The Death Of Smith And Jones In Sierra Madre
Kevin Myrick

 



	Before Woody Dean would die by the hands of the Frenchman, 
the deputies sat in the coffee shop, still talking and eating and 
smoking. They were enjoying themselves immensely, knowing that what 
they did last night had to be done. At least, in their minds it had 
to be done. They could have left Mary out of their sorted scheme to 
become the largest drug dealers in the history of Southern California. 
They chose the other route, the one that would soon be filled with 
death. They would all die soon enough, they thought. They just 
didn�t know how soon.

	Roger and Joe finally had to leave the coffee shop on their 
respective patrol of the Los Angeles area. 
	�See you boys in a few hours,� Roger said as he got up, dropping 
his tip on the table for Maureen. Right then, being very sneaky about 
it, Maureen walked up and took her tip. �Hope you boys have a fine 
patrol wherever you�re goin�.�
�We shall Maureen, we shall.�
�Hey Maureen, how much is it worth to you to get this tip?� Joe asked.
�Fuck off Joe, you�ve been asking me to do things to you for years. I 
won�t touch that tiny little dick of yours for anything.�
�Okay, okay, have it your way Maureen.� Normally Joe would never 
win a fight with Maureen. They�ve been joking around like this for years. 
�Here�s your tip Maureen. Have a good day.�
Maureen leaned out over the table and Joe hugged her. She was like 
that, joking around with someone the first minute, and then requiring a 
hug the next. It made the other guys laugh at Joe for putting up with her. 
�Joe, one of these days she�s gonna give you what you want,� Jones 
started out. �Then you�ll be in trouble. I think she�s a man killer. 
You better watch yerrself.�
�Okay Jones, okay.� Everyone else was laughing but Joe, even Maureen. 
She loved this, mainly because they were her most lively customers.

     �We�ve gotta go,� Roger finally said, after catching his breath from 
laughing. The long term effects of smoking were finally getting to him. 
He didn�t care.
     �Yeah, see y�all later,� Jones muttered after catching his breath as 
well. Only Smith was still laughing as they both walked out the door. 

      Smith and Jones sat in the coffee shop with the thirty or so people around 
them in Sierra Madre. The construction workers and their hardhats, the lawyers 
in their tailored suits, the guys who worked in movie crews about to go to work, 
who sat side by side with everyone. It was one of those places where it didn�t 
matter how much money you made, or who you knew in L.A. It was just one of those 
small coffee shops with good pancakes and burgers, and coffee twenty four hours a 
day. It was just one of those places. 

      Smith and Jones were talking, just like everyone else. And of course, Smith 
never really knew the reason that Jones came to California in the first place. He 
didn�t know much about Jones at all. They talked about everything but themselves. 
They talked about who they were dating, who they were fucking, and anything and 
everything in between. But never themselves. They�d been partners in crime for four 
years, but they didn�t know anything about each other than where they lived, who their 
parents were, and where they were born. Everything else would naturally come up later. 

      Today though, Smith felt like starting up a conversation. �So Jones, what the fuck 
are you doing in California?�
�I�m workin�, that�s what I�m doin� out here.�
�It must have been an adjustment though, South Carolina to California. Old South to Urban 
sprawl.�
�You�re fuckin� tellin� me. I used to be a Marine, you know?�
�No, I didn�t.�
�So you didn�t even take a little peek at my file before deciding to be my partner?�
�Well, no.�
�Listen man, you�ve got to do your research before you just randomly choose someone
 to serve and protect with. My life is in your hands. Your life is in my hands. It�s 
that simple man. You should know fuckin� better.�
�Fuck you.�
�You wanna hear a funny story?�
�Sure Jones, I hear you Southern boys are good at storytelling anyhow.�
�Go to hell you sack of shit. There, it�s your life story Smith.�
�C�mon, I�m just givin� you a hard time. Tell me a story buddy.�
�Okay, I�ll tell you a story.�

      Jones grabbed one of his cigarettes and a cheap bic lighter, the kind that Jones 
used to throw at walls in Alabama when he was in High School. He�d lost his Zippo last 
night, and he had to use this piece of shit. He hated it with a passion. He wanted to 
throw this lighter at the wall.
�Okay, here�s a story for you,� Jones blew out after inhaling his first drag of his 
cigarette, the blue smoke blowing out of his lungs hard. �Once upon a time, in the great 
state of South Carolina a couple of my friends and I had a seventy two hour pass and a 
bunch of cash to blow after we�d been saving up from not going out to eat or the movies 
for three months. You�d be amazed at how much money you can save from that.�
�Really?�
�Yes.�
�Back to the story already.�
�Back to the story: So we decide to go on a fishing trip.�
�Wait, why do I think I know where this story is going?�
�Stop fucking interrupting the story.�
�Sorry.�

