Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (2 page)

Noon

I wake because Luna is meowing again. It sounds like she's screaming into a bullhorn. I feel like a Mack truck ran over my skull.

I pick up my head and look at the clock. Lunchtime. As good a time as any to get out of bed and start the day. Anyway, Luna wants her breakfast. Looks like she'll have to settle for lunch. I wonder how long she's been sitting here meowing at me. I decide that it's been long enough and I roll out of bed.

My neck hurts and so does my lower back. I pause as I'm opening the refrigerator, looking down at my boxers, knowing that I only awaken with pains like this after a night of—

My senses kick in and I hear the shower running. The pain makes sense suddenly, though I don't have any recollection of anyone stopping by. I have no idea who's in my shower. Let's just hope she's attractive.

Let's hope she's not playing for the other team.

After I finish feeding Luna, I go back to my bed. I lift the mattress and remove my drop piece. I check it. Silencer intact, fully loaded. I pull on my dirty blue jeans, socks, and Chucks. I have to be dressed for the occasion. I creep toward the bathroom door, hand outstretched. My fingers gently caress the doorknob and I ease it open. I look in the mirror to catch a glimpse of the figure in the shower. I can barely judge by the distorted image through the shower door—but I'm impressed.

I move further into the bathroom. I reach out and slide the shower door open quickly, my gun trained on whoever's in there. Just give me a reason. The female in the shower turns toward me, unsurprised. She continues lathering her naked body with the soap, not bothering to hide the curves of her dripping breasts. She raises an eyebrow.

“Unless you intend to shoot me, stop aiming that thing,” she tells me, motioning toward the gun. She closes her eyes and rinses her hair. I lower my gun to my side and lean against the sink to watch her. Natalie is a firecracker. I wish it had been somebody else in my shower.

Natalie used to be my “word on the street” dame. She was a working girl informant on a job I worked a few years back and we hit it off. Shortly thereafter, she hit a run of bad luck and lost her apartment. I offered to let her stay with me and she jumped on it in a heartbeat. It wasn't that bad to start out with. She cooked and cleaned and there was a body to sleep next to at night. The problems started later. When we started getting too close to one another. There was no way that the two of us would've ever connected on any level other than purely physical if we hadn't been living together. With her line of work, I knew this for a fact. I'd been down that road countless times. It was a vicious cycle I knew I couldn't keep my jealousy at bay. There were bound to be too many fights. Fights between her and me Fights between me and random nameless Joes. The problem is, when you live with someone long enough, sometimes relationships just happen. So I called it quits. She went her way and I went mine. Now, we only have contact when I have job related questions that need answers. Usually regarding pimps or working girls. Then there are times like these. Times when it's nothing more than a meaningless roll in the hay. If she happens to be in the area and happens to have nobody lined up for the evening, she comes here. Most of the time, when she shows up unannounced, I'm too drunk to tell her no. Last night was apparently one of those times.

“How'd you get in?” I growl in my harsh morning voice. She wipes water from her face, back arched, eyes closed.

“Through the front door,” she retorts. I cross my arms over my chest. It's too early in the morning for fun and games. It's far too early in the morning for Natalie.

“How'd you get in?” I ask again.

She opens her eyes and glares at me coldly. “I had forgotten exactly how cheerful you are in the morning,” she snaps. “I still have a key.” She shuts the water off; water drips down her smooth skin. I stand motionless, my arms across my chest, taking it all in. She may be a pain in the ass but she is great to look at.

“What time did you come in?” I ask.

Natalie shrugs. “Three or four, maybe. Hand me a towel.”

I grab one off the rack and hand it to her, knowing full well that this signals the end of the peep show. She covers up her body and steps from the bathtub, motioning toward the door. I nod, pushing off the basin with my hips. I move through the door and she shuts it behind me.

“I'll be out in two minutes,” she informs me through the closed door. I nod again and then, realizing she can't see me do so, I think about some sort of smart-assed verbal response. Before I can deliver my witty comeback, I see the mint stationery on my nightstand. I make my way to the chair, slide into it, and pick up the letter. I could call the number now, see who needs my help. If my life was easy, they wouldn't need it anymore. I pick up my phone, knowing full well that this is never the case. As I dial the first two digits I hear footsteps pounding down the hall. I hate my neighbors. They're always loud and obnoxious.

As I dial the third and fourth digits I realize that the footsteps have stopped but there was no slam of my neighbor's door. Shit. I haven't even had breakfast yet. I hang up the phone and set it, along with the letter, down beside me.

