Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (3 page)

One o'Clock

I see Marijane in the stairway. She sees me, too, but immediately turns away and pretends she doesn't. That works for me.

“I'm gonna be using the basement,” I tell her as I'm walking by. She rummages through an open box in front of her.

“I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing,” she says, pretending I'm not walking by, pretending she's really engrossed in the contents of the box. I don't say any more. She owns the store beneath the apartments. She's good at keeping her mouth shut. It only took one threat after she walked in on one of my interrogations. She saw my handiwork, she knows I'm not messing around. She goes about her business, I go about mine, and her trap stays closed. Not that she would really have a choice. Not here. Not with me. She stops rummaging for a moment to sneak a glare at me over her shoulder. “But the Good Lord does.”

I ignore her, as I normally do. I make my way to the basement and drop the goon on the floor as I reach out to open the door. I hit the light switch and the fluorescent bulbs overhead fizz to life, unveiling the rows of flowers on the walls. Marijane operates a silk flower shop. It's called Le Jardin. In French, it means “the garden.” It never made much sense to me. I've never been to France, but I figure that they must have the real deal over there. Every time I use the basement, it's like interrogating someone in a fairy tale. At least the scent of spring isn't in the air.

I walk into the room, leaving the goon beside the door behind me. Toolbox on the wall shelf, duct tape in my hand. With my hands free, I go back and grab the goon from the floor. He goes in the chair in the center of the room. Nothing new for me. I've been here countless times before. The faces change, but the routine is always the same.

When I first started off in this business, I worked for a guy named Campbell. I met Campbell when he showed up at the bar I worked for looking for the owner. I didn't like Campbell right off the bat. I had no idea who this suited-up weasel was, but the fact that he came in like he owned the joint and that he was flanked by two guys who looked like they were distant cousins of Magilla Gorilla put a bad taste in my mouth. I asked Campbell what he needed to see Jimmy for, and when Campbell responded that it was none of my fucking business, I told him in great detail what he could do with his business and where he could keep it. Admittedly, I could've handled the whole situation better, but I was young and stupid and had a big mouth. Thankfully, I had the moxie to back up my words, so when Campbell sicced his bodyguards on me a few minutes later, it didn't take long before I laid them both out. After I was done knocking those two assholes around, I turned toward Campbell to throw him a beating. I was shocked to find him looking more impressed than scared.

Next thing I knew, I was being offered a job as a knock-around guy. In the beginning, I really had no idea what Campbell did for a living, but the money he was offering was good and I figured that I would find out soon enough. Soon enough came almost immediately as I found out that it was my duty to beat the living hell out of people and obtain from them whatever Campbell needed. I did good work, and shortly thereafter, I had made a name for myself. Campbell promoted me up the ranks, and before I knew it, I was a hired gun. That was where the fun was. That was where I got my training for what I'm about to do. I often wonder where I would be today if I hadn't burned my bridge with Campbell. I probably would never have struck out on my own. Not that it really matters. What's done is done. No use focusing on the past. I gotta stay in the present.

“What's your name?” I ask the goon as I duct-tape him into the seat. He mumbles something incoherent. I look into his eyes. “Sorry.”

When I yank the duct tape from his mouth, he screams, so I punch him in the jaw and he quits making noise in a hurry. His eyes wobble, but he's a tough guy and he shakes it off pretty quick. I move to the shelf.

“What's your name?” I ask again. He spits a mouthful of blood and teeth onto the concrete floor. That's just the beginning of the mess, so I don't utter a word of complaint. Jacks's guys will clean this all up, spic and span.

“Jeff,” he says. He talks like he has a mouthful of marbles. I guess that's what a good sock in the face can do. I turn around and look at him. The wound on his scalp is bleeding good and the blood is running down his forehead. If I was anyone else, I might actually feel sorry for him. But I'm not.

“How's your head?”

