, feeling the hair on his neck standing up and his cheeks flush as his surprise turned to rage. Who the hell did this guy think he was? And why was Shelly, not only allowing him to answer her phone, but shout obscenities in to it as well?
"Fuck you! That’s who you’re speaking to asshole." The guy shouted back.
" Fuck me? Fuck me? No, no, no Fuck You!" Keith was now leaning forward in his chair and clutching the cordless phone so tightly that his knuckles were turning white and screaming, almost top volume. " Fuck you buddy!"
Even with his fury reaching a new peak it began to dawn on Keith that he may have dialed the wrong number. Instead of stating that fact, however, he decided to just hang up on this piece of shit that had been so rude. He hit the end button with his thumb and immediately hit the talk button beside it to get a fresh dial tone. He carefully dialed the seven digits that made up Shelly’s phone number. He was physically shaking when he raised the phone back up to his ear. There were four rings and then an answering machine. It was Shelly’s sweet voice, albeit slightly digitalized on her machine, advising whoever it may be calling that she was unable to take their call due to the misfortune of being away from her apartment, and while she was supremely sorry to have missed their call, she would do her absolute damnedest to call them back at the earliest possible moment, if they would only provide her with the means to do that by generously donating their name and number to her answering machine.
"Shit" He snarled before the beep. "Hey Shell,…ah….It’s me baby. I hope you get this message before you head over to my place. Can you call me as soon as possible? Thanks."
Twelve blocks away from Keith’s townhouse, Dallas Brooks was redialing the number that appeared on his call display. He was about to have a word with the motherfucker that interrupted him in the middle of smoking a joint and watching the newest installment of "Girls Gone Wild". He got a busy signal. He slammed the phone in to the cradle.
" Screw it." He said aloud. "I guess this is going to have to be a face to face sort of meeting." Getting up off of his couch and heading in to the kitchen to find a phone book.
Milton, Keith. There was ten of those and fourteen Milton, K’s. No problem, all that was left was to match the telephone number and bingo. "There you are, you bastard." Dallas said aloud to his empty kitchen. "I think it’s a lovely night for a drive." I am going to drive my foot right up your punk ass, He thought to himself.
Keith’s pulse was still pounding from the verbal altercation with the stranger. That martini was looking better and better as each second passed. He even contemplated nixing the shaker, strainer and olive, for a straight up vodka neat. I certainly could use it, he thought. In the end the martini won out and he set to action. He worked meticulously at creating his martini, he prided himself on making one hell of a good martini and as his daddy used to say, If something is worth doing it’s worth doing well, when it came to martinis Keith could not agree more.
Once Keith was satisfied with his mixture he poured himself a glass and took the silver shaker in to his living room with him and set his glass and the shaker on the table next to his lounge chair. He walked over to the humidor on the mantle above his fireplace. The fire place was non-working. The chimney was cemented due to strict fire regulations and higher insurance rates. Keith had it sealed up shortly after purchasing the place a few years back. He opened his humidor and selected one of his last Cuban cigars. Screw it, he thought. The old man will be back in Cuba in a month or so, I can afford to indulge myself a little tonight. He clipped the end off and ran the cigar under his nose savoring the aroma. He walked back to the other side of the room and dropped in to his chair. He leaned back on the backrest and the footstool popped upright, taking his legs with it. He reached in to his front shirt pocket and pulled out his package of matches. He lit his cigar and took three or four quick puffs just to make sure he had her going just right. Once he was satisfied with that, he took a longer haul and let his head fall back as he blew a thick plume of smoke straight up in the air. He reached for his martini as a jet black Ford Explorer with dark tinted windows and chrome rims was barreling down the Freeway.
Dallas was focused on the freeway in front of him. He was bent over the wheel, with his hands at the top and he was rocking quickly back and forth to the deep rhythmic thumping of mostly bass, that the song he was listening consisted of. He wore a black wool cap on the top of his bald head and a three quarter length leather coat. He was grinding his teeth the way he only does when he is really angry. He has been doing that since he was a child. It is so subconsciously ingrained in to him that he does not even notice that he is doing it anymore. He does notices the green sign advising the turnoff for Springhill and activates his right turn signal. "I’m on my way Keithie boy." Dallas said under his breath. "Be right there."
Keith had just poured his second martini, and smoked only half of his Cuban cigar when his doorbell rang. He groaned aloud. Shelly hadn’t checked her messages and she had come over after all. That sucked. He really didn’t want any company tonight, but now that she was here he couldn’t very well send her away. He resigned himself to spending the evening listening to Shelly’s problems with her coworkers and her short term goals for whatever initiative she was taking this week. Oh well, at least he would get laid.
Dallas did not even hesitate when he pulled up to the curb in front of 117 Crestwood Dr. He reached in to the glove compartment and pulled out his Glock 9, he did not need to check and see if it was loaded. He stepped out of the truck and let his eyes scan the front of the house as he was heading up the driveway toward the front door. He didn’t know if Keith was alone or not, and he couldn’t give a shit one way or the other. He didn’t figure there were any children in the house considering the language Mr. Milton liked to use when he bothered strangers in their homes. He would handle it one way or the other. He wasn’t a man that was big on details and plans. He reacted to situations when he found himself in the middle of them, and he was about to jump in the middle of a situation, and react the hell out of it.
