Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (20 page)

“Asshole,” I mutter through my swollen lip. I turn to head back into the ensuing battle in the gym. Instead of seeing the gym doorway, I walk straight into the barrel of a gun. Megan holds the cold steel against my cheek. With the spatters of blood across her face and clothes, she looks something like a Dalmatian from hell. She curls back her lips in a menacing grin.

“Whatever else happens, Levi,” she snarls, “at least I'll know that you got yours.” I hear the click as the hammer is pulled back.

Then comes the gunshot.

I've never been shot in the face before. I don't know what to expect.

There's no pain. My face doesn't feel any different. I don't have a headache. I assume that death was instantaneous. Thank God for small victories, I suppose.

Then I feel the gun barrel slip off of my cheek. It lands on the floor. Megan stares at me with wide eyes. Her smile starts to fade. Blood bubbles up on her lips and slowly trickles down the sides of her mouth. She tries to say something. I have no idea what it is. She slowly crumples to a heap on the floor at my feet. I look down at her, not quite sure what the hell just happened. My eyes meander back to the shadowy figure standing behind where Megan had been just seconds before. It's clutching its shoulder. Smoke is still billowing from the gun.

“How's that song go?” Chenille asks. “‘Little sister don't miss when she aims her gun'?” I'm at a loss for words so I just nod. I hear the sounds of sirens coming from a distance. Apparently Jacks did call for backup. Nice of them to be on time.

“That was exciting.”

“I told you there was something rotten about her,” Chenille reminds me as I cross the floor and stand next to her. I place a cigarette between my battered lips and fire it up.

“We all gotta be right sometime,” I retort. “Let's go see if one of those punctual cops can take a look at that shoulder.”

A Few Days After

“I thought you hated places like this.”

“I do, but I don't really have a choice, do I?” Chenille, arm in a sling, sips her coffee and glances around the big-box coffee shop. “Don't worry, though, this place won't be standing very much longer.”

I lean back in my chair. “Just do me a favor and promise me that, when the revolution does come, you'll allow smoking in coffeehouses again.” I could really go for a cigarette right about now. It's too bad that everyplace in the world has banned smoking. Apparently, places like this can only allow one addictive substance on the premises at a time. I suppose I can fight the urge to smoke for a few more minutes. “What happened to the Triad of Vengeance, anyway?”

Chenille shrugs. “To be perfectly honest, I don't really know. After I got shot, everything was a blur. All I know is that, when we went back in, after all was said and done, the Asian and Veronica were nowhere to be found. Granted, I didn't check all of the bodies. . . .”

“I did,” I tell her. “They weren't there.”

“Ah, you always did have a knack for the macabre.” Chenille glances at her watch. “Shit. I gotta get a move on.” She slams the remainder of her coffee, stands up, and tosses the cup into a nearby garbage can. I grab her bag and away we go.

“Let me know if you hear anything about them,” she tells me as she adjusts her sling. I nod.

“I will.”

I help Chenille situate her bag on her good shoulder. “If I had known how heavy this damned thing was, I would've never offered to carry it. I thought you traveled light, sis. What the hell do you have in there?”

“Only the bare essentials.”

“My ass.” I check the terminal, waiting to see if someone's tailing me. No one's there. That's a relief. I check my watch. Chenille's plane should start boarding in about fifteen minutes. “Seriously, sis, I wish you would move back here,” I tell her. She gives me a one-armed hug.

“We'll see,” she replies. “I have a couple of jobs that I have to take care of back home. Then, maybe I'll consider it.” She moves off toward her plane.

“Stay out of trouble,” I call after her.

“Lay off the cigarettes.” With a small wave, she disappears around the corner and she's on her way back to New York. I walk to the parking lot, pausing briefly to light up as soon as I reach the outside world. I'm glad that things can finally return to some semblance of order. It'll be nice to get back to being the one doing the killing. I walk toward my car, pulling my keys out. No more having to look over my shoulder everywhere I go. No more having to do other people's dirty work for no pay. No more random attacks. No more mint green envelopes.

