The Punisher and The Equalizer belong to their respective copyright holders. This is is fanfic. No money will be made from this.
THE EQUALIZER MEETS THE PUNISHER
South Bronx - New York City
The Summer of 1987
Ricardo Villalobos smiled as the teenagers walked in his convenience store. A group of boys coming in for some cool drinks after a basketball game. They were grimy and sweaty. One kid was carrying a basketball. Blacks, Puerto Ricans. Laughing and teasing each other. He knew these kids. Good kids from the neighborhood.
Mister Villalobos had a son. Julio. He remembered when he was that age. He was in college these days. Ricardo patted his round belly. He barely remembered being in that good a shape. His wife had never minded. She always used to say he was "comfortable", like a cushion.
His belly was growing faster than his profits, that was for sure. He shook away the thought. He told himself to keep the negativity away for once. It was a beautiful day and the kids were having fun.
"Hey, mister Villalobos!" One of the kids said, a black boy, putting down an ice cold soda on the counter.
"How you doin', Jake? Tough game?"
"Not really, mosta these guys suck!"
"Hey, you're no Magic Johnson," another kid said.
"I don't need to be to kick your butts!" Jake answered defiantly.
"Now, now, boys. Play nice. No fighting. There are sore losers, but also bad winners, Jake."
"I know, I know, it's just-"
The conversation stopped as a group of young men, in their 20s, walked in the store. T-Shirts. Jean jackets. Leather coats. Bandannas. All of them were Latino.
The Perros Locos. A street gang. Ricardo's heart sank. He knew all too well what was coming.
"Hey, Senior Rico! How's it hangin', man?" One of them asked.
Ricardo looked down and didn't answer.
"I asked you a question, Senior Rico!"
There was already menace in his voice. Ricardo cleared his throat. He wanted to speak. To see he couldn't afford the protection money.
"I-I can't-I don't-"
He was scared. For himself. For the kids in the store who froze in silence. Part of him was ashamed of this fear. But they were young, angry and violent. And he didn't have what they wanted.
"Well," the group's mouth piece said, "see, kids, that's just bad manners!" The gang member said cheerfully to the children. "Mister Villalobos needs to understand respect! He needs to understand that certain things are expected of him! He needs to understand not to let people down!"
Ricardo raised his head. He looked the young man in his eyes. The Perro Loco was not much older than his own son. But the eyes... Cold. Hard. Like a gun. No mercy would be found in those eyes.
"Please," Ricardo started, "Please, you have to-"
"I have to? I have to?" The young thug shouted, disbelief in his voice. His arms shot out over the counter and he grabbed Ricardo's shirt. "You wanna gimme orders, old man, huh? Tellin' me what I have to do, is that it, huh?"
"No, please, I-"
"Hey, leave him alone!" Jake said, "Why you-"
Jake was cut off because another member of the Perros backhand slapped Jake hard and he fell down. That didn't stop the gang member who began kicking the boy in the ribs. Once, twice.
"Jake!" Another boy screamed. That earned the child a vicious uppercut. The kid's head snapped back and he crashed heavily on the floor.
The Perro Loco then pulled out a switchblade.
"Anyone else wanna mouth off, huh?" Switchblade asked.
The children were terrified. The eyes were welling up. But they didn't cry. They didn't move. They didn't make a sound.
"Leave the kids alone!" Ricardo shouted, "Let them go!"
Ricardo's face was then slammed violently on the counter. He then felt two more pairs of arms hoist him across his counter and he fell on the floor on the other side. He was dizzy. He was hurting. He was scared. Soon, he heard his cash register open. They were taking his money.
"Kids, this how you teach somebody respect!" The pack leader said.
And they started kicking him. In his stomach, his ribs, his face. It seemed to last for hours. He then heard glass breaking, other noises. They were trashing the store. Knocking down display cases. Then he heard nothing. And felt nothing.
The leader of the small pack of gang thugs looked down at the unconscious man. The Loco Perro was high on the violence. His eyes were wild, his breath was quick.
"Nobody tells me what to do, old man! Nobody! And you kids! If you tell anyone about this, we kill your mothers! Ya got that! Come on, boys, let's go! Let's get outta here!"
After the Loco Perros left, the kids rushed over to Ricardo.
He wasn't moving.
Two days later
Noon
Manhattan – a coffee shop
Julio Villalobos was waiting for his appointment. His coffee was almost untouched.