“It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“An inch further down and it would've hurt a lot more,” I tell him. I can see in his eyes that he already knows this. He doesn't respond. He's trying so hard to play it cool, but I can see his eyes screaming with terror. I nod at him and plug my drill into the wall. I pull the trigger a few times to rev it up. “Let's get moving, shall we?”

I take a few steps toward Jeff. Close enough so that I can put the drill bit against his trembling kneecap. If his legs weren't taped to the chair, his knees knocking together would probably be deafening. His eyes burn into mine, filled with hate but pleading for me to stop. They're now filled with a fine mixture of anger and horror. I can tell that he's probably going to be a tough nut to crack.

“This can go one of two ways, Jeff.” This is the speech I give everyone that I bring down here. “You can spill it now or you can spill it later. The end result is going to be the same.” I take my cigarettes out of my pocket and light one. Jeff gets up enough courage to spit in my direction. A fine mixture of blood and saliva spatters onto my Converse. I grit my teeth. I hate getting my shoes dirty.

I take a deep drag off the cigarette. “Well, I can already see how this is going to turn out.”

I fire up the drill and bear down hard.

For a moment, I'm not sure which is worse: the screams of pain, the smell of bone, or the fact that I'm not half as liquored up as I should be.

To me, the answer is obvious.

Twenty-some Minutes Later

“I think this might be worse than upstairs,” Jacks says to me. He hands me a fresh bottle. I take the cigarette from my lips and down half the liquid inside. Even though Jacks has his hand out expecting the bottle back, I take my handkerchief from my back pocket and replace it with the booze. Jacks eyeballs me for a second before he realizes that my day's been harder than his.

“At least he talked.” I attempt to wipe the gore from my chest with the hanky. There's a lot more than I imagined, so I only succeed in moving it around. Who would've thunk that there was so much liquid in the human body? I guess Jacks's guys would have. That's what they're there for.

“What's the scoop?” Jacks asks. I take the bottle from my back pocket and take another long pull. I fill Jacks in on the letter I received. I tell him about my morning, waking up to find a night of passion lost to the darkness of my drunken state, and about the confrontation with the goons. I motion toward what's left of the upper half of Jeff, still taped to the chair.

“That guy,” I say, polishing off the bottle and tossing it aside, “claims he was sent here by a guy named Bruiser.”

“Does that name ring any bells?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Did you get a last name?”

I shake my head. “Jeff said that he was part of an outside party. He said that the ringleader of his little gang was real chummy with Bruiser.”

Jacks opens his mouth but before he can ask, I interrupt him.

“He couldn't give me a God-given name,” I tell him. Jacks shuts his mouth. “Jeff said that they just call this guy Bruiser. Supposedly, he works at a gym across the tracks.”

“He must be a great guy,” Jacks chimes in.

“I'm certain he's terribly charming.” I continue, “Regardless, for one reason or another, Bruiser wanted me dead. Jeff said that he didn't know why. I doubt that he did. I believe him.”

Jacks narrows his eyes at me. I know that look. I've been on the receiving end of that look more times than I can count.

“I believe him because it's hard to lie when you have a pair of vice grips holding your testicles.”

“No further explanation needed,” Jacks tells me. There's a pause as he lights up a cigarette. “So, what's the next step?”

I walk to the shelf and place my gear in the toolbox. I close the lid and pick it up.

“My next step is to go upstairs and clean this shit off of me.” I walk toward the basement door. “Then I'm going to go pay Bruiser a visit.”

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Jacks says. “I still owe you for taking care of Maise.”

How could I forget? The last job I did for Jacks, protecting a hooker from a drug dealer, left me eating through a screen for a month.

“Thanks, but the way I see it, this is between me and these guys. I'll keep you posted.” When I get to the doorway I pause, a realization coming over me. “This is the first time in a while that I've been on this side of a contract.”

Jacks laughs. “How does it feel?”

I mull it over. “I'll have to get back to you on that. I'm still thinking it over.”

