Blood & Tacos #1 (3 page)

As a youngster, Graveheart, not a family name, was fascinated by TV western shows like
Have Gun Will Travel
and
The Rifleman
. This was not unusual for a red-blooded American male of that generation as kids were given cap guns modeled on their favorite lawman's six-shooter or bounty hunter Josh Randall's tricked out sawed-off rifle from
Wanted Dead or Alive
. It wasn't the delivery of frontier justice that fascinated him but the power those masters of the gun wielded on such shows. Seems whatever bit of folksy wisdom they dispensed had more import given their handling of shootin' irons.

Of course the fact that these actors were the leads and therefore the script was tailored to show them as infallible and stalwart, seemed lost on Graveheart. Or more likely he'd long ago learned to ignore such realities. Ever since he was big enough to hold a gun he had. Not only learned to hold them, but use them quite well.

The limestone quarry was at the opposite outskirts of town from where the Fuzzy Feather strip club was located, though both off the same highway. The facility was owned by a middle-aged, country-club-going, married church deacon who, in cliché fashion, had tumbled hard, for one of the big-breasted strippers at the Fuzzy Feather. Laugher Graziano had some compromising photos and thus he had no choice but to let his facility be used for the nefarious undertaking underway there this weekend.

The trap was simple. The kidnapped teens were in a van wired with dynamite in the quarry pit. The instructions were relayed by several dope fiends and other such riff-raff along the underworld grapevine. The Silencer was to appear at dawn or the youngsters would be sent to Kingdom Come.

His LTD drove up on schedule and he exited the vehicle. It was cold and he was wearing a full length Super Fly-style patterned coat and broad, flat-brimmed hat with a buckle headband. He had on shades too.

"How do you know you won't be cut down as soon as you step out of your car?" Mathers had asked. "Somebody with a rifle and a scope. What do you call ‘em, a sniper?"

He was cleaning one of his guns and looked over at her. "You've read Ralph Ellison's
Invisible Man
?"

She had a hand on her hip. "At your urging, yes," she answered sharply.

"There's a few soul brothers and sisters, skycaps at the airport, housekeepers at a couple of the swank hotels and what have you that I make sure to put a few extra twenties in their Christmas funds each month."

Essex derived income from several patents he owned or had sold for goodly amounts. One of his innovations had been a prototype for a miniaturized walkie-talkie, a kind of phone the size of a cigarette case you could put in your jacket pocket — inspired by those episodes of
Star Trek
he watched as a kid. He started to re-assemble his weapon. Essex had invested his monies in such enterprises as a childhood buddy's black hair care products line and an auto parts chain.

"Yeah?" she said, interested.

"So white folks see them as part of the furniture. They're there, but not there, dig?"

"What're you getting at, Book?"

He smiled. "Figuring some newcomers might be coming to town, I spread extra green around and got the lowdown."

"Yeah?" she said.

"Yeah," he answered.

"You know what they say, Silencer," Graveheart was talking, "I thought you'd be taller." He stepped out from the girders of the elevated office shed made of corrugated metal. Several massive dirt haulers and crane trucks were parked about as well.

"Ain't no stress." The other man was unbuttoning his coat. A slight breeze came up, exposing the shoulder holster underneath, strapped over his black turtleneck. Sweat dappled below the edges of his sunglasses.

The two were about 25 feet apart. They stood down each other on the edge of the main pit, the van with the captured teens at the bottom. The wind ceased. Graveheart, all in black including his Stetson, a six-shooter strapped around his waist gunslinger fashion, spread his boots a bit further apart. He was in his shooting stance.

"This is how it works, hombre," he said. "You live, the kids go free. You die, they die."

"Let's get to it…honkey."

The Silencer took a step to the right and time slowed as the two readied themselves for the showdown. It was only seconds that went by but each worked to keep their heart from thudding too loudly in their ears. Each took the measure of the other, each with eyes on the opponent's hands and then in the time it took a dog to flick its tail, the guns came out. Both men fired, the Silencer's round zinging past Graveheart's torso.

Conversely, the Silencer dropped his modified gun, clutching his chest as he went over onto his back. Graveheart had grouped two dead center mass.

The out-of-town hitter had assumed he'd feel more elated but it was what it was — killing was becoming as blasé to him as going to the corner store for a carton of milk. How sad. He raised his hand to signal for the toggle switch to be flipped, transmitting a radio signal to the dynamiter to blow up the teens. But nothing happened. He looked over to where two of Laugher Graziano's men were supposed to be crouched down beside the huge tires of one of the big haulers.

He couldn't see them from where he was, but why hadn't they stood up once the Silencer was put down? Smith & Wesson in hand, he advanced. Both hoods were proned out, dead. The remote control device was gone. The Silencer had struck.

"Holster your piece and let's settle this for real, Graveheart," Booker Essex called out. He wore no fancy coat or hat, but was in sans-a-belt slacks and a similar black turtleneck Rahim Katanga, as his stand-in, wore. His gun in its shoulder holster.

Graveheart knew better than to try and spin around, firing. He was fast but not inhumanly so. He'd be dropped in a blink. From above he heard a sound, and glancing up, saw a female head with a puffy afro atop the raised office. In the clean light of morning, he could easily see the glint off her rifle. She'd slept up there through the night.

"I'll be more fair than you," Essex continued as the gunman stepped away from the truck. "You win, you walk away."

Graveheart didn't waste energy or risk distraction with a response or gesture. His hand trembled slightly from excitement. Every sense was breathlessly on edge in him. It was as if each millimeter of his skin were receptors for all the atoms swirling about him. He'd never felt this alive before. This was a challenge.

Nothing happened, then simultaneously both men drew their guns and each fired a single bullet. The bang of Graveheart's pistol was the only one audible. They gaped at one another and Graveheart worked up a crooked smile as he wheeled about and fell over, exhaling one last time.

The teenagers were freed and Katanga and his Ministers of Praxis started to leave. The militant paused and looked back at the Silencer. "You did good, brother."

Essex nodded and they went their separate ways. He still didn't know which of the three had been responsible for the bomb. He wouldn't rest until he found out.

Bert Chastain had a big grin on his mustachioed face as the foxy blonde lead
him by his erect penis to one of the happy alcoves after his steam. After the
deaths here at the Fuzzy Feather and the subsequent newspaper investigation,
Laugher Graziano had been forced to sell the establishment. Not much was known
about the buyer but he'd retained a number of the girls who'd worked their under
the old management – and re-opened the upstairs VIP section as well. One of
those chicks was this knock-out called Ginger Strawberry who had his stiff johnson
in hand leading him.

"Baby, I can't wait to get