I'm in the process of getting out of my chair when the door flies open with a mixture of dust and particles. I don't even have time to think about it. I raise up the gun that's still in my hand as the first two attackers come through the door. I pull the trigger twice and they fall, hard. They weren't expecting me to be ready. The third guy is smart and he ducks as I squeeze off another round. It parts his hair down the center and lodges into the wall behind him. He opens fire from his crouching position on the floor and I manage to dodge his shots by diving into the kitchen. Not hit yet. I tug open the drawer above me and spill the contents onto the linoleum floor. The knife drawer. I pick up the first knife my fingers touch and I'm on my feet, standing at the corner of the kitchen, just inside the doorway. I only get one chance. It's him or me. Here we go.

I wheel around the corner and hurl the knife, firing two more rounds as I do. The knife goes end over end, spinning toward the guy in the doorway. The bullet reaches him first and his head comes off in a fine spray of blood and skull. The knife keeps spiraling and it lands dead on in the throat of the next man who comes through the door. As he falls, the second bullet grazes his arm, pulling through the skin and coming to a final rest in the chest of the man that was standing behind him. He sprays the room with bullets as he falls to his knees. I feel the lead tear through the flesh of my arm. I spin and the room spirals out before my eyes. Jesus, how many of them are there?

I stop myself, midspin, to see three more people coming through the door, guns poised and ready. I lunge behind my bullet-riddled armchair. Those sons of bitches.

The person in front opens fire. My legs are burning, I can smell copper, and I'm pissed when I see the insides of my chair float through the air and land on my lap. I grit my teeth and lunge toward the goons, knocking the remnants of my chair to one side. The three guys aren't expecting me to rocket across the room at them. I can see their eyes go wide with surprise. They must be used to dealing with easy targets. Amateurs. I'm on the front guy in a split second and I knock him into the two behind him. The four of us topple backward out the doorway and into the hall. I hear a gun clatter to the floor. I hope it's not mine. I reach up and my fingers find their way into the inside of the guy's mouth. I grab hold of his cheek and pull it to the side as hard as I can until I can hear it tear. I can feel the blood trickling down my fingers. I raise my gun and jam it under his chin. I pull the trigger and the top of his skull erupts like Mount St. Helens. I roll off to my left and pull the trigger. The bullet finds one of the men on the floor. One goon left.

“Suck on this, asshole.” I pull the trigger a second time and I'm answered with a resounding click. Great. I'm out of ammo.

The final goon is able to pull himself to his feet and he's trying to run. I'm faster than he is and I'm on top of him before he knows what's happening. He's a lot stronger than I expected and he tosses me like a beanbag into the wall. I hear a thud and the hallway starts to spin. I'm disoriented but I have to fight back. He goes for the gun and starts to raise his hand to finish me off. I can't see straight but I propel myself forward anyway. I hope I'm headed in the right direction.

I connect with his solar plexus and the goon lets out a groan as he gives me a good hard thump between the shoulder blades. I roar in pain. A white light starts creeping into the corner of my vision. I can't let the pain get inside. Gotta fight through it. I push the blinding white ache aside and stand up straight. I look the goon in the eyes. His pupils are dilated. He's afraid of me. Good.

I move in like a mongoose and sink my teeth into his cheek. It may not be proper conduct, but it catches him off guard and he drops his weapon. Last chance. My hands move to his throat and my thumb finds his Adam's apple. I squeeze until I hear a pop like a balloon animal. The goon gurgles and spasms. Then he goes limp. It's over. I get to see another day. Good for me.

I lean against the wall and reach into the pocket of my jeans. My cigarettes are still there. I take one out and look at it. It's bent but still smokable. The day is starting to look up. I reach into my other pocket for my lighter and put the smoke between my lips. I fire it up and take a deep drag. As I exhale, I look down at the wound in my arm. It's bleeding, but it's not bad. Only hit flesh. I walk back inside just as the bathroom door is opening. Natalie steps out wearing a black evening dress. I can only assume that she was wearing that when she arrived last night. Either that or she has a high-class client early this afternoon. She looks around at the bloody mess before her. I can see that she's unimpressed. She saw worse when she was living with me. She never liked my line of work. It made for more that she had to clean up.

“I can't leave you alone for two minutes,” she scolds. I don't even care at this point. I'm still breathing. At least enough to smoke. At this particular moment, the only thing that matters to me is the cigarette that is slowly dying between my fingertips. That, and not getting any of my own blood on the carpet. I reach out, grab a kitchen towel off the counter, and wrap it around my flesh wound. I'm rather enjoying watching Natalie look disgusted by me, but I know I have to get down to the business at hand. I survey the room before looking at the clock. Twelve thirty-two. Jacks should be home by now.

