Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (14 page)

“Do you know who killed Vinnie?”

Patrick shakes his head violently. “No, man, no. I have no idea.”

“Do you think Draven did it?”

Again, Patrick shakes his head. With as much vigor as he's putting into his response, I'm waiting for his head to pop off his neck. “No way. Shane isn't that type of guy. I mean, Shane and Vinnie had a falling out a few weeks before Vinnie got shot, but Shane just walked away from the whole thing. Shane wouldn't have had anything to do with it. I heard Vinnie got shot by a hired gun.”

Jacks flips his cigarette off the edge of the building. His stone face is replaced instantaneously by one of menacing anger. He reaches out and grabs Patrick by the Mohawk for the second time this evening. He shoves him to the roof's edge. He leans him out over the alleyway. Patrick screams like a woman as he stares down at the twisted body of Kyle, three floors below.

“The grease in your hair is awful slippery, punk,” Jacks snarls. “And your hair is the only thing keeping you from joining your fat friend down there. I need you to be honest with me, and if you're smart, you'll do it fast. Did Draven kill Bagliato?”

“No,” Patrick wails. Jacks lets his grip slip a little. Patrick's shriek rises a few octaves. If this keeps up, only the neighborhood strays are going to be able to hear him.

“Would Draven have any idea who did?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“Shane was the brains. Shane would set everything up. Meetings, buyers, sellers. Everything was done through Shane.”

“Where is Draven?”

I already have my pen out. I write as Patrick rattles off the address. Jacks lets Patrick hang over the edge for a few extra seconds after he's done. He pulls him back to the rooftop just as Patrick starts sobbing. He releases his hair and Patrick crumples to a heap on the roof. Jacks doesn't pay any attention to Patrick's whimpering. He reaches out and pulls Patrick's arms up, unlocking the cuffs.

“Thanks, Pat,” he says, letting Patrick's arms fall limply to the rooftop. He puts his cuffs back on his belt. “Now, before you get the fuck out of my sight, I want you to promise me that you're not going to slop to Draven, or anyone else for that matter, that we're going to pay him a visit. In fact, you're not gonna tell anyone what happened here tonight. If you do, I'm going to find you, and then we'll see if you can fly as far as Kyle.”

Patrick can't say anything at all through the sobs. He nods as fast as he can. He looks like a pathetic bobble-head doll. Jacks pulls Patrick to his feet and shoves him toward the stairs. “Good. Now run home and change your pants.”

Patrick doesn't give Jacks a chance to change his mind. He's over the ledge and rattling down the stairs in a heartbeat. Jacks watches him go.

“That's one favor down,” I tell him, offering up my newly filled flask. Jacks takes a drink and hands it back.

“Consider that a freebie,” he says, staring off in the distance at the horizon. “I enjoyed that far too much for it to be considered a favor.”

“I'm gonna pay Draven a visit tomorrow. One step closer.”

“You need backup?”

“Nah, I've got this one under control.”

We light up cigarettes.

“Kyle didn't have anything to do with this case,” Jacks confesses, not moving his eyes from the horizon.

“I had my suspicions.”

“He raped a girl once,” Jacks continues. “She pressed charges, but nothing stuck, and he walked free. I've been waiting to do that for a long time.”

We stand motionless for a few minutes, in silence, taking in the cool night air. Jacks moves first, making his way toward the fire escape. I pat him on the back as he throws a leg over the ledge.

“Let's go get your cuffs.”

After a Couple Hours

My apartment is quiet, which I'm thankful for. Even Luna is curled up in a ball, sleeping soundly. It's nice to have the momentary peace and quiet. I do a sweep of the perimeter, just to err on the side of caution. It seems like lately, there's always some sort of action going on in or around my residence. Fortunately, no one gives a damn. My neighbors are gone and the cops are crooked. They'll stay away until someone pays them not to, and frankly, I don't see that happening anytime soon. I toss my coat over the back of the chair and look at the clock. Just past midnight. Draven will have to wait until tomorrow. I want to catch him by surprise and I get the feeling that Draven is the type of guy who is just starting his day around now. He's probably going to have all sorts of people over. I'm not much in the mood for another knock-down, drag-out ass-kicking festival at this particular moment. There's been enough of those lately. I think I'm well over my quota for the month.