     �So we drove up to Edisto Island, which is this small barrier island off the coast, about 
twenty minutes away by boat, but an hour by road. It�s a nice drive though. You get to see 
voodoo shit. And we get there, we rent the boat. Now, I should probably mention that both my 
buddies and I had ever taken a boat out on anything more than a river. And we�re out on the 
water, and we�re cruising along, everything is great. It�s a sunny fucking day, the water is 
flat. Everything is cool. Then out of nowhere this big fucking coastal thunderstorm comes out 
of nowhere and hits us. There are fifteen foot waves white capping all over the place, and the 
boat is being rocked to hell. This ain�t exactly the nicest of boats either. It�s a real piece 
of shit.�
�So we�ve established the boat sucks.�
�Okay, and the waves our crashing over the boat, and everybody is hanging on for dear life. And Kale, 
one of my buddies, is screaming out on the top of his lungs �we�re gonna fuckin� die!� And I�m tryin� 
to keep the boat afloat as best as I can.�
�Damn man, that blows.�
�Yeah, I know.� Jones took a heavy drag of his cigarette. �So this old wooden inboard, a real piece of 
shit, decides to up and sink on us. I think we hit a reef or something offshore, and the damn thing up 
and decides to sink. And we�re in the water, the storm is still going on. And I�ve got a general idea 
of where we are, so I point myself in the opposite direction of where we�re going and start to swim. 
And everyone follows me. So we�re bobbing up and down, swimming through these monster waves to shore. It�s 
hell on earth, and Kale is still in a state of panic. Finally, someone slaps him upside the head and he stops 
shouting and swims harder. It was as if he needed that slap upside his head.�
�Huh.�
�Yeah, Kale�s just that weird. You should have seen him on exercise once in North Carolina.�
�You�re digressing.� 
�Okay, so we finally get to shore after swimming in nasty water for a mile. We all feel like shit. And we�re 
laying on the beach, while it�s still raining. And this old lady literally comes out of nowhere holding an 
umbrella. And you know what she says?�
�What does she say?� Smith asks curiously, but with a skeptical look in his eye.
�She asks, �would you boys like a cup of coffee?��
�No way man, no fucking way!�
�Yeah, she does. And Kale, the motherfucker, very calmly gets off his feet and says to her �Ma�am, we 
could use a cup of coffee, a cigarette and a telephone if you have one.� And she just replies, �of 
course. Please, follow me gentlemen.� And so we all get up and follow her to her house, and drink 
coffee, smoke her cigarettes and call the Coast Guard. They were not pleased to hear that our boat had sank. 
And they called the owner, and he had a heart attack. He fuckin� dies in the hospital two days later.�
�So who was the old lady.�
�I�ll get to that in a minute.�
�And what about the boat?�
�Well, we got off scott free. The guy didn�t have any sort of heirs or anything, or a will. So the insurance 
company dropped it. And since the guy didn�t do anything, neither did the Coast Guard.�
�Fuckin� lucky man, fuckin� lucky.�
�I know.�
�Fuck man, we�ve been sitting here for ten minutes.�
�Well, it happens.�

    Maureen came over and filled both of their coffee cups to the brim, and then returned to the counter to help 
other customers. And then, much like the little old lady on the beach in Jones� story, the boyfriend came out 
of nowhere into the coffee shop. He strolled in, and ordered some coffee to start with. He held a newspaper, 
and when he sat down the holsters of his guns rode up from where his jacket exposed them, where the police 
officers could tell he was carrying his guns, but no one else. As he walked in the door, and when they saw him, 
they heard the click of the steel on the front of his boot. The click-clack on the linoleum floor as each footstep 
grew closer to them. He wore jeans, and a brown leather jacket that was vintage 1970s. His black t-shirt showed 
off the muscles that he had been developing over the years, especially his months in Spain hiking in the Pyrenees. 
He was ready for anything at this point. 

     Smith and Jones saw him come in. They both knew what he was here for. It was their hope he would not do 
anything stupid and shoot up the coffee shop, killing the innocent bystanders their. They both got up, and looking 
at Maureen gave her a signal. She collected their tips, and waited for them at the register. The boyfriend looked 
at them both at the register over the unfolded paper, and asked, somewhat sarcastically: �You boys going somewhere?�

     Smith was the first to answer. �Yes sir, we�re headed outside of the restaurant. Is their something we can do 
for you?�
�Actually, there is.�
�What�s that?� Jones asked.
�I�d like to head outside and ask you boys a few questions.�

     The boyfriend dropped a few dollars on the counter, nodded at Maureen and left. She looked him over, and said 
�Come back soon honey, I�d could use a good man like you around.�
�Don�t bet on him being back Maureen,� Smith said.
�I should be saying that to her Officer Smith, not you.� The boyfriend had that sarcastic tone in his voice, 
the kind that could send someone insane.

     All three walked outside of the coffee shop, with their hands on their respective holsters. The boyfriend looked
 at them, and began walking out into the street which was filled with cars. The officers followed suit, pacing away from 
him. The boyfriend reached into his jacket pocket, grabbed the pack of cigarettes that were in their, and popped one into 
his mouth. He offered ones to Smith and Jones. They both accepted, walking back towards him for a moment, and looking him 
in the eyes. He had put on sunglasses.