“Are you leaving?” I ask Natalie, flat out, so there can be no confusion, as I bend over to pick her underwear up off the floor. I hold them out to her with the tip of my finger. She snatches them away.

“Yeah, I'm leavin',” she says, picking up her purse and stuffing the undergarments in. I smile and grab my shirt from my futon.

“I have to get this mess cleaned up.”

She nods and steps carefully over the bodies of the goons to get out the door. She stumbles a little when her shoes catch a bit of fresh blood and she digs the heel of one of her pumps into the meaty portion of one of their hands. The owner of the hand lets out a soft groan. Natalie looks back over her shoulder at me.

“This one still has a pulse,” she says. I walk up behind her and put my hand on her hip to hold myself steady as I lean down close to the guy's face. Both of his cheeks are still intact. I was really hoping this was going to be the guy who shot up my chair.

“I'll be right back for you, my friend,” I whisper, “and we'll have ourselves a nice little chat.” I slap him twice on his cheek to make sure he's awake and alert. “Don't you go dying on me.”

I follow Natalie through the doorway and we walk toward the end of the hallway. As we pass my neighbors' apartment, I notice that the door is ajar. I push it open with a gentle ease that would've made a jungle cat jealous and peer inside. Empty. Completely empty. Apparently they decided to skip out. Probably for the best, all things considered. It was only the two of us on the third floor. At least that means there are no witnesses. That's a load off my back. Going to be an even bigger load off Jacks's back. If my neighbor had been there, that would've been another body Jacks would've had to clean up. I got enough blood on my hands already for one day and I did it all before I had my first drink.

I tug my shirt on as Natalie and I walk down a flight of stairs to the second level, wincing just a bit as it passes over my makeshift bandage. She turns and looks at me as we reach the top of the second flight of stairs.

“This is my stop,” I tell her, jerking a thumb toward the doorway.

“Yeah, I know.” She moves in quick and sticks her tongue in my mouth. I draw her near to me and return the favor. We pull away from each other and she makes her way down the stairs to the front door. Just before she exits, she turns to wink at me. “Maybe I'll swing by tonight.”

“Maybe,” I retort, and watch her walk away. As the door shuts behind her, I open my hand and twirl the single brass key on a daffodil key chain. “But it's doubtful, since you don't have this anymore.” She forgets that I have to be sly in my profession. I smile and put the key into my pocket where it belongs before I open the door to the second floor hallway.

Quarter to One

The light bulb in the hallway on the second floor is on the verge of committing suicide. Its obnoxious flickering is enough to give me a headache. I have to make this fast or I know that I'll puke. I raise my fist at the first doorway in the hall and bang three times, pause, and bang another two.

Jacks is a cop. He's crooked and he's crazy and he's an alcoholic, but he knows the score. If anyone can help me clean up the mess I made and rid myself of six bodies, it's a crooked, crazy man with a badge. He's always available to help me out in a pinch. A real stand-up guy. A good guy to have on your side in any sort of fight.

Jacks and I met a few years back. We had seen each other around the apartment complex. Neither one of us knew nor cared what the other one did for a living. At that point, the extent of our acknowledgment of one another was a nod or a simple hello as we passed each other in the hallways. That all changed one night when we happened to run into each other at a dive bar we both frequented at different times and different days. We struck up a conversation and things were going along great guns. We didn't know until later on, while we were having a Mexican standoff in the alley behind the bar, that we were both there on business. I had seen a deadbeat gambler that had some information I needed for a job. Little did I know that, while I was putting a bead on the bastard, Jacks was doing the same thing because the deadbeat had outstanding warrants. When I excused myself to use the pisser, I met up with the deadbeat in the back hallway and shoved him out the door to rough him up. While I was doing that, Jacks had removed himself from the bar to check the perimeter for the same guy. He found me in the alleyway with my .45 pressed into the deadbeat's eye. Jacks trained his service piece on me and made me drop my weapon. While we were busy trying to understand how we had gotten into this predicament, the deadbeat managed to get his grubby paws on my gun. He tried to take a shot at Jacks, but I shoved Jacks out of the way just in time. I took a bullet to the shoulder because of that, but it was worth it. It kept me out of jail and I wound up with a lifelong comrade.

