Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (10 page)

Just about Two
A.M.

The phone rings three times before I pick up. She sounds a bit irritated. At this point, I don't even care.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I'm just driving home. What are you up to?”

“I was just reading.”

“Having a good time?”

“It's a lot better now that I'm talking to you.”

“Glad to be of assistance.”

“Where have you been all night? You said you were going to call me when you got home.”

“I haven't gotten home yet. I had to go to the airport,” I tell her, not so much deciding that the truth was a better option as much as just being too damned tired to think up a lie. “My sister came into town.”

“Really?” Megan perks up. She sounds excited. “I haven't seen her in ages.”

“Yeah, she's a busy girl.”

“What's she been up to lately?”

I never thought of a cover for what Chenille does for a living. I never even discussed with Chenille what she tells people when they ask her point blank. Knowing my sister, she probably doesn't even have an answer. She probably just snaps their necks and stops the questions.

Before I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, Megan interrupts my train of thought. “You know what, never mind. I can just ask her when I see her. It'll give us something to talk about.”

“That's the best idea I've heard all night,” I tell her. In actuality, it may very well be. Chenille and I discussed some possibilities over dinner before I dropped her off at her hotel. Nothing really popped out at us. As I pull the Lincoln into a parking space, I hear Megan yawn, which is a good sign. That means she probably won't want to come over and I can get some rest. “You sound tired.”

“I am tired,” she replies. “Maybe I can see you tomorrow.”

“Definitely. Go to bed. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“I'll be waiting.” She hangs up and I put my phone back in my pocket. I lean my head back on the headrest. She's definitely getting closer and closer. I'm either going to have to end it quick or fill her in on the job description. I don't want to do either one. Better not to think about it right now. I have too much on my mind. I get out of the car and walk across the parking lot toward my apartment. I let my gaze wander toward the sky. Storm clouds moving in. My favorite type of weather. Thunder tends to muffle gunshots. That's always appealing.

When I reach the doorway to my apartment, I look at the clock on the bank down the street. Just about time for the barflies to be out on the streets. That means that the bars are closed. Probably for the best. I gotta get up early to pick my sister up from the hotel. We have a big day ahead of us. I had considered letting her stay at my place, but my apartment is a sty and I like my privacy. Also, Jacks had a point. Whoever is after me knows where I live. I'd rather not put her in any more danger than she's already in. Besides, she can afford the hotel stay. She's pulling down some serious cash. From what I can gather, Chenille's become something of a hippie entrepreneur. I'm fairly certain that she's got her finger in several pots out East, but the only business venture that I'm fully aware of is some sort of commune where they sell homemade hemp products at farmer's markets. Most of the money she puts right back into the business, but that doesn't mean she doesn't pay herself a wage.

I rustle around in my pocket for my keys. As I pull out my key ring, I hear stilettos on the pavement behind me. My jaw clenches automatically.

“Levi?”

Fingernails on the chalkboard of my mind. I'd know that voice anywhere. I turn around and watch as the scantily clad figure moves out of the shadow and into the glow of the streetlamp. I should've seen this one coming. Maybe Chenille is right. Maybe I am slipping.

“Hi, Quill.”

She looks the same as ever. Especially at this time of night. Her hair is dreadful, her mascara is running, her miniskirt is riding too high and her halter top is riding too low. She looks like hell. She stops before me and smiles. I grit my teeth.

“Having a good night?” I ask. When you run into an ex on the street, there's really nothing else to do but to prompt small talk. Especially when the relationship ended badly. This one was a horrible apocalyptic train wreck. “I haven't talked to you in a while.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says. Her words are slurred. I can't help but wonder if her lips are numb from the booze, the drugs, or the blowjobs. I assume it's some combination of the three. “I've been busy.”

“By the way you're walking, I can only imagine as such,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “I should've guessed this was a bad idea.” I nod my agreement and she stumbles forward. “But I needed to talk to you.” She falls into me. I can't help but hold her up. She presses her face against my neck. I know that this can't end well, but as much as I'd like to, I can't just leave her lying in the street.

