I Kill Monsters: Fury (Book 1) (10 page)

“You hear Black Rob yet?”

“Nah, Mr. Charles. Who dat?”

Charles. Everyone but Boone called the blind
man Mr. Charles. That was his name. That was the name on the
outside of the store. Boone called him Blind after the Cheech and
Chong skit,
Blind
Melon
Chittlin’. Blind called him
Mojo after the Doors’ song.

“He dropped some lyrics on the 112
remix—
Come
see
me
. Puffy been sitting on this
brother’s album…”

As he listened to their conversation and
leaned his elbow against the counter top, Boone scanned the record
store. Part of the fun for the customers who came to the place was
to look through the bins of records and recordings. Boone knew
there were people who came here and spent hours just looking. Blind
didn’t mind, or if he did he never said anything.

“Black Rob that young nigga appeared on
Mase’s cut last year, right?”

“One and the same,” nodded the old man.

Keisha was working the register across the
store. Keisha was Blind’s daughter and she was, in Boone’s
estimation, smoking hot. Keisha was ringing a customer up and Boone
let his gaze dwell on her ample breasts, glad her father was blind
and couldn’t see him doing so.

“Now what you need to do is walk yourself
over to that aisle over there and find you some Powerrule.”

“Powerrule?”

“Yeah, the white boys love that, right
Boone?”

Boone ignored him.

“They mix Pink Floyd’s
Another
Brick
in
the
Wall
,
Part
2
in their hook. Believe me, it works.”

“Aight, Mr. Charles. Thanks.”

The old man nodded, smiling but showing no
teeth.

Boone wondered if Keisha was wearing those
stretchy pants he liked her in. She had about thirty pounds of ass
on her. Keisha rarely gave him the time of day, but this hadn’t
stopped Boone from rubbing one out thinking about her about a
hundred times before. If she ever gave him the chance, he’d worship
that ass. For an hour at least.

“What you lookin’ at, Mojo?” the Indian guy
had wandered off to find his one hit wonders and the old man had
turned his full attention on Boone. Boone shook his head. How the
fuck did Blind know? Every fucking time…

But the old man didn’t dwell on it. “These
kids today, ain’t nothin’ if they ain’t eclectic. From Son House to
King Sun and everything in between. So what you need, Mojo?”

“Couple of things,” said Boone. “One’s
information.”

“On what?”

“Not a
what
this time. A
who
.”

“Who it be then?”

“What do you know about a guy ran with
Gossitch, colored guy named Santa Anna?”

Blind looked at Boone through his shades.
“Colored guy, huh?”

“You know what I mean, Blind. Black.”

“Well, let me ask you, Mojo. What
you
know ‘bout guy run with Gossitch called Santa Anna?”

“I know I did some work with him this
morning.” Boone looked around the store as he said it. There was no
one close enough to overhear their conversation. “I know he just
got out of the big house a short while ago.”

“Santa Anna. Now there’s a man knew how to
stand up. They got him, and they woulda’ got Gossitch and Bowie and
all ‘em from that old crew, if he’d opened up. But the man kept his
shit silent. Didn’t say word one. Glad to hear he’s out.”

“Okay, that’s all sweet and shit, but is he
trustworthy?”

“All that muscle on top of your shoulders
squeezin’ your head, Mojo? Didn’t you hear anything I just said to
you? Man kept his mouth closed. Man went away.”

“Yeah, I heard you, Blind.”

The old man shook his head. “You here asking
me about one of your own, eh? Ain’t that somethin’. Maybe you
better ask Gossitch himself.”

“Yeah. Guess I will. You got anything for
me?”

“Come on in back a second, Mojo. Keisha!”

The woman looked up at her father. When she
saw Boone a look not too far from disgust crossed her face.

“I be back in a minute, honey.”

Blind lifted part of the counter-top and
stepped out from behind the counter. He navigated the aisles of his
store without a cane.

“Hey, Blind,” remarked Boone as he followed.
“I don’t think your daughter likes me.”

“She a smart one that girl.”

“Now, this is some of that good Peruvian
shit…” Blind was saying of an open kilo bag of cocaine on the table
in front of them. “Only been stepped on once. Have a taste.”