Five after One

I walk through my front door and nod my head. Jacks was right. If I didn't know any better, I would never even assume that there was a bloodbath in here an hour ago. I walk across the room and set my cigarettes down on the nightstand. I look at my green armchair. Apparently Jacks's guys decided I could keep it. I glance around the room. Aside from the bullet holes in the chair, nothing is out of place. The carpet is fresh, the walls are spotless, and if there were any stray bullet holes, they've been covered up. Maybe I should do this more often. It's cheaper than having a maid.

I walk to the kitchen and take out Luna's treats. I shake the bottle until she weasels out of one of the lower kitchen cabinets. She comes running over to me and I pick her up and feed her a treat.

“Good thing you have nine lives,” I tell her. I rub her behind the ears and set her back down. Sometimes I wonder if I have nine lives too. If so, I have to be down a couple by now. Now that I know Luna's safe and sound, I have to get down to business. I strip down in my kitchen, putting the clothes in the garbage can as I do. I can't help but grit my teeth. I loved those jeans.

As I make my way to the bathroom, I see the mint green envelope sitting on the coffee table. It's spattered with blood. I think momentarily about calling the number and then decide that I should get a move on to deal with the attempt on my life. The call can wait a little longer. I get the feeling that the mint green stationery and the hit are probably connected. Not sure why yet. In this racket, though, one is forced to have some sort of intuition. I step into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I hope Natalie didn't use up all the hot water. That would just put the cherry on top of my day. The water is warm. Maybe things are looking up.

I step beneath the stream of water and let it wash over me for a few seconds. I reach over to grab the shampoo and my eyes fall on the pink razor that Quill left there. I pick it up and look at it.

Quill and I never officially lived together, but we may as well have. She moved a bunch of her shit in slowly over time, and when I kicked her out, she left most of it behind. Not that she necessarily needs it. Quill has an eye for a sucker. I'm sure that whoever gets entwined in her web next will buy her whatever she wants. I know that I did.

I set the razor back down on the bathtub ledge and pick up the shampoo.

Being with Quill was a challenge from the get-go. I first met Quill while I was working a case that was so pointless I don't even remember the details. I had spent the majority of the night before taking a beating and handing some out, followed by the cure-all remedy of drinking and smoking, and when I woke up with a splitting headache and fished around in my pocket to grab my cigarettes, I realized that I only had a single smoke left. I was already running just behind schedule for a meet-up on the case I was working, but I had to get cigarettes before I started my workday. Maybe it was the stress brought on by my line of work, but I needed a smoke immediately and I knew I'd need several more after that. So I headed over to The Cupboard. The Cupboard is a little, shit-hole convenience store a couple blocks from my apartment. It's walking distance and the cigarettes are cheap, so I find myself in there a lot. Probably too much, considering the Indian that runs the joint knows me by brand.

The bell above the door jingled as I walked inside. It made my head feel like it was about to split in two. I was about to tear it down from its string around the door when I saw the dame in the candy aisle looking at me. She wasn't too bad on the eyes. To the point that my hangover momentarily lapsed into remission. Her dress was cut to just below the level of being tasteless, showing off skin that was so white it was almost blinding. I smiled at her and nodded. She giggled appreciatively. For a moment, I thought that maybe that day was gonna turn out to be okay after all.

I took two steps toward her, then her boyfriend rounded the corner and ruined it all. I remember him being somewhere in the neighborhood of eight feet tall, hulking, with a perfect scowl permanently set into his face. I had seen this guy around town before. He wasn't a particularly nice fellow. Nor was he a particularly sane fellow. To add a cherry on top, he had no neck. We made eye contact and he deepened his scowl in my direction. I was half tempted, on general principle alone, to get the girl's number, regardless of the rabid elephant in the room, lurking behind her and staring me down. Then I remembered that I had bigger fish to fry. I had a case to wrap up and I was already running late. I gave him a courtesy nod and shot her a smile before walking up to the register. I slapped my money down on the counter.

