Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (8 page)

Friday Night, Quarter till Ten

As I walk into Gold Note, two guys stumble out the front door and into the street. I watch in amusement at their fighting style. It's all wrong. They fight too clean. It loses its appeal quickly, and I enter the bar. It's busy, even for a Friday. I walk up to the bar to get a drink.

My wounds are feeling fine now. Vicodin works wonders. Especially when it's coupled with rum. Every so often there's a pain, but it's nothing I can't handle at this point. I just needed a few days to let it heal up. Tip-top condition. No one knows the difference. I slap a five on the bar.

“Rum and Coke.” The bartender moves fast and I have a drink in my hand. Good service in this place. I pull an extra bill out of my pocket and set it on the counter. Now I get to play the waiting game. I still have a good fifteen minutes before my appointment. That's enough time to get a couple of drinks. It would be enough time to get a house burger as well, but I'm not all that hungry. Megan made me dinner the last two nights. She came over in the afternoon with two grocery bags full of food. The first night it was pasta, meatballs, and garlic bread. The second night it was chicken. We talked, reminiscing about the old days, and put away a couple bottles of wine. I wasn't entirely sure where the night was going to lead, but when all was said and done, we crawled into bed and spent the rest of the night passionately getting to know each other even better. Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep the last couple nights. Then, she made me breakfast in the morning and we took a shower together before she left. It was a little like playing house. I don't know how I feel about it. She's a great cook, she's fun to talk to, and she's a wildcat in bed. She's making it hard to distance myself. In a way, I don't want to. On the other hand, I have a job that makes having a relationship difficult.

I push Megan out of my thoughts, knowing that I have more important stuff to think about. I turn my attention to the people in the bar and quickly remember why I don't frequent this place. Judging by the pretty paper, I assume I'm looking for a female. That's all I know. At this point, there's not a lot of dames in the bar. I assume that she'll find me when she gets here. She apparently knows who I am. My eyes wander through the bar. There's a shitty band playing on the stage by the front window. The fighting guys who were out front are now gone. The rest of the bar is filled with a crowd of shady characters. All of them lunatic degenerates who are only interested in someone who'll fuck 'em or fight 'em. The majority of the people in here are people that I recognize from one job or another. Some are informants. Some are rats. My eyes focus on a familiar face just behind the Asian guy at the bar. Jacks sees me notice him and he raises his glass a hair. I get up off the barstool to speak to him when a voice comes from behind me.

“Levi Maurice,” it says. “Punctuality is your strong suit, I see.” I turn around and come face to face with a breathtaking broad flanked by two large men.

She wears a low-cut dress; they wear all black. They look out of place in a blue-jean bar. I came in packing heat. I hope it doesn't come down to that. It would be a shame to waste such a beautiful girl. I extend a hand. She shakes her head. Off to a good start. She motions toward the back of the bar and then walks past me. I follow and the two guys bring up the rear. Who am I to argue?

We walk through the dank bar. Jacks subtly sizes us up. Apparently he thinks everything is kosher because he doesn't move from his seat. The barflies stop their chatter as we pass so as to be able to fully concentrate on the hot blonde walking by. I can feel my blood start to boil. I keep my hands away from my guns. If I reach for one now, no good can happen. I don't even know why I feel the jealousy pangs. This dame ain't with me. She's just leading me. But I can't seem to stop staring at her ass. In the dress she's wearing it's like the forbidden fruit. I want to take a bite of it so bad that my mouth is watering.

At the far end of the bar there's a room with sturdy oak doors. The dame stops in the doorway and allows me to enter first, then the guys walk in and one of them closes the door behind us. We're plunged into darkness. I fish around in my pocket in the inky blackness. I find my cigarettes and my lighter and I fire one up to immerse the room in a pale orange glow for a moment. I inhale and put the light out. More darkness. I wait for the girl to pounce. My free hand moves inside my jacket and rests on the butt of my gun. Better to be safe.

Moments go by and then a corner lamp is clicked on. The light is soft. I survey the scenery in the room. Two armchairs; one couch, custom made, leather; a coffee table, also custom made, oak. Seems safe enough. I ease my hand off my gun. The mystery girl sits in one of the chairs, straightening her dress, and she pats the second chair. I sit.

“Sorry I didn't introduce myself amidst the general mayhem that is the bar on a Friday night,” the lady says. “My name is Veronica.” She extends a hand and I shake it. I take a drag off the cigarette and flick the ashes to the floor.