Boone reached into the bag with a key and
scooped up a small mound of the powder. He pinched one nostril shut
with a thumb and inhaled the powder, licking the key. It hit him
immediately. Instant heightened perception. Like seeing in 3-D.

“Yeah, this shit is nice.” He licked his
gums.

“How much you want? Eightball?”

“No, better make it a quarter ounce.”

“What—you got a party coming up or
somethin’?”

“You know me, Blind. My whole fuckin’ life is
a party.”

“I know ye-yo, my man, and this here is a
young man’s drug. You best watch yourself with this shit—”

“You a drug dealer or what?”

The old man smiled. “When I think I need to,
I be first to cut you off. You a grown boy, Boone. Weigh it out
yourself.”

There was a digital scale on the table and
baggies of various sizes. Boone scooped from the key on the table
and filled a bag, measuring it. The old man sat back, humming, and
didn’t seem concerned that Boone would cheat him by taking more
than the agreed upon weight. Boone never would.

“You still carrying that Dirty Harry
bullshit?” the old man asked as Boone finished up.

Boone nodded.

“Why don’t you take a look at this?”

He pushed a blue gun case across the table to
Boone. When Boone opened it and hefted the revolver inside he
whistled.

“Nice.”

“That’s a Ruger Speed-Six. Three fifty seven.
Double action.”

“Pocket pistol,” noted Boone, somewhat sour.
“I ain’t lookin’ to trade down.”

“Granted, it don’t carry the look of
authority o’ that forty-four weighin’ you down, but you can conceal
it easier.”

“Can it punch through an engine block?”

“No, but it’ll knock most men and all the
other shit you might meet out there off they feet. Why, you
expectin’ ta start a beef with a Mack Truck?”

“How much?”

“I can let you have it for ten yards.”

“A big one, huh?”

“That gun’s clean, Mojo. You know how I
work.”

“Yeah, I know how you work, Blind. You bought
this wholesale off Hephy. Let me have it retail, right?”

“You want to save yourself a few dollars, go
on an’ see the armorer himself, Mojo.”

“I’ll pay your daughter out front,
right?”

“You got it. Need any shells?”

“Nah, I got some three fifty sevens and
thirty eights somewhere. Hey, when’s that Jintropin coming in?”

“Waitin’ to hear from my connect down in
China Town. Should be any day. Now that’s a drug you gotta look out
for.”

“You sellin’ me cocaine and you can say
that?”

“Mojo, GH is what killed Alzado.”

“Maybe,” nodded Boone. “But back then they
were raiding cadavers for the shit, Blind. Today everything’s
synthetic. Won’t cause no mad cow.”

“Jacob Creutzfeld”

“Don’t know him,” said Boone. “But I think
his name is Creutzfeld-Jacob.”

“You’s funnier than you look, Mojo.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Seriously though, you don’t want to go
overboard with that shit. Have your hands and feet growin’.”

“Nah, Blind. The shit to look out for’s the
insulin. ‘Slin will fuck you up. I mean, it’ll put twenty pounds on
your like that.” Boone snapped his fingers. “But it’ll fuck you
up.”

“Give me a call in a couple of days. Should
have those kits for you by Friday. Then we can watch your chin
grow.”

“Will do, Blind.”

“Oh, and I got those CDs for you up front
too. Ask Keisha.”

“I will. Mind if I take another bip before I
go?”

“Help yourself,” invited the old man.
“Customer satisfaction what we strive for ‘round here. Or some
shit.”

Keisha took one look into Boone’s dilated
pupils and shook her head. She held out her hand.

“Hey there, Kee,” Boone handed her a roll of
hundred dollar bills. “How you been girl?”

“Don’t try to talk what you think is black to
me, Boone,” she said. She handed him a paper bag with the record
store’s logo on it. “As a matter of fact, don’t try to talk to me
at all. Next.”

Boone turned but there was no one on line
behind him. When he turned back around Keisha was busying herself
with something.

“Okay, you be good then.”

The woman didn’t say anything.

Gossitch pulled a towel off the rack and
dried himself in the shower. He was tired.

He stepped onto the cool tile floor and into
his house slippers, wrapping the towel around his midsection. He
wasn’t fat but he was thickening with middle age.