“Just the cigarettes today, Harry,” I told the Indian guy. He nodded, not even removing his eyes from the day's paper, pulled my brand off the shelf, and tossed them to me.

“Here you go, buddy.”

I started packing the cigarettes as I was walking toward the door. Just before I reached the exit, I tossed the candy girl a sideways glance and she wiggled her fingers at me. I smiled at her as I pushed open the door. Nice spot of sunshine for a bleak morning. I hoped that could carry me through the rest of the day ahead of me.

“Hey, asshole.”

The door to the store flew open and No-Neck came barreling out into the parking lot. So much for no confrontation. So much for a cloudless day. I opened my car door and started to get in. I figured that maybe if I ignored him he'd just go away. Unfortunately, things in my world never go that way.

“Asshole, I'm talking to you,” he yelled as he strode toward my car. I turned around to look at him. I figured it would only take a minute of my time. His face had turned crimson with fury. “What were you trying to pull in there?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked him, putting a cigarette between my lips and lighting it. The candy girl stepped out from the store behind him, watching with a bored look on her face. Obviously, this was nothing but the norm in their relationship.

“You were trying to pick up on my girl,” he said, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. “That's my girl.” This was where it started getting ridiculous. I didn't even want to get into this particular argument. I took a drag off my cigarette.

“My apologies,” I told him. “I didn't realize you two were together.” I started to get into my car again, but No-Neck moved fast, faster than I anticipated, and he grabbed hold of my jacket and pulled me out. He slammed my chest against the back door of the Lincoln.

“What? Do you want to fuck her?” he asked. His face was so close to my ear that I could smell the stale beer and pizza he had for lunch. “Are you trying to fuck my girl?”

“From where she's standing, it kind of looks like you're trying to fuck me,” I told him. “Maybe she's the one who should be pissed.”

He whirled me around to face him and grabbed my lapels, knocking the cigarette out of my hand. Now I was pissed and I could only see red. “Take a walk, pal. Cool off and get over yourself.”

He pressed in even closer. “You were trying to fuck my girl?”

I clenched my teeth. “What if I was?”

“You wanna get your ass kicked for that girl?” The dam burst. He released one of my lapels and brought his fist way back over his shoulder. He left me too much time, so I hit him hard in the solar plexus and caught him off guard. He doubled over and his grip on my jacket loosened. Sidestepping, I slammed his head onto the trunk of the Lincoln. He bounced off like a basketball and landed flat out on the pavement. He was trying to get up, spitting and frothing, looking like a Tasmanian devil, ready to tear me limb from limb. Then he realized that I was standing beside him, my .45 an inch from his ear. I cocked the hammer and he froze.

“No,” I replied, closing the gap and pushing the gun against his head. “Do you want to die for that girl?” His jaw was the only part of his body that was moving, and even though it was rapidly flapping, nothing was coming out but some drops of spit. His eyes were wide and I could actually see the perspiration beading up on his forehead. That was when his bladder failed him and he pissed himself. I figured that was answer enough. I took a couple of steps toward my car, not lowering the gun.

“Good, then get the fuck out of here.” I slid behind the steering wheel as the urine darkened his pants. Candy girl looked at No-Neck and shook her head before walking across the parking lot. I put my gun away and threw the car in reverse. I checked my rearview to see No-Neck still sitting on the ground in the parking lot, a befuddled look on his mug and tears streaming down his face. It was a disgusting sight. I looked at the dashboard clock. I was already late for the meeting, so I figured that being a little later wouldn't be catastrophic. That's one of the many perks being self-employed. I pulled the Lincoln onto the street and rolled down the passenger window.

“Hey, Candy girl, you need a ride?”

She paused momentarily to look over her shoulder at her sobbing, piss-stained boyfriend, then she got into the car.

“My name is Quill.”

“Good for you,” I told her. “Where am I taking you?”

“Wherever you want.”

