Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (15 page)

Fifteen Minutes after the Hit

“Draven went belly up.”

“I hope you got answers first.” Jacks's tone lets me know he's at work. That means I gotta be quick.

“I didn't kill him,” I explain. “Someone had him silenced. Midsentence.”

“Hold on.” There's a pause and I can hear Jacks mumbling something to his partner about stepping outside. The door to his police cruiser slams. “What the fuck does that mean?” I got Jacks's attention now. I clear my throat.

“He was talking about Vincent,” I tell him. “He was about to give up what would've been considered as valuable information. Then, bang, he took a bullet in the throat. Conversation over.”

“Were you hit?”

“Do you think we'd be having this conversation if I'd been hit?” I can feel my blood boiling as I relive the events that transpired. “Of course I'm not hit. They weren't gunning for me. Whoever it was left me behind for some reason. They were there for Draven.” I pull the car into a parking spot at some hick gas station. I smoked my last cigarette at Draven's house. “And, to answer your next question, no, I didn't see the shooter. I dropped and covered, and they fled the scene before I could give chase.”

Jacks doesn't say anything. I throw the car in park and kill the engine. I can hear Jacks breathing deeply on the other end of the line. “There goes the star of the show.”

“Don't I know it,” I agree. “Which is why we need to find an understudy. Someone who knows about Vincent's dealings. And we gotta do it fast.”

“I'll get right on it.”

“For the record, Draven tipped me off that Vincent was into the prostitution racket as well.”

“Good to know.”

“And, by the way, you may want to have a talk with the Mohican from last night. Draven knew I was coming and he fingered that bastard as the root cause.”

“It's so hard to find good help these days,” Jacks grumbles. “I'll be sure to pay him a visit.”

“Call me if you come up with anything.” Jacks hangs up before I finish my sentence. He didn't really need to hear me say it. Old habits die hard. Shit. I gotta get me a cigarette. I put my hand on the door handle. My phone rings. I pick it up without looking at it.

“That was fast.”

“Levi, we need to have a meeting ASAP.” It's Chenille.

“I'm getting smokes. I'll meet you at my place in twenty minutes.” I step out of the car.

“Move your ass.” She hangs up. I put the phone back in my pocket and walk into the gas station. The redneck behind the counter doesn't even move from his chair as I enter. I get the feeling that he couldn't get up off his big fat ass even if he wanted to. His hand is stopped halfway between a bag of pork rinds and his mouth and his head is cocked as he listens to the monotone news reporter on the beat-up stereo sitting on the back counter. I'm sure pork bellies are up. This guy probably just hit it rich.

“Pack of smokes,” I say, pointing to the Parliaments. The hick blinks his eyes, realizing that I'm standing at the counter. The pork rind in his hand finishes the trip to his mouth before he hauls himself out of his chair to get the smokes for me. At least I know now where I can go if I ever need to turn a quick buck. I could rob this place blind before he even knew I was here. He moves sluggishly toward the register and rings up the cigarettes. I slap a five on the counter. He still barely knows I'm here. His attention is glued to the radio. He digs in the drawer and hands me my change.

“Thanks,” I say over my shoulder as I'm walking out the front door. He's already back to his chair. I open the driver's-side door and slide behind the wheel, placing a cigarette between my lips. I start the engine as I fire up the cigarette. I look into my rearview mirror to back up. My hand drops to my gun when I see the blue eyes staring back at me.

“There will be no need for that, Mr. Maurice.”

I relax a little and I put my hand on the headrest of the passenger seat as I turn around to look in the backseat.

“I guess you weren't lying when you said you'd find me.”

Not Too Long After

I pull over at the nearest rest stop and kill the engine. A black sedan pulls in behind me. Veronica hasn't said anything since she told me to drive. She's still silent as we sit in the motionless car. I'm starting to get irritated. This girl definitely knows how to push my buttons.

“Okay, I give,” I say, breaking the quiet. “What's going on?”

“You are in grave danger, Mr. Maurice,” Veronica starts.

I don't have time for this. I cut her off. “No shit.”

“If you'd please let me finish.”

I wave my hand, allowing her to go on. She nods and lights a cigarette before continuing. “As I was saying, you are in grave danger. There are a great many people who want to spill your blood.”

“Can we cut to the chase?” I ask, my patience wearing thinner with each passing second. “I've got an appointment to keep.”

“Mr. Maurice, I came to you in the beginning for two reasons.” Veronica has decided to ignore me altogether. “The first being that I needed your help. The second being . . . that you needed mine.”