Her body feels oddly nice against mine. I can feel the swell of her breasts against my chest as she inhales. She lifts her head and looks me in the eyes. Somewhere deep within those baby blues, I can see the girl I fell for, so many months ago. She moves in closer. I can feel her soft lips against mine, and for an instant, all I can think about is carrying her upstairs and laying her down on my bed. Her tongue moves across my teeth and she lets out a soft moan. I push her away. There's no way I can do this. We've already been down this path. No good came from it the first time. It'll be worse the second time around.

“What the fuck are you doin'?” For a second I wonder where the booming voice is coming from. When I see the flannel-shirted barfly storming up the street from skid row, I realize that Quill has a new fella. He looks pissed. I knew that bad things were going to happen. I should've left her in the street, but it's too late for that now. Damn.

I can tell immediately that this guy doesn't want to talk. Odds are he can't even speak proper English anyway. He's got a look on his face that says he wants to hand me a beat-down with the same disregard that he'd hand a kid a lollipop. His knuckles are white and every single vein in his head looks like it's about ready to rupture. I'm glad he's drunk. It'll make this whole ordeal quick and easy. I just want to go upstairs and sit in my chair with a drink in my hand. This guy is bearing down hard and I'm not sure who's in more trouble, Quill or me. When he reaches behind his back, I'm fairly certain that it's me.

I let go of Quill and she falls like a sack of dirt at my feet. I step over her, prepared to take care of this guy swiftly and silently. I get ready to make my move. Before I can lay him out, I see the shadows moving behind him. Shit. I see that he's brought some friends along.

They come out of the darkness like a pack of wild animals. I wish that I had an Uzi. That would make this a whole lot easier. There's not much worse than a gaggle of drunken asshole jerks. It was bad enough when it was just the one hick barfly. Now there's at least a dozen of them. They close the gap quickly and they're right behind their pal. I can do the math. Six bullets from the gun inside my jacket is not enough to deal with this crowd. It doesn't matter how good a shot I am. Quill's boyfriend pulls his hand from behind his back. He's holding the biggest knife I've ever seen outside of a Western movie. His eyes are wild, full of fire. There's no sense in trying to talk him down. He's well beyond that. I take another step forward. I don't want to be trapped with my back against the wall. The lead guy stops and his boys circle around me. Thirteen to one. I've been to Vegas enough times to know that the odds are not in my favor.

Quill's boyfriend lashes out with the knife. I'm still sober and he's got no form, so I dodge out of the way and let his momentum carry him forward an extra step. I grab hold of his wrist and bend it backward. He grunts as the knife falls from his grasp, clattering to the concrete. He tries to make a countermove, but his drunken state, coupled with the fact that I'm holding his wrist at an awkward angle, doesn't allow him to. I have his arm bent over my knee before he can even blink and I hear the sickening crack as I hyperextend it and bust it at the elbow. I sweep his feet out from under him and he falls with a scream of agony as he lands hard on his broken arm. I start to give myself a pat on the back just as his buddies move in. They're on top of me as soon as their fallen comrade hits the ground. None of them have weapons, but they do have fists like canned hams. Twenty-four fists pummeling into my already battered flesh doesn't exactly feel like a Swedish massage. They drive me to the sidewalk. I fight back, but it doesn't seem to do any good. Every time I knock one of them back, another one takes his place.

I hear a blast ring out and the gang scatters. I pull myself to one knee and watch them as they disappear back into the darkness from which they came.

“Pussies,” I mutter, spitting blood onto the concrete. I push myself to my feet and I contemplate shooting a couple rounds after the barflies, but they've already disappeared. Better not to waste my ammo. I turn to see Jacks standing at the apartment door with a sawed-off shotgun. He shakes his head.

“How many enemies do you have?” he asks. I wipe the blood from my chin.

“I wish I knew,” I tell him. I walk to Quill's seemingly lifeless body and look at her. All of my previous thoughts have faded. She looks like a used-up rag. I kick her in the ass and she stirs, crawling toward the wall so she can pull herself up to an upright position.

“Levi, I . . .” she starts to slur.

“Shut up,” I tell her, and walk past her toward the front door of the building.

“I'm sorry for what I did.”

I ignore her. She can be sorry until the wheels fall off. Jacks holds out his hand as I approach him. “I think this belongs to you.”

I look down to see a mint green envelope in his mitts.

Why the hell would I have expected anything different?

A Little While Later

We need to finish our meeting. Sunday, train depot, midnight.