Keith opened the door with a martini in his right hand and four inches of half smoked cigar jutting out from the index and middle finger of that same hand. His easy demeanor was replaced immediately when he was staring in the face of a stranger with cold eyes and large shoulders. Now who in the fuck is this? Keith had time to think before the man in his doorway spoke to him.
Dallas just walked up the stairs and rang the doorbell. He began to feel a nervous energy that started in the base of his spine and spread out all through his body until it was almost as if he was electric. He always got like this when he was about to really fuck somebody up. A barely containable, extreme need for release that was better than any drug he was responsible for supplying. Dallas wasn’t surprised that the guy just opened the door. These dickheads in the suburbs had no fucking idea just how fragile their cozy existence was, but this asshole was going to find out real quick.
"Keith Milton?" Dallas asked calmly.
"Who wants to know?" Keith demanded. He looked the large man up and down. Dirty blonde, shoulder length hair. Black wool cap pulled down low on his head. Dressed entirely in black with three days worth of growth on his face. He also had piercing gray eyes, the color of a new shovel head.
"Oh yea, that’s you." Dallas smiled as he reached behind his back and withdrew the gun in his waistband.
Dallas had no idea when he pulled out his piece, whether he was going to shoot this asshole or just beat him within an inch of his life with the butt of it. He felt the cold confidence of the heavy steel in his hand and immediately felt the rush of intended violence course through his veins. He almost seemed to become detached to the point of casual observer to what was happening. In his mind he had to just wait to see how things turned out, as he had no idea until it took place. He just switched to auto pilot, as the auto pilot always handled the situation the best.
Keith saw the gun, but lost valuable seconds on the comprehension of what that gun represented. He tried to shut the door but this stranger already had one foot in the doorway and easily pushed his way in. In the few short seconds before his mind converted to panic mode, he wondered how this guy knew his name.
Dallas noticed for the first time that this guy had a martini glass in his hand. What a fag! He thought in that detached observers voice.
"Oh yea, you are that fucking asshole alright." Dallas heard himself say. "Anybody else I have to deal with in this house?"
"Take whatever you want." Keith started. His hands shot in to the air so fast that he spilled his fresh martini on his shoulder and the side of his face. Some of the martini went in to his right eye and it was burning as it involuntarily closed shut against the intrusion. "Just don’t hurt me."
"Are you telling me what I can and can’t do Keith?" Dallas asked him as he walked forward, backing Keith further down the hall.
"Please…" Was all Keith got out before he was interrupted.
"I’m going to ask you again. Keith, is there anybody else in this house that I have to deal with?"
"Ah…no. Just me." Keith heard himself answer and then immediately wondered if he had done the right thing.
"Good." Dallas stopped. "Let me ask you one last question?" He was staring in to the one opened eye of the man in front of him. "Didn’t your momma ever teach you any manners?"
Keith had only a split second to puzzle over the odd question when the hand that was holding the gun arced out and connected with the side of his head, effectively cutting off all thought. It was like an explosion that only he could see. There was a blinding flash of light followed immediately by darkness. Then slowly a pinpoint of vision began to grow in size until he was able to make out the shape of the person who had just hit him.
"Whoa, stay with me Keith." Dallas instructed cheerily, and followed that with a backhand from his left. When he saw Keith’s eyes clear up he continued. "What’s the matter with you Keith? You call me at my house and tell me to fuck off? You seem a little old for that shit Keith!" This was followed by another smack to the face.
"Wait!" Keith held out his free hand trying to fend off the backhand. Tears of impudent rage were welling up in his good eye, rendering him practically blind. "I just dialed the wrong number."
"Oh you got that right Keith." Dallas answered back as he tucked the gun back in to his waistband and descended on Keith with both hands now at his disposal. He smacked the martini glass and still smoking cigar out of Keith’s hand and then followed that immediately with a blow to the stomach doubling Keith over in pain. Dallas continued to throw punch after punch in to Keith until he was sprawled motionless in the center of the hallway.
Dallas was breathing heavily as he knelt down on one knee and used Keith’s shirt to wipe the splattered blood off of his hands and the sleeves of his leather jacket. Keith was out cold and wheezing through a mouth full of shattered teeth and a nose that was positioned at an impossible angle on his face. Dallas stood over him looking down, feeling the high subside to a murmur at his very core. For a second he thought about putting a bullet through the arrogant face that wasn’t so arrogant anymore. He decided to let it go. He turned to walk out of the house when the phone began to ring. He stopped in mid stride and looked through the doorway in to the living room. The phone was on the table next to the leather recliner. Dallas impulsively walked in to the living room and picked up the receiver.
"Hello!" He announced cheerfully.
"Ahh…Keith. Is that you?"
Some female. Probably the girlfriend. Won’t find Keith so attractive for a little while. "I’m sorry…You must have the wrong number." Dallas dropped the receiver on to the recliner and walked outside in to the cool spring air. Smiling.