The house was quiet. Had been for a long
time.

He reached to the sink and retrieved the 9mm
in its shoulder rig, slinging it over his arm.

In his bedroom, he put on a pair of boxers
and a white t-shirt.

He’d eaten a meal and finally calmed down
from this morning’s work. That vampire walking around outside, what
had that been about?

He stopped in the kitchen to hock and spit in
the garbage pail. Damn cigarettes were killing him.

In his spartan living room, he popped a
cassette into the tape deck. Solomon Burke filled the room.
Gossitch sat down on his papa sahn chair, the shoulder rig and the
gun on his lap. The three briefcases were lined up next to the
chair.

“…
When
your
baby
leaves
you
all
alone
/
and
nobody
calls
you
on
the
phone
…”

Gossitch fired up a Marlboro and sat back in
his chair.

He didn’t know why he did it to himself. He
missed Renee. Gossitch was in his early fifties. It wasn’t too late
to start again, start a family even. He just had no desire. The men
he worked with were his family. He’d recruited each one. They got
together a few times a year, put in some work, went their separate
ways.

Tonight they’d meet at a club Gossitch knew
the owner of. He’d divvy out the money, they’d drink too much,
maybe a few of the guys would go home with women. Then they’d
disperse and not see each other until the next job.

He tapped his ashes out into an ash tray on
his lap.

Gossitch didn’t encourage fraternization
outside the job. Better each man kept his own life. Learn too much
about each other and the minute one got in a jam he became a
liability to all the rest. Only Gossitch had contact information
for each guy in his crew. He knew Madison, Hamilton, and Jay hung
out outside of work, but he couldn’t do anything about that. He
himself spent more time with Boone than any of the other men in the
crew. Sure Boone was rough around the edges, but he had potential
and was good to have around.

He wondered if the kid had meant to shoot
that vampire in the trailer. He’d have to talk to him about that.
Maybe it was a good thing the kid couldn’t shoot worth a damn. Give
Boone a scattergun or machine gun, the kid could inflict some
damage. And he had hands. But when it came to a pistol, well…

Gossitch studied the glowing tip of his
smoke. It had burned down, almost to the filter.

Santa Anna had comported himself well.
Gossitch had been a little worried that prison might have softened
Carter, but he’d held his stuff together today. One thing Gossitch
couldn’t figure, was why the kid seemed to have it in for the guy.
He’d have to talk to Boone about that too.

Gossitch decided he’d turn in, get some
sleep. He ground the butt of the cigarette out in the ash tray and
stood, slinging the holster over his arm again, picking up two of
the briefcases. He’d have to come back for the third. He would
sleep with them in the same room he was in.

“…nothing could be sadder,” Burke sang, “than
a glass of wine, all alone…”

She was attuned to her Master’s needs and
therefore this morning found herself gripped by the same
melancholia that had taken hold of him.

When she had entered his service, she had
ceased thinking of herself as a unique individual. She had had a
name once, but no more. She was
his
. Kreshnik’s victories
were hers. His vexations as well. She lived to serve. His needs
were sated in and upon her person.

Kreshnik sat in the dark of the warehouse,
bathed in the glow of the television screen. She knelt before him,
attending to his hands. Cruel, vicious instruments they were,
stained with blood from the morning’s kill. She had worked the
dried blood from under the nails and now filed each to a sharpened
point. He largely ignored her, intent on the screen.

When he had come into her life, she had
renounced her husband, her child, her family. She had turned her
back on her species. Her childhood, adolescence, and young
womanhood were lost to her as though none had ever been hers. Her
being was caught up in its entirety in the moment, in serving, in
being his. She was a part of her Master.

She was his
nuse
, his bride.

On CNN, the KLA was fighting to establish an
independent Kosovo. She knew her Master wished to be there, to
exult in the butchery of the Serbs, to participate in the rout of
his people’s age old enemies. The Serbs. Slavs, like Rainford. She
hated the Dark Lord, and she hated him because her Master did. The
day would come when Kreshnik would rise up against the Dark Lord,
when this next generation of the children of the night would assume
their rightful position in the order of things, banishing their
weak and antiquated forebears.