Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413)

A DUTTON GUILT EDGED MYSTERY

Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First published, November 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Josh K. Stevens

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

ISBN 978-1-101-61641-3

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Katie, who talked me out of giving up more times than I care to count.

To August, who made me want to leave a legacy for him.

And to everyone else who listened to my ramblings, let me bounce ideas, and pushed me along, you know who you are.

A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE

Charlie Huston, Dashiell Hammett, Stephen King, Jim Thompson, Frank Miller, Raymond Chandler, James Ellroy, Mickey Spillane, Max Allan Collins, among countless others, have always been on a constant rotation in my reading queue as far back as I can remember. I've always loved the quick one-two jabs of the choppy sentences, the fast and loose flow of their dialogue, and the action-packed plot lines that have you turning pages so fast it feels as though the paper is going to ignite. Tearing through these classic bits of pulp fiction, I wanted so badly to be the protagonist in a pulp novel. It was a twisted fantasy, in truth, but it looked like such an exciting life. Even when the good guy was beating on an informant for more information or slamming down drink after drink before going to bed with the dame he met an hour before, a dame, mind you, who might very well be the death of him, the reader never lost sight of who the hero was. He was the tough guy, the gun for hire, the rogue. He was the badass in the room who didn't care what anybody else thought of him. Whether he left a trail of bodies in his wake or wound up with the blond bombshell on his arm, he didn't particularly care, just so long as he got the job done and collected a paycheck at the end of the day.

However, as I approached my midtwenties and was working in a bookstore, I realized that my life as a pulp novel protagonist would probably find me dead or in jail. Neither one of those options sounded overly appealing and so, instead of becoming a knock-around guy, I opted to birth one.

As the saying goes, it takes two to tango, and so while Levi's father was a collection of classic noir and contemporary pulp novels, his mother was my personal inner rage over love gone sour.

Several years ago, when I had gone through a breakup that had left me, oddly enough, broken, I found myself seated in front of my computer with a blank document before me. Anyone who has ever gone through the torturous end of a tumultuous relationship knows that, in order to dig yourself out of the hole that you're in, you need to find that one-and-only cure-all. That night, so many moons ago, I found out that my medicine was the written word. I had been writing for several years previous to this particular night in question, but it had been short stories that had been developed because of an idea, usually something silly or extraordinary. This time, the words sprang from me because of raw emotion. Thus, when my fingers twitched and moved toward the keyboard, Levi Maurice burst forth from my mind, barreled through my nerve endings, and beat his way right onto the page.

Levi started off as a short story that was supposed to get rid of some of my inner torment. He quickly commandeered the ship and created a life all his own. The days that I spent writing this piece no longer belonged to me. They weren't colorized in reality; everything was set in black and white and shades of gray. My hometown of Woodstock, Illinois, and all of its local establishments became the backdrop for Levi's seedy criminal underworld, my friends and neighbors became his pawns, and my thoughts became Levi's inner monologue. I lived, breathed, ate, and slept Levi Maurice, channeling him more often than I care to admit.

Long story short, pulp novels and a bad breakup were what brought Levi Maurice to fruition. I have to give credit where credit is due and recognize that, while Levi came into existence because of these two things, had I not had the incredible drive of a beautiful woman, who showed up to pick up the pieces and pushed me along to follow my dreams, my words would still be nothing more than inked paper sitting on my desk. Instead of becoming scratch paper, my piece is situated here at Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries, among fellow authors who share my insatiable lust for the genre, most notably two heavy hitters and amazing wordsmiths, Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins. I couldn't have asked for a better crowd to throw my hat in with.

Thanks to Katie for giving me that shove, thanks to Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries for giving me a shot, and thanks to you, the reader, for taking a chance on this book. Hope it's a throwback to those gray-scaled days of yore.

Josh K. Stevens

Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries

www.duttonguiltedged.com

Somewhere around Two
A.M.

The streets are quiet.

As a rule of thumb, things around here are always quiet at two in the morning. In this town the streets roll up at eight. I heave the trash bag into the Dumpster, listening to the sound of glass breaking as it hits the metal floor. It's been a while since I cleaned up the old homestead. Taking out the trash was the easiest way to rid myself of the clutter. Most of it was empty bottles and cigarette butts. It's too bad I can't get rid of memories as easily as I got rid of the garbage. I close the Dumpster's lid and turn toward the street, lighting a cigarette and pausing momentarily to feel the brash smoke scratch the back of my throat. I cough, feeling the years of built-up tar rattle harshly in my chest. I make my way down the alley and into the streetlight.