He'd just left the hospital to see his father. Julio fought back tears of rage. Not here. It wasn't the time for tears. It was time for trying to solve the problem.
Julio remembered the newspaper ad:
Got a problem? Odds against you? Call the Equalizer. 212 555 4200.
That simple. Maybe it was a waste of time, but Julio had to try something.
"Mister Villalobos?"
Julio was startled. The voice came from behind him. Julio turned around and stood.
Julio was actually taller than the other man, which, for some reason, he didn't expect. The man actually looked more like a banker or a CEO: white man, in his 50s, silver hair, high end suit and tie. Slightly pudgy-"comfortable" like his mother used to say-clean shaven, clear eyes, between blue and silver.
"Robert McCall?" Julio asked.
"That's right," the man said with a pleasant smile. "May I sit down?"
"Of course."
"Thank you."
There was a short silence. Robert McCall didn't press on. The waitress came over. Mr. McCall ordered tea. He waited. Julio cleared his throat.
"Mister McCall...I think I need your help," Julio started.
"Well. Let's hear about your problem and I'll see what I can do."
The man had an upper class British accent and a soothing voice. A reassuring presence. Julio took a deep breath.
"My father owns a convenience store in the Bronx. This local gang, the Perros Locos, terrorizes the neighborhood. Muggings, robberies, assaults, home invasions, car thefts, maybe even murders. They deal drugs on street corners. And they tap local businesses for protection money."
"Your father was a victim of that extortion racket?"
"Yes. It's been going on for a while. Two days ago, they came to his store. I...I don't what happened, they...beat him. They beat him so badly, he's been in a coma ever since."
"I'm truly sorry."
"Thank you, Mr. McCall. They even attacked these twelve year old kids that were in the store. One boy has broken ribs. The other one has a concussion and broken teeth. The other boys are scared to death."
"Why haven't you gone to the police?"
"I did. I tried to explain what happened at the local precinct. Nobody wants to testify. I wasn't there, so I'm no good as a witness. And people who confront this gang...Bad things happen to them. A few months ago, there was this mechanic who didn't want those guys dealing drugs in front of his garage. He yelled at them to leave. The following day, his garage was burned down and someone shot him on his doorstep. He almost died. He moved his family out of the neighborhood. No witnesses. But everyone knew who did it."
"But nobody could prove it."
"That's right. That's one of many stories. Too many. This isn't just about me. This is a whole neighborhood, living like hostages in their own homes. Many people just leave because they can't stand it."
"Understandably so."
"I-I don't know who else to turn to."
"That is often the case for people who ask for my services."
"What exactly do you do, Mister McCall? Are you like a private investigator?"
"What I do is similar to that, somewhat. But, it's not quite that. For one, there is the question of my fee."
Julio felt nervousness at once. "How much?"
"Nothing. Not one cent."
"Why?"
"That's an interesting question, actually. Simply put: you need my help and I'm willing to give it to you. My reward lies elsewhere, hopefully."
"You almost sound like a priest. Sounds like you're talking about heaven or something."
McCall paused and smiled. A sad smile, Julio thought.
"Something like that, yes."
"Ok. So, how will take on this problem?"
"I've learned that before I undertake any task, I must gather enough information. Once I have done that, I'll come up with a few ideas that will help bring those hooligans to justice."
Julio, for some reason, believed that this man could help. He couldn't explain it exactly. There was still some skepticism lurking in his mind. But he thought of his comatose father. He had to trust someone. He didn't have a choice. And this McCall had already given this more attention than the police.
"All right, Mister McCall. So what now?"
"I'll get to it. I'll call you as soon as something develops."
Both men stood and shook hands. And they went their separate ways.
Robert McCall soon went back to his Jaguar.
He admired the young man's astute mind.
McCall knew deep down that, perhaps, he was beyond redemption. He had seen and done too much a member of The Company. A spy. A covert operative. Many times, an assassin. McCall spent decades doing dirty work in the shadows. It cost him his marriage. It kept him away from his family. It nearly cost him his soul. He retired before losing what little humanity he had left.
Maybe McCall couldn't atone for past sins. Maybe it was far too late for that. But he could try and help people with those skills he acquired over time.
People like Julio Villalobos.
Like he told the young man, he had to know what he was up against.
Before starting his car, he used his car phone. He thought he could use some assistance on this case.