I wound up blowing off the meeting entirely and taking her out to a dive bar in a seedy part of town. We spent the majority of the night talking, trying to get to know one another. She said she was a college student. I said I was a computer analyst. We were both lying. Under normal circumstances, I'm sure that I would've figured that out from the get-go. Unfortunately, my judgment was clouded by the fact that her skin was beckoning me to touch her. I'm sure the booze didn't help at all either.

I don't know if it was because of the booze or the thought of sex, but I waylaid my normal routine and we wound up going back to my apartment. The rest is pretty much the same old story. One thing led to another and, before too long, we were in an intimate relationship. It was great for a couple of months. Then things got ugly.

We were at the same dive bar we went to on our first date. We were bellied up to the bar, drinking and laughing, having a good time. Like all good things, it had to come to an end. The end came in the form of a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to find No-Neck and a few of his friends standing behind me. Before I even got the chance to shoot out a witty comment about the piss-to-fabric ratio of his jeans, he cold-cocked me in the jaw. It caught me off guard, so I fell off my barstool.

“Not so tough now, are you, asshole?” The no-neck bastard motioned for his buddies to grab me. I was already almost to my feet when the first one laid a grimy hand on my jacket. I didn't even let myself think. I reacted and the guy who grabbed my arm was on the floor with his arm twisted behind his back like a puppet that had been tossed aside. No-Neck's other friend moved in and I punched him in the throat. He fell on top of his broken pal and No-Neck gritted his teeth. He took a swing at me, which I dodged, grabbing his arm and letting his momentum carry him forward. I sidestepped, bringing his arm behind him, and planted his face into the bar. I grabbed a handful of the back of his hair and slammed him down a few more times.

“You really need to practice this,” I told him, “or you just need to pick better enemies.”

“That bitch owes me money.”

I paused and brought his head back so he was looking at the ceiling. “What do you mean, she owes you money?”

“Levi, let's get out of here.” Quill was at my side almost instantaneously. I ignored her.

“Answer my question and I'll stop with the beating,” I told him. “What do you mean?”

No-Neck coughed up a little of the blood that was building up in his mouth. “That bitch was working for me. Now she thinks she's working for herself. She thinks that, because she's got you, she can do whatever she wants. She's still a whore. She's still my whore.”

I threw a look in Quill's direction. “I thought you were a college student.”

“I am a college student.”

No-Neck tried to laugh, but wound up choking a bit on his own teeth. “And I'm a fucking brain surgeon.” I let go of No-Neck's hair and boxed his ears. He fell forward one last time and then slid to the floor. Quill couldn't think of anything to say in response to that. She shrugged it off.

“After that little display, I'm guessing you don't really work with computers.” She had a point. We left the bar and headed back to my place, where we had it out. In the end, she promised that she would stop hooking while she was with me. I promised I would keep my temper at bay.

Problem was, we were both aiming far too high.

I don't know if Quill was ever a card-carrying member of the prostitution racket, but she made the rounds regardless. At first it wasn't a big deal. After the initial confrontation with her no-neck boyfriend, things were relatively quiet for a while. Quill and I made the rounds to all the dive bars in the area, and although there were a few guys whose glances lasted a little too long, nobody started anything. Maybe they weren't the real hard-core lowlives. Maybe they had enough respect for me to leave well enough alone. I doubt it. Odds are that word had spread about what I did to the last guy. They left me alone, I left them alone, and all was well in the world. For a second or two.

As is always the case, whatever it was that was keeping these guys at bay trailed off and the scumbags came out of the woodwork. Every single place we went to, guys would come up to us and proposition Quill. I tried to let it slide at first. I'd politely ask the guys to step off, and if push came to shove, which it almost always did, I took care of business as quickly and as quietly as possible. The problem was, with each passing day, it seemed like more and more of her former clients were getting more and more ballsy. After a while, it seemed as though the entire city knew her. Biblically. And that statistic is probably not too far off. What started off as me taking care of business quickly and quietly ultimately became a seemingly never-ending barrage of fights. I got into so many fights over those months that it seemed like I was a punching bag tester. It got real old, real quick.