I hear footsteps moving toward the door from inside. There are no peepholes, so guys like me and Jacks have to take our chances when we answer a knock. I hear the dead bolt slide open and the door handle begins to turn slowly. Then the door tears open. I now have a cold steel barrel pressed against my right eyeball.

“You feeling up to a challenge, Jacks?” I ask. The gun barrel doesn't bother me. I answer my door the same way, if I bother to answer it at all.

Jacks lowers the gun and extends a hand. I grasp it and we shake. He motions for me to step inside. I shake my head. “No, man, you better follow me. I made quite the mess this morning.”

“Lemme grab my jacket,” Jacks grumbles. I can tell he hasn't had his first elixir of the day either. Jacks and I seem to be cast from the same mold. The only real difference is the side of the law we're on. Once you get past the title, our jobs are pretty much the same. Which is exactly why we have to help each other out. Like I said, he knows the score. Hell, we both do.

Jacks steps over the woman lying under the blanket on the floor. Jacks isn't ever looking for the right girl, he's looking for the “right now” girl. Apparently, he found her last night. All I can see is a nice set of legs and the smooth skin of her back. She has a tattoo of angel wings but I get the feeling that they're supposed to be ironic. He grabs his jacket off the lamp and tugs it on, stepping over the woman again on his way back to the door. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a nameless fifth of something. He brings it to his lips and takes a long drink. He extends the bottle to me. I accept it gladly and I feel like a baby suckling at its mother's teat. My body is filled with joy as the unknown liquor warms my throat and moves down toward my toes. This makes any day good to be alive. I hand the bottle back to Jacks.

“Hey,” he says to the woman on the floor, “I want you gone by the time I get back. This is our good-bye. Hit the bricks.”

“Fuck off, prick,” comes the muffled, half-asleep response. Jacks flips her off and closes the door behind him. “Fuckin' broads.”

“You're telling me.”

“So, what'd you do this time?” Jacks asks. He doesn't sound surprised. He knows that this is nothing more than routine.

“I killed people,” I tell him. “I killed a lot of people.”

He nods. “How many is a lot?”

“Six.”

“Six?”

“Technically five,” I revise. “Six is a foreshadow.”

“One of the guys upstairs is still alive?”

“He was as of five minutes ago.”

“How long do you think that'll stick?”

“Depends on how cooperative he is.”

“What happened?” You can tell Jacks is a cop from the never-ending barrage of questions. I only choose to answer them because I know they won't incriminate me.

“Six guys came in like gangbusters and tried to ambush me. One shot up my chair,” I explain. “So I took care of them.”

“I'm hoping that the chair wasn't your only reason for taking them out,” Jacks replies, “because that chair was revolting.”

“I loved that chair.”

“What about the one that's still alive?”

“What about him?”

“What are you going to do about him?”

“I figured I'd get some information out of him.”

I open the door at the top of the stairway and we enter the hallway. Jacks glances down and steps over the bodies strewn about the floor as he walks to the doorway of my apartment. He looks inside and clicks his tongue at me. “I thought you had a challenge for me, Levi. This is a cakewalk, pure and simple.”

He takes his phone from his belt and starts punching numbers.

“I'll make a few calls and this'll be cleaned up. Bodies gone, walls spotless, carpet brand new. Gimme twenty minutes and it'll be like this never happened.” That's why I keep this guy around.

“I knew you could do it.” I clap him on the back.

He shrugs. “Have I ever let you down?”

I enter the apartment as Jacks makes his phone calls. I find the goon who's still alive. He's breathing heavy and his eyes are pleading with me. For what, I'm not sure, but I don't particularly care. I glance over at what's left of my overturned chair. I can't help but scowl.

“What happened in here,” I say, turning back to the goon, “that's as pleasant as it's going to be.” The goon squeezes his eyes shut as I step over him to get my bag of tricks. I find the duct tape under the kitchen sink. My toolbox is on the counter. That should do the trick. I grab the goon, slap a strip of tape over his mouth, and heave him across my shoulder.

“You may want to send one of your guys downstairs before they leave,” I tell Jacks as I walk by. He gives me a thumbs-up. I start through the back door of the hallway, then pause and turn back toward Jacks. “And see if you can do something to save my chair.”

Jacks rolls his eyes. “Levi, let the chair go.”

“I love that chair.”

“I know you do,” Jacks says. “I'm not promising anything, but I'll see what I can do.”

I nod my gratitude and continue through the door. I can feel the goon start to convulse on my shoulder.

“Probably should've run this scenario through your mind first, huh, hotshot?”