     �I tell you what officers, I�ll make this fair and give you a chance to kill me here in the street. Let�s do this the 
way they would in the old west. Showdown style.�
�What do you think this is, the O.K. Corral in Tombstone?�
�No, it�s modern day Los Angeles County, in the town of Sierra Madre.�
�Fuck you asshole! You�re gonna get someone hurt that doesn�t deserve it!� Smith shouldn�t have opened his mouth.
�Shut the fuck up Smith!� was the response that Jones made to that.
�Are you ready gentlemen?� the boyfriend asked.

     They looked at each other, pacing to their respective places in the street. Cars suddenly stopped as the two police officers 
entered the street, and the man in cowboy boots and a leather jacket was parallel but opposite of him on the other side. They formed 
a triangle, in this busy four lane street in Sierra Madre. A woman began to scream out in terror �my god! Those men are going to kill 
each other!�

     While everyone else was panicking, the three men began to stare at each other. First, Smith and Jones stared at each other, 
knowing one or the other might die today. They never thought that they both might very well die. But nevertheless, they looked at 
each other and nodded, and unclipped the holsters, ready to draw their weapons on command. 

     The boyfriend stood opposite of the two, staring into their eyes. He first stared at one, looking deep within him and knowing 
that he was sorry for what he had taken place in the night before. The sorry part did not concern him anymore. He was out for revenge, 
not for repentance. So they stood their in the street, blocking traffic and waiting for someone to draw. The boyfriend staring into 
the very souls of Smith and Jones, while they both stared at him and began to sweat, thinking very well that they might die, and wishing 
there was something they could do about it. Both of their cigarettes were about done. Maybe that was what the boyfriend was waiting on, 
for the last ash of the cigarettes to drop onto the ground. He was waiting for them to stub it out underneath their shoes. Or maybe he was 
waiting for his cigarette to be done. 

     And suddenly, off of a side street, a car comes out of nowhere and turns into their circle, their triumvirate of death and destruction. 
It messes up the order and momentum of the moment, but provides the boyfriend a crucial moment to draw his gun as the other two are staring 
at the driver. The driver of the car was the Frenchman, heading off to kill Woody Dean. Soon enough, that rat bastard would be dead thought 
Jones. Smith and Jones both stared at the Frenchman drive by, and as soon as he was out of distance two bullets whistled in their at them, hitting 
Smith in the forehead and Jones in the chest. The bullet was coated in Teflon, meant to penetrate the armor plate and Kevlar of his bulletproof vest. 
He was bleeding badly from the belly, and suddenly he was in pain. He couldn�t breathe. He couldn�t think. In fact, he couldn�t function. 

     The boyfriend walked over to Jones, who is badly bleeding and can�t get his hand around his gun and pull it out of the holster. It�s too slippery 
with blood, he thought. If only I could get it out! It was too late for him though, he had already known that he was going to die in that damned 
street in Sierra Madre, a real shit hole instead of his comfortable bed in South Carolina. The boyfriend stood over Jones with his gun pointed 
at his head. 

     �You must understand, Officer Jones, that you�re killing is as useless as the death of Mary�s was and still is to me. I did not want to have to 
kill you, but you people have put me in a situation to where I have to do such things. So, much like the speech Marc Anthony gave to the crowd after 
Caesar was killed, I will beg your attention. This crowd here must know, that my vengeance upon you and Smith was justified, that you two are just as 
responsible as the other officers and the chief of police in Sierra Madre for the death of my girlfriend. You all must pay for what you have done. And the 
only way for my vengeance upon you to be carried out must be with the gun. You live by the gun, you die by the gun. That�s simple math for everyone who is 
here listening. I want you all to listen to me, right here and right now. Don�t destroy your lives by involving yourself in this situation. I will kill 
anyone who gets in my way, in the way of my vengeance.�

     With this, the boyfriend cocked the pistol in his hand and began to squeeze the trigger. But before the full force of the godlike of a gun could 
enter into the brain of Jones, ending his life he uttered his last words. �I�m sorry, may God forgive my injustice on you and yours.�

     The boyfriend for a moment let the trigger come back to its natural mechanical position and spoke clearly, so that everyone could hear. �Fuck 
your God, and fuck you for praying before you die.� With that, he pulled the trigger and ended the life of Jones.

     The boyfriend then walked away, heading to his car to drive to Woody Dean�s house, hoping that the Frenchman had not concluded his business there. The 
people who were watching this scene, the news helicopters suddenly showed up, along with the trucks as he made his getaway from the scene. Everyone was in a 
state of shock, unable to describe the perpetrator to the police. However, everyone knew exactly who he was, and how frightened they were to look into his 
cold dark eyes. They knew, much as Roger and Joe now knew, that they would too die if they got in his way. This man much like Marc Anthony deserved his 
vengeance for the death of Caesar, deserved his for the death of his girlfriend. And that is truly how love works. Love of someone so much that you are willing 
to kill and be killed for them. That is true love, and nothing else.  



 

 

Copyright © 2004 Kevin Myrick
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"