“You already know who I am,” I state, and she smiles like a fox. “So let's get down to the business at hand.”

Veronica motions to one of her boys. I move my hand up to my gun again as the big man approaches, but he sets an ashtray on the table in front of me. Veronica raises her eyebrows. “A little jumpy, aren't we, Mr. Maurice?”

I flick my ash onto the floor again. “Why don't you cut the bullshit and spill it, sister?”

“You want me to ‘spill it'?”

I nod. “I want to know what the deal is with the letters. I want to know why we're here. And I want to know right now.” I accentuate my statement by tapping the arm of the chair. There is a lull. I'm not fond of lulls. Veronica must know this. Either that or she's got a pretty fair idea. She drags the lull out as far as she can. I feel like I'm ready to burst.

“I know a lot more than you would expect, Mr. Maurice,” she says. I ash my cigarette again. She's starting to annoy me.

“Call me Levi.”

“Mr. Maurice will do just fine.” She speaks slowly, tracing an invisible circle on the arm of her chair with her fingertip, as though she doesn't have a care in the world. Maybe she doesn't, but I sure as hell do. After a moment passes, she stops tapping and looks intently into my eyes. “I'm here to help you with your woes.” Another pause. My teeth grind together of their own free will.

“Why?”

“There are two reasons,” she explains. “Number one, because you once did a favor for my sister. You managed to keep her alive. I am very grateful for that.”

I stare at this dame, trying to place her. I have no idea who she is, nor do I have the faintest idea who she's related to. I can't put a name and a face together. I decide to give up for the time being. It doesn't really matter in the general swing of things. What matters is the here and now. In this room. I gotta suck this girl dry of all the information I can.

“Okay,” I start. I figure it's time to change my tactic. I pause to make sure that I'm wording my next sentence correctly. I have to lure her out in the open. I decide to use the straight path. “What do you know?”

Veronica stares at me. It feels like she's looking through me. I've only been here for five minutes and already her mind-fucking is getting to me. I don't know if I can take much more of this. She brings me to the brink, then she moves on. “I know that there are some people out for blood. More precisely, they're out for your blood.”

I can't help but laugh out loud. “Shit, lady, I could've told you that.” Veronica's eyes turn to ice and she clenches her jaw like a bear trap. Fuck. That was the wrong move. I gotta keep my trap shut if I want to figure this thing out. At this point, I need all the help I can get. I raise my hand apologetically. She cocks her head.

“Are you able to figure all of this out on your own?” she asks. She sounds like a schoolmarm. I shake my head.

“I didn't think that you could. That's why I'm here. If you do not wish to listen, Mr. Maurice . . .”

I wave her on. “I apologize. Please, continue.”

“Good.” Veronica nods. “By ‘some people,' I do not mean the gang of thugs that poorly attempted to rough you up in the parking lot a couple days ago. Nor am I referring to the people who came to your home in order to take your head.”

I open my mouth to ask her what the hell she's talking about. Almost immediately I close it again. Best to let her finish.

“These people are being moved about the board by an invisible hand. They are just pawns in an elaborate game,” Veronica continues. “They truly have no personal vendettas against you. To them, you are nothing more than a job. I'm sure you can relate.” She pauses again, this time reaching into her purse. Once again, my hand jumps to my gun. There's a rustling as the guys standing watch at the door move for their weapons. My piece is halfway out of its holster. I pause. The guys at the door follow suit. Veronica's hand emerges from her purse with a tin of mints. I gotta calm down. My hand relaxes and I ease it from within the confines of my jacket. I hold my hand up in the air to let Veronica's boys know that I'm not holding. Veronica doesn't seem to notice. She holds out the open tin of mints, offering me one. I politely shake my head and she places a mint in her own mouth before depositing the tin back in her purse.

“If I were going to kill you, Mr. Maurice,” she states, “I would've done so already.”

She has a point. I nod my head. “Fair enough.”

“To continue,” she says, “the invisible hand is the one you must look out for. It is the hand that wishes to bring you to your knees and extinguish you like a candle flame.” I can't take this anymore. I didn't realize that she was going to speak in riddles. All I want is a fucking name. I lean forward in my chair and slap my hand on the table.

“Who the fuck is it?” I demand. “Who does this invisible hand belong to?”

Veronica stares at me with no attempt to mask her boredom. “I have no name to relay to you at this point, though I do have my suspicions. Do you have anyone you suspect wants you dead?”