I set down the brand new bottle of rum on the counter in the kitchen and rummage around for some sort of a mixer. That's the best thing about Blues. The management knows me. They can usually tell when I need a pick-me-up. Granted, the free ones are the cheapest kind of liquor, made for the sole purpose of getting you drunk, but, at this point, that's all I'm looking for. I don't necessarily need it to taste good. That's what the mixer is there for. I figure I may be at the whim of straight rum, unless I want to chase it with expired milk or mayonnaise, but just as I'm about to give up all hope, I find a rogue can of Coke in the back of the refrigerator. Megan must've brought it over last week. She seemed like a peach at first. In light of the recent discovery about her apparent dishonesty, however, I wonder what her angle is.

I set the can of Coke on the counter next to the rum, and as I'm reaching for a glass, I notice the mint green envelope sitting beside the ashtray. It had completely slipped my mind. I pop some ice in a glass, pour too much rum followed by too little Coke, and I take a long, hard swallow. No use rushing myself now. The letter's been sitting there all day. What's a few more seconds? It's not like it's going to expire. Once I feel the warmth of the rum in my stomach, then I'll deal with the letter.

I let my inner monologue run wild, trying to make some sense of the Megan problem. Maybe Megan was mistaken. Maybe she had my sister mixed up with someone else. That's immediately out. She knew Chenille's name. Of course she meant my sister. Dammit. Then maybe Chenille was in the wrong. She can't very well remember everyone. Can she? Another swig of rum and Coke. No, Chenille makes a living recalling names and faces. She wouldn't have forgotten Megan. If she started forgetting faces and names, she would have to go into early retirement. You start whacking the wrong people and you've got yourself in a world of hurt. Chenille knows the score. She's my own flesh and blood. I shouldn't doubt her. The brick in my stomach is back. Something is definitely wrong with this picture. I just have to figure out what it is.

I call Megan's cell. She doesn't answer. I figured she wouldn't. She's probably asleep. I'll sort this out tomorrow. Now it's time to face the music. I pick up the envelope and tear it open.

Mr. Maurice, I'm disappointed that you missed our last meeting. We need to finish our discussion. Monday, I'll find you.

Can't make any plans for tomorrow after the Draven business is taken care of. This racket is impinging on my social life. I take another swig from the rocks glass and light up a cigarette, last one of the evening. I gotta hit the sack. I have to get the drop on Draven before he gets out of bed.

One day down. Six more to go.

I'm Not a Morning Person

I haven't seen seven
A.M.
in months. It's just as drab as I recall.

Draven lives in the middle of nowhere on a surprisingly large plot of land surrounded on three sides by cornfields. It comes with its ups and downs. I'm glad he lives so far away from civilization so I won't have to explain whatever noises come from my interrogation, but at the same time, it makes it easier for him to get the drop on me. Thankfully, autumn is rolling in fast, so the crops have been harvested. There's not too many places for people to hide.

I park the Lincoln on the street and walk up the gravel driveway to the front door. My piece is already in my hand. I step up on the rickety porch. I'm trying my damndest to be quiet, but the house looks like it's from the early part of the century. It screeches and moans with every step I take, just like you'd expect it to. I can only assume that the floors inside are going to squeal the same way. That makes this more difficult, but not impossible. I just gotta be faster than Draven is. I try the front door. It's unlocked, so I walk right in. The floor creaks the second I set my foot down. No activity yet. I just gotta find the little bastard.

I slink past the front stairway. Gotta make sure that the downstairs is clear before I can head upstairs. So far, so good. No one sleeping on the sofa. No one in the bathroom. There's a door at the end of the hallway. It's closed. I wish I had gotten a floor plan to look at ahead of time. Unfortunately, this had to be done quickly. I creak across the floor and move up to the door. I push it open slowly, keeping my gun trained. As I step through the doorway, I can't believe my eyes.

“Hello.”

I can only assume that the guy sitting at the table is Draven. As I enter the room, he folds the paper he was reading and sets it aside. He takes a sip from the coffee mug before him and motions for me to take a seat.

“I've been expecting you. Coffee?”

Apparently, Jacks didn't throw as much of a scare into Patrick as I would've liked to have imagined. I motion my gun toward Draven. “I'm only going to ask you this once: Are you packing?”