She pauses, whether for effect or to allow me the chance to say some smart-assed comment, I'm not sure. I keep my mouth shut regardless. Now I'm intrigued.

“I need you to find my sister.”

The intrigue wears off quickly. I press the back of my head into the headrest. “Look, lady, I'm sure your sister means the world to you, but I have got a truckload of shit to deal with and the hits just keep on coming. You wanna know what my advice is for you? Put her face on a milk carton, and when she does finally wind up back at your doorstep, keep your fucking eye on her.”

“It has come to pass, Mr. Maurice, that the help I need and the help you need can both be provided with one fell swoop. The answer to both of our needs comes from the job that I need to enlist your services for.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“Simply put, Mr. Maurice, my sister can provide you with the answers you're looking for.”

“Okay, how about a starting point? Something I can work off of?” I ask, feeling the irritation growing deep within my organs. It's becoming a full fledged disease. “Maybe a name?”

“My sister's name is Maise.”

Instinctually, I start to come back with some smart-assed remark but stop. Maise. She was the one who happened to need protection just before Vincent got whacked. If Maise had been working for Vincent, then she could give me some answers. Even if she couldn't, she'd at least be able to direct me to the right people to talk to.

“Find my sister, Mr. Maurice,” she tells me. “Find her and bring her to me. I want her back.”

“You got any leads?” I ask. Finding a runaway girl is far easier said than done. She's hiding, that much is for sure, but Lord knows where. If I were in her shoes, I would be too.

Veronica shakes her head and puts her cigarette out in the ashtray on the door. “I have complete faith that you'll be able to locate her, Mr. Maurice,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I'm sure you've found worse creatures hiding under rocks before.” Without another word, she gets out of the car and moves, like a shadow, to the sedan behind us. She disappears into the backseat. The sedan drives away.

I rub my temples. Great. Now, all I have to do is find a missing girl, get her to squeal, find the killer for the Asian, turn him in, and my life goes back to normal. I reach to the passenger seat for the rum.

Time to get cracking.

Almost an Hour Later

Chenille is waiting in front of my apartment as I pull into a spot. I rub the bridge of my nose. What a fucking morning. This is why I don't get up early. Too much time for shit to go down. I grab the rum and step out of the Lincoln. Chenille immediately starts in on me.

“What the fuck, Levi? What the fuck? Twenty minutes? It's been an hour!” I slam the car door and point at her. She stops her flapping jaw instantly. Wow. That's never worked before. Apparently I must look as crazy as I feel. I step past her and open the door to my building. We walk in silence up the stairs to my apartment.

“What's so urgent?” I ask as I set the rum on my kitchen counter.

“I got some news on this so-called ‘Megan Basset' character,” she says.

I shake my head. “Megan is no longer our main concern.” I have to be abrupt. I can tell by the look on Chenille's face, combined with the pulsating vein in her neck, that she doesn't want to be silenced right now. I don't particularly care at this point. “I got another visit from the mint green envelope fairy. She placed some good advice in my hands.”

I give Chenille the rundown on my meeting with Veronica. Chenille still doesn't seem happy about having to leave a good lead behind, but at least she doesn't seem so eager to explode. I pour us both drinks.

“I need you to find out as much as you can about Maise for me.”

Chenille nods as she sips the rum. “Do you have a last name?”

I shake my head. “No, but I can get you one if you need it.”

Chenille nods again. We drink in silence, both of us turning the gears in our heads full tilt. Finally, Chenille sets her glass down. “Do you want to hear the news I got about Basset?”

In all honesty, I don't want to hear any news about any girl ever again for as long as I live. Right now, I just want to make sure that I don't wind up with my head in a vice. I'm about to say no, but curiosity gets the best of me. I polish off what's left in my glass and pour in some more. “What have you got?”

Chenille clears her throat. “‘Megan Basset' . . . and keep in mind, I'm only using that name so we're both on the same page . . .”

I wish she had a fast forward button. I wave at her to continue. I would've yelled at her to get on with it, but I had the glass up to my lips already. At this point, drinking seems more urgent than shouting.

“‘Megan Basset' is apparently at the gym constantly,” Chenille continues. “She pals around with whatever asshole works at the front desk and I hear from a source that she's been spotted having in-depth conversations with Bruiser himself.”

“That makes no sense at all.”

“I had a feeling you'd say that and I agree completely.”

“Whatever sources you went to must have the wrong girl,” I tell her, but the knot that's forming in my belly seems to disagree with me.

Chenille raises her hands. “I'm just conveying the information I received from my sources, Levi,” she tells me. “That's sources, plural. I talked to five different people.”