I've been feeling like shit for the last ten years. I guess that's what dames'll do to a guy. Make them feel like dirt, spend their money, and walk away with their noses held high. That is, if they don't kill you first. I still have the scars from every woman I've ever been with. Not all of the scars are emotional. People will tell you that, given enough time, every wound can heal. I never did buy that. Just because something is healed doesn't mean it's gone for good. They're called scars for a reason. When it comes to scars, all you can really do is let the pain subside and hope that you can keep them hidden from the world. Quill was one of the gaping holes in my life that would never fully mend. Just when she started to scab over, something would tear her open again and the blood would rush back to the surface. Every week it was a new battle wound, always in the same spot and deeper every single time. All that changed a few weeks ago, though, when I left Quill in the dust. I had to stop the problem at its source.

In all actuality, we parted ways months ago. Neither one of us said anything to the other, we just kept on going through the motions like couples do. Eva and I had gone through the motions for two and a half years before she threw in the towel and we went our separate ways. Eva was the girl before Quill. Compared to Eva, my time with Quill was a cakewalk. Eva left the biggest scar on me, but I know I left a few marks of my own on her.

With Quill, I took as much as a man can take. I heard enough of the lies. I felt enough of the deceit. I had enough of the messing around behind my back. Enough was enough. I gave her an ultimatum. I told her to make a decision, and when she couldn't, or wouldn't, I walked away.

The scabbed-over mass of blood hasn't fully healed yet. She still haunts most of my days. She'd probably haunt all of them if I didn't drink. It's helped to speed up the healing process. At least I have that going for me.

It's not a surprise that booze helps take the edge off. Liquor has always helped in heartbreak. It helped me with Eva. It's helped me with Quill, and the surprise won't falter when it helps me with the next heartbreak as well.

And the one after that.

And the one after that.

At this point, nothing surprises me anymore. I walk up the softly illuminated street to the corner, where I turn and see a bum sleeping on the stairway, overflowing trash cans behind him. When I reach my doorway, I'm not done with my cigarette yet. The landlady doesn't allow smoking in the apartments. Usually I do it anyway, but tonight I had to take the garbage out.

I jingle my keys around, looking for the big square brass one, and flick my cigarette aside. I exhale one final breath of soothing smoke and unlock the front door to the building. I step inside, pausing for a moment to look up the two flights of stairs that loom ahead. With the drinks sloshing around inside me, the stairs look twice as difficult. Knowing full well there's no other way around them, I lower my head like a charging bull and commence the monstrous climb. That's when I notice the pale green envelope.

I stop midlurch and grab hold of the railing, staring down at the envelope. As I wait for the red letters scrawled on the front to stop being blurry, I wonder if the glue on the envelope tastes like a mint ice cream cone. After what feels like a decade, the exquisite cursive comes into focus.

Levi Maurice.

The letter is addressed to me.

I stare at the envelope for another minute, deciding whether or not I should open it. No good can come from an anonymous mint green envelope with red writing left on a stairway. Words to live by in my world. I snatch up the letter, holding it tightly in my clenched fist, and I stumble up the remainder of the stairs to my apartment.

I get to the doorway and shove open the door, which is unlocked. I could say that I did that because I knew taking out the trash would only take me a few minutes. The truth is I was too drunk to lock the door behind me.

Inside, I flip on the light and Luna immediately starts giving me grief. The tone of her voice is rapid and accusing. Accusing of what, I'm not sure, but accusing nonetheless.

I pick Luna up, still holding the letter, and give her a kiss on the cheek, scratching her behind the ears and listening to the accusations give way to soft purrs. I make my way to the kitchen and take out a container of tuna-flavored snacks. I pop the lid and feed her one. If only women were as easy to calm as their feline counterparts.

I slide into my vomit-colored armchair. Everyone I know hates the chair, but it's cozy, so I keep it around. I sit for a few beats with my eyes closed to allow the room to stop spinning before I carefully tear the envelope open. I pull out the stationery inside. Same color as the envelope, same cursive writing. The letter is simple. Straight and to the point.

I need your help.

That's all it says. Well, that and a phone number. The number isn't one I recognize and there's no name on the letter. I massage the bridge of my nose, wondering if two
A.M.
is too late to call. I convince myself that it is, knowing full well that I just want to rest up. Lord knows what kind of help this person needs, but I can only assume that it's going to be taxing. It seems that, lately, all of my caseload is. I set the letter on the nightstand and muster every ounce of energy that I have to pull myself up from the chair just enough so I can collapse onto my futon.

Times like these, living in a studio apartment ain't so bad.