I close my eyes and lean back in my chair. I'm a contract killer. Of course there are people that want to rub me out. A lot of people. Probably somewhere in the upper triple digits. I've killed a lot of people and left a lot of people alive who have vengeance dripping like venom from their fangs. Shit, half the people in the bar probably want me dead. I can't entirely blame them. I reopen my eyes and shake my head. “No one name comes to mind.”

The crash of a pint glass being dropped to the floor in the bar floats through the doors. Without the slightest hint of hesitation, Veronica stands from her chair and the two men move toward the back door of the room.

“There is a lot we need to discuss, but I fear that our time here is about to be cut short, Mr. Maurice,” Veronica says as one of the guys opens the back door. “You must find out who would want you dead. Kill or be killed, as it were.” Veronica walks to the doorway and turns to face me.

“There is a compartment in the back right corner of this room. It'll take you through the wall and up to the roof,” she tells me, pointing toward the corner nearest the lamp. “I suggest you use it fast. We'll be in touch, Mr. Maurice.” She exits the room and closes the door behind her.

I remain seated in silence. It's more out of awe and confusion than pure comfort. What the fuck just happened? I feel more confused now than I did before our meeting. Invisible hands? No personal vendettas? The people who came gunning may not have had any personal vendettas against me, but someone sure as hell did. My mind stops short as I try to listen to the world around me. I hear nothing at all. I'm surrounded by silence.

“The bar,” I mutter. I fling myself from the chair and over the couch toward the back wall. As my hands find the panel, I hear footsteps heading my way. They're moving double-time. I scramble through the compartment, replacing the panel behind me once I'm inside. I'm between two buildings now. It appears that this may have been an alley at one point. There are pipes jutting out all over the place. I grab hold of one of the pipes and start scurrying up the inside wall. I'm midway up when I hear the door to the room being kicked in. I stop, midclimb, and remain motionless. I can hear footsteps, followed by the sounds of furniture being tossed about. Silence. I hear a deep voice that I don't recognize.

“Find that asshole.”

Ten Minutes Later

I push open the trapdoor leading to the roof. Seeing the starry night above is like a punch in the gut and I'm thankful for my freedom. Every muscle in my body is screaming in pain and I can feel my haphazard stitches yelling at me to calm down. Thankfully, none of them split open. As confining as the walls I had to scale were, I couldn't risk a great deal of movement. I had to sit, perched like a spider, and wait for the faceless voices to clear out before I could commence my climb. The seconds passed like eternities. By the time the voices faded back into the bar, I was already sweating bullets.

I pull myself out of the passageway, leaving the door open behind me, and I lie on my back, gasping for breath for a few minutes. After I've caught my breath, I pull myself to my feet. I can see my apartment from up here. Luna is sitting in the window, anxiously awaiting my return. There's no place like home.

I start to run across the rooftops, jumping down to the next rooftop and continuing on. I can't run too fast. My thigh is telling me to slow it down. What do I do from here? What options do I have? This “invisible hand” apparently controls most of the thugs in this area. If I keep going the way I'm going, they're going to get me. It's only a matter of time before they catch me off guard and take out my spleen with an ice pick.

I reach the edge of the last rooftop. This is my stop. I ignore the pain in my body and shimmy down the rain gutter to make my way back to solid ground. I look around, making sure no one is gunning for me, and when I see that the coast is clear, I jog briskly up the street.

The way I see it, I have three options:

The first option is to sit around and wait for someone to show up so I can end this bullshit, once and for all. I'm not too fond of that option. Me dying doesn't leave much wiggle room.

The second option is to start gunning first and off anyone who may have the urge to kill me. I like this option, but I'm under the impression that the town would be empty if I do that. I don't want to do any finger pointing because that would take days. Besides, I've obviously already pissed off enough people to have a hit put out on me.

I make it to my apartment and pull my piece from my jacket. I open the front door and move swiftly inside. I take the stairs two at a time. Every shadow moves. I fight myself not to open fire. I make my way to the third floor and pop open my door. I do a sweep of my apartment, checking in closets, the shower, under the bed. That's the good thing about studio apartments. There aren't a lot of places to hide.

I sit in my chair and come to the realization that my third option is definitely the way to go. I flip open my phone and plug in the number for the airport. After too many minutes of automated voices and number pressing, I hang up. One plane ticket. Phase one is complete. Now, on to phase two.

I dial the phone again and wait for the ringing to stop. “Chenille? It's Levi.”