Aside from the one sitting on the driver's seat of my car.

I stare down at the envelope. The bottom is slowly dropping out of my previous thought process. What the hell is this one going to be? Levi, my sister's been nabbed again? Levi, the Asian has me held hostage? Levi, my shoes are the wrong size? Levi, my kitten is stuck in a fucking tree? I should just light it on fire and pretend I didn't even see it.

Instead, I tear it open and read the single line of cursive writing:

Levi, Thank you for your help.

Thank God.

The Hour-Long Drive Is Over

As the key hits the lock on the front door, I toss what's left of my cigarette aside. All I want to do now is make my way up the two flights of stairs, pop two painkillers, and fall asleep on my futon while scratching Luna behind the ears. My face is healing, so I don't have to worry about icing it down tonight. I can change my bandages in the morning.

Or in the afternoon when I finally roll out of bed.

I got a big day ahead of me tomorrow. Tomorrow, I start looking for Campbell. It's high time he got his. Especially in regards to recent events.

The door closes behind me. I make my way up the first set of stairs like a sloth on downers. I'm just about to put my foot on the first step of the second flight when the hall door opens behind me.

“Levi,” Jacks says, already rushing down the stairs. He doesn't even stop to see if I respond. I back up to look down the stairway after him. He's already pushing open the front door. “I need your assistance.”

So much for collapsing on my futon.

Two
A.M.
Again

We're standing in the rough part of town and the streets are quiet.

Apparently, the streets are always quiet at two in the morning.

No one's around aside from me and Jacks and the dead body on the pavement between us. The mass of brain tissue coming out the frontal exit wound looks a bit like oatmeal. He's still got a burning cigarette held between his fingers. He hasn't been dead for long. Obviously, he wasn't expecting it.

“This guy's old man is a former cop,” Jacks informs me. “Buddy of mine.” I can already hear what's coming next, though the words haven't even left his mind yet. I lean down and take the cigarette from between the dead guy's fingers. I give it a once-over. Not my usual brand, but I left mine in the car. I ash it and take a drag.

“Go ahead and ask.”

“Levi, I need you to do me a favor.”

The cigarette smoke engulfs my head like a makeshift halo. I'm probably never going to see a real one, so I'll take what I can get. The wheel keeps right on spinning around. I get the feeling my hands are gonna get dirty.

“What do you need me to do?”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

This piece took several years to write and I wouldn't have been able to complete it without the help of several very important people. Thanks to fantastic fellow author and only regular member of what became our two-person writing circle, Nick Ostdick, who let me talk through every single idea I came up with over the course of about two years. Thanks to Andrew Hawes, Dan Henderson, Eva Litera, Kristen Nowak, and the rest of the Misfit Toys, as well as my former neighbor Chris Bertello, for letting me do my dramatic readings of my story as it progressed and for wanting more each time I concluded. Special thanks to fellow writers Theresa Schwegel, Laura Caldwell, Marcus Sakey, and Gillian Flynn for taking the time out of your busy schedules to talk to me about the writing process and for being prime examples of people who never gave up on their dreams, something that kept my own creative flame burning. Extremely huge amounts of gratitude need to be bestowed upon another extraordinary author, Monica McInerney, for not only offering an endless supply of assistance when I came to the point where I was lost at sea and for taking a chance on this small town bookseller. Thank you for introducing me to a wonderful editor, Maura McInerney, who didn't make me cry during my first foray into editing, and my fantastic agent, Grainne Fox , who has been nothing but the absolute best as she led me through the jungle of the publishing industry and has kept my best interest at the foreground. Finally, I want to especially thank my wonderful fiancée, Katie, for never letting me give up on my dreams and for being there beside me every step of the way, and my son, August, for showing me what life is really all about. Thank you everyone!

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Josh K. Stevens's short stories have been published in
RAGAD, Boston Literary Magazine, The Woodstock Independent, 55 Words,
and
decomP.
A nonfiction piece was published in
The Great Lakes Reader.
He presently resides in northern Illinois with his wife, their son, and two cats, where he is currently hard at work on his second novel.