The instructions are simple enough. Perhaps this time I'll actually get some information from this broad. I upend the bottle of rum into my glass and dribble in what's left of the flat cola that was at the back of my refrigerator before tossing the bottle in the garbage. Looks like I'm out of the bare essentials. Time to go grocery shopping. I pull an ice cube from the glass and rub it on my jaw as I walk to the bay window overlooking the alleyway behind my apartment. The rain is falling in sheets now, pelting the glass. I knew a storm was headed this way. I light up a cigarette and take a deep drag. A car passes by on the street. Its headlights cast a glow over the alley on the other side of the intersection and I stop midexhale.

There's somebody in the alley.

I don't want him to know that I know he's there, so I have to act like I didn't see him. Did he see me stop exhaling? Did he see me pause? I don't know for sure, but I can't take any chances, what with the “invisible hand” and all. It's time for me to get some answers. I move away from the window casually and holster up, grabbing my .45 from the coffee table. Cigarette pressed between my lips, gun in hand, I make my way out into the hallway. As I bound down the back stairs, I make sure I'm fully loaded. Check. Kill or be killed. That's what I was told.

Why is someone standing in the alley? How long have they been there? For all I know, it could just be a vagrant, but to be honest, it doesn't really matter at this point. All I know is that I have to take whoever it is by surprise. That's all I can think about right now. I can't take any more chances. I'll sort out the whos and whys later. I stop at the door to the outside world, cock my gun, and ease the door open, prepared to be pelted with a storm of bullets, but all that hits me is raindrops.

I step out into the pouring rain, scanning the area, looking for whoever I saw from my window. A streak of lightning arcs across the sky, illuminating the world for a fraction of a second. I see him. He's still there, across the street, leaning up against the wall. Looking at the ground at his feet. Either I got the drop on him or he's got balls made of solid brass. I sidle up to the wall, my piece at my side, and I walk toward the road.

As I near the edge of the building, the figure looks up, directly at me. He knew I was coming. He's not just some schmo on the street. This guy's a professional. He's been waiting for me. He saw me in the window, he saw me hesitate for that single instant. I wonder how long he's been trailing me? No time to think about that now. This is one of those shoot–first-and-ask-questions-later scenarios. I step out of the alley onto the sidewalk and raise my gun, just as a battering ram comes around the corner and catches me in the face. I tumble backward, falling on my ass. My gun clatters away from my hand. How did I not see that one coming?

I try to make sense of what just happened. I blame Quill for the whole ordeal. The little brawl out front left me hazy. I stretch out my arm, searching, half-assed, for my gun. As my fingers graze the cold, wet barrel, a looming figure bends and plucks it out of my grasp with his enormous hand. It wasn't a battering ram that knocked me down. It was this guy.

“I'll hold on to this,” he says, and all I can think about is Lurch from the Addams Family. The rain is in my eyes, but I can see that this guy is a behemoth. He's a fucking monstrosity. It's no wonder I'm on my ass. It's a surprise my head is still connected to my body.

“You ever try boxing?” I ask. He doesn't get the chance to answer as the figure from across the street steps into view at his side.

“That was too close, man,” he barks. His voice is nasal with an Irish twang. “He already had his gun leveled at me. He could've shot me in the face.”

“I had it under control.”

“You got lucky.”

“It had nothing to do with luck.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get him in the car, Maestro.” The hulk leans in and grabs hold of my lapels, yanking me to my feet. My head spins and I feel like vomiting. I can only assume that I have a concussion. The Irishman moves in close to me.

“Who are you working for, you lousy mick?” I spit. He scowls at me, wiping the spatter of saliva from his face. Then he cocks an eye at the beast holding me up. A locomotive slams into my gut and I double over, gasping for air. I get the feeling I shouldn't be shooting my mouth off.

“No funny business, wiseass,” the Irishman tells me. My stomach is burning. I can't even straighten up to see his face, so I spit a gob of blood on his shoes. I can tell the expression on his face is one of exasperation by the sigh he releases. “I warned you.”

I'm pulled up straight. My stomach muscles scream out. The beast shrugs. “Say good-night, Gracie.”

His fist rushes straight on into my forehead. I was always under the impression that you only saw stars if you were in a bad cartoon.