I set my glass down hard. “What were they talking about?” I'm starting to see red. Not so much because I'm angry, which I am, but more because I can't seem to wrap my head around what Chenille is telling me. If Megan isn't who she says she is, then who the fuck is she?

“No one seemed to know, or if they did know, no one was willing to discuss it with me.” Chenille picks up her glass. “I could dig in further if you want me to, but—”

“No,” I tell her. “I want you to concentrate on the Maise thing.”

“That's what I figured.” She polishes off her drink in a single gulp and moves to the door. “Which is fine. That seems more important to me at the present time. I gotta get going.”

She exits the room with a wave. I remain seated in my chair. Luna jumps in my lap. I scratch her behind the ears and light up a cigarette. This is getting fucked up. I gotta get to the bottom of this.

My gut tells me something is rotten and I intend to find out what it is. I pull out my cell phone and punch in Megan's number.

A Couple Hours Later

The phone conversation with Megan doesn't stir up any wasps. It's the same old bullshit. Talk about her day, about how work went, about what she's been up to. She asks if I want to meet up for dinner at the little joint on the corner near my house. We agree on seven and I hang up the phone. No new information, no new leads. I look at my clock. I got a couple hours to get some things accomplished with the Maise thing. If I can get that under control, maybe I can focus on Megan. Jacks should be home by now. Maybe he's got something for me.

I stand from my chair and grab my .45 off the kitchen counter. I scratch Luna under the chin before I make my way down to Jacks's apartment. The light in the hallway has stopped flickering. Now the hallway is masked in shadow. I'm not entirely sure which is worse. I bang on the door, pause, and bang again. No response. I bang again, harder. Must be working overtime. No answers yet. Great. I take my smokes out of my pocket and fish one out. I'm already down to a half a pack since this morning. I need to get more. I'll walk to the store. Maybe the fresh air will clear my mind, open up a new set of options. I doubt it, but it's worth a shot.

I push open the hallway door and walk down the stairs and outside. I light up a cigarette as soon as I'm outdoors. I've got time to kill before I have to meet up with Megan; I figure I'll take the long way to the store. I need a change of scenery. As I near the corner, some asshole stops his brand new Porsche directly in the crosswalk. I have half a mind to pull him from the car, get behind the wheel, and drive away, leaving all of this shit behind me for good as soon as it fades out in the rearview mirror. That would take care of the change of scenery. That would take care of a lot. I'm pretty sure I could get away with it. I know all the tricks. They'd never even know where to start looking for me. But it seems like a lot of work. I'm not up for running. Instead of pulling the yuppie out of the shiny foreign car, I stop on the sidewalk to admire the shimmering paint job.

And to get a better glimpse at the asshole that's trailing me.

He's half a block away, walking up behind me. I commit his looks to memory as quickly as I can before the Porsche peels out. I cross the street and turn the corner, keeping my stride natural. He's a muscle head, no doubt about that. Probably six three, 220 pounds, give or take. Short hair, sunglasses. Even with his Ray-Bans on, I could tell he was staring at me. He had his hand in his coat pocket. He's come gunning.

I walk like I normally would. I don't want the bastard to know I'm onto him. Not yet. That would take all the fun out of it. This guy is your stereotypical amateur. He's making all the amateur mistakes, but he thinks he's brilliant. As long as I keep him thinking that, there won't be any problems. I listen to his footsteps. He's moving up, he thinks he's got the drop on me. I focus more intently on his footsteps. He's about ten feet behind me. I flick the cigarette aside, look at my watch, and pick up my pace a little. He steps it up a notch as well.

I duck into the first alley I pass. As soon as I round the corner, I flatten myself up against the wall. This is going to be simple. The bastard comes around the corner, pulling his pistol from his jacket. He thinks I'm going to be an easy mark.

I lunge and catch him off guard. One hand wraps around his wrist, keeping the gun at bay. I use my momentum to slam his body into the brick wall on the other side of the alley. I crack his hand against the wall a few times. The pistol clatters to the ground, out of sight, out of mind, and, most importantly, out of reach. I don't even give him the option to register what's going on. I palm his head like a basketball and dribble it into the wall. I stop when I hear what sounds like a beetle under a boot heel. I release him and he topples forward into the wall, oozing down the bricks, leaving a sluglike trail of blood on his descent.

I pat him down once he hits the ground and sift through his pockets. I come up with a losing scratch-and-win lottery ticket, a decrepit, sealed condom, seven dollars in singles, and a gym membership. I don't even bother reading the name on the card. His name doesn't matter. I know he's one of Bruiser's guys. I pocket the singles and the membership card.

“Smokes are on you.”