Draven raises his hands. “Not in the least.” I can tell he's not lying. If he was, it would be pretty obvious. He's wearing a pair of flannel pants, a faded T-shirt, and a beat-up terry cloth robe. I lower my gun.

“You're lucky I'm not trigger happy.”

“You're right,” he agrees.

I take a seat across from him. “I'm not here to fuck around,” I tell him flatly.

He nods. “I didn't expect you to be,” Draven says, sipping his coffee, “Considering Patrick's near death experience. What do you need, Mr. . . .”

“Call me Levi. I need answers.” I take out my smokes and offer one to Draven. He shakes his head. I light one up and put the pack back in my pocket. “Regarding your late friend Vincent Bagliato.”

Draven nods with just the faintest air of sadness. “Vinnie. May God have mercy on his soul.” He bows his head and raises his coffee cup. I raise my cigarette.

“I need to know who killed him.”

Draven sets his mug down. “I wish I knew the answer to that query, but, unfortunately, I don't. Vinnie and I parted ways shortly before his death.”

“Why's that?” I take a drag off my smoke. Draven stands. My hand instinctively brings my piece up, the barrel pointing directly at Draven's face. Draven can't miss this and he raises his hands again. I watch him cautiously as he makes his way to the counter. He picks up an ashtray and returns to his seat, sliding the ashtray across the table to me.

“I didn't particularly like the way he was running his business,” Draven explains as he lowers himself back into his chair. “In my humble opinion, he was getting a bit too big for his britches.”

I ash the cigarette into the ashtray. “What made you think that?”

“We started off as a couple of bookies. We were running numbers, taking bets, getting involved in some small time racketeering. Kid stuff. As soon as he started running drugs, the whole operation changed. It seemed like a good idea to start with—I mean, there would be a little extra cash flowing in—but I still had this feeling that things were going to get hairy. I stuck it out, though, hoping for the best. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, a few hiccups here and there, but it was the last bit of work that I did with Vincent that went belly up. It was a simple job, or rather, it should've been, but Vinnie managed to botch it up. We were supposed to pick up some goods and deliver them to an interested party. We got the goods just fine, and then Vinnie wanted to go out and celebrate. He and his flavor of the week, some whore who hadn't been working for him that long, went out to a club, and in regular Vincent Bagliato fashion, he started shooting his mouth off. Listening to him talk, you would've thought he was Tony Montana himself, back from the grave. He got this girl all worked up, took her home, and she managed to stick her fingers in the pie. Hell, she stuck her whole hand in the pie, all the way up to the elbow. Then she disappeared. Needless to say, the buying party was angry. That's when I decided to wash my hands clean of the whole mess.”

I watch Draven through the haze of cigarette smoke. He seems to be an all right guy, all things considered. I hope he doesn't do anything stupid. It would be a shame to have to cap him. “So, you're telling me you walked away because of a job gone awry?”

“Among other reasons. Hey, you never answered me about that coffee. You're making me out to be a bad host.”

This guy is as cool as a cucumber. No wonder he was the brains. I shake my head.

“You got anything that's a bit more stiff?”

Draven laughs. “I'm certainly not running a speakeasy, if that's what you mean. What do you want?”

“Rum and Coke.”

“Rocks?”

“Not unless it's piss warm to begin with.” Draven stands and begins rummaging around in the refrigerator. He pulls out a handle of Bacardi and a two-liter of Coke. He fills a glass and hands it to me. “Thanks.”

“No better way to start your day.”

He returns to his seat. We sit in silence for a few moments. I'm not quite sure what to do next. He's been far more responsive than I expected him to be. I came in here ready to beat the living shit out of him until I got the answers I was looking for and leave him for dead. I'm not used to working with people who are cooperative.

“Okay, Draven,” I begin slowly, “Vincent is dead. Do you have any idea who could've killed him?”

Draven doesn't answer right away. For a second, I think that we've finally come to the point where I get to use all the interrogation skills I've honed over the years. I'm more than a little let down when I realize that he's actually putting some thought into his answers before he opens his mouth. I don't come across that too often. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing.

Draven sips on his coffee. “That's the problem. There were an uncountable number of people who could've wanted him dead.”

“I know the feeling,” I mutter, bringing my glass to my lips. Draven either doesn't hear me or he's so engrossed in his thoughts that he ignores me altogether.

“I mean, aside from all of the recent drug deals gone wrong, he had his finger in the prostitution racket as well.”

I pause midswallow. That's a bit of new information. No one said anything about prostitution. “When did that come about?”

“The whores?” Draven ponders again. “He started dabbling in that a couple weeks before he kicked off. The problem was, he was no damned good at it. He was always trying to steal girls away from their current employers, but they would always get the better of him. They'd use his services for a couple days and then wind up back at their regular pimp. On top of that, Vincent had a temper. The few girls that did stick around, if they did something wrong, they felt it. Through the back of Vincent's hand. He'd slap them around, more than he should have. He almost put one girl in a coma.” Draven pauses and looks out the window. “Which is another reason why I resigned my post.”

“The whores or the way they were treated?”

“The way they were treated,” Draven says, “though I've never been one for the whole prostitution racket. I mean, I do just fine on my own. I don't need to shell out cash for sex. It's all about the way one holds oneself.” The kitchen door creaks open. I spin in my chair and aim my piece at the chesty blonde walking through the doorway.

“What the fuck?” The blonds stops, eyes wide, staring at me with a look that lies somewhere between fear and disgust. Draven comes to her rescue.

“Levi, it's cool,” Draven tells me. “She was just leaving.” I lower my piece. The blonde stares at me as she walks across the kitchen. She leans in to give Draven a peck on the cheek. I let my eyes wander. The ass on this one is unbelievable. Draven did pretty well for himself. For his sake, I'm glad I didn't shoot her.

“I'll call you tonight,” the blonde whispers to Draven. She starts for the door and shoots me a dirty look. “Have a nice day, asshole.” She walks out the back door.

“Sorry,” Draven apologizes. “She's kind of bitchy in the morning.” He pauses and shakes his head. “Actually, she's bitchy in the afternoon and the evening too.”

I set my gun on the table. “Where were we?”

“The whores.”

“How could I forget. So, you left because he knocked a woman around?”

Draven refocuses on the conversation. “Yeah. A lot of people were pissed about the way Vinnie was running his business, but that didn't hold a candle to the whores. I could've taken over the books and the business end of things and everything would've been peachy. The whores, though, that was some serious activism shit going on.”

“How so?”

“I shouldn't even be talking about this, but, for starters, that bitch he roughed up a little too well . . .”

All of a sudden there are too many bitches for me to keep them all straight. I interject. “What was her name?”

“Her name was—” There's a sharp crack, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Draven's eyes go wide. It takes me about two seconds to realize what's going on. A crimson river trickles from the hole in Draven's neck. I grab my piece and hit the floor. A second shot rings out, this one louder now that there's the broken window behind me. My rum and Coke explodes all over the table. I'm already slinking toward the door before the second set of glass shards hit the floor. I raise my head at the corner of the broken window, just enough to peek outside. A shadow is tearing off around the corner of the house. They did what they came here to do. Now they're hightailing it.

I crouch, running as fast as I can toward the kitchen door. I slam it open and wind up at the front window, just in time to see a blue blur peeling out of sight. Dammit. My adrenaline is rushing and I'm about to fly out the door and give chase, but I realize that it's too late. They'll disappear on one of these back roads before I even get my keys in the ignition.

I straighten back up. I no longer have to worry about being shot. They're already gone and they took the only feasible informant I had. If they had wanted to kill me, they would've. They would've still been trying at least. Neither one of those bullets was meant for me. Someone wanted Draven dead before he could talk. They got their wish.

I walk back into the kitchen. I'm hoping that maybe Draven still has enough breath in him to reveal the hooker's name. I kneel on the floor beside him. He doesn't. Even if he did, the shooter was a crack shot. The bullet tore right through his larynx. Whoever pulled that trigger wasn't some gangbanger, wannabe thug. This was the work of a professional. They came in silent, shot clean and straight, and got the hell out of Dodge. Yeah, that second bullet wasn't meant for me. It was to get me to the ground and make me stay there. It gave the killer a chance to flee the scene. Somebody didn't want Draven talking. Especially if the listener was me. I look down at Draven's lifeless eyes, staring up at me. I have to hand it to the guy. He played it cool right up to the end.

I grab a dish towel off of the counter and place it over his face. May as well show some respect for the dead. He was more helpful than I expected. I take the handle of rum as I exit. Now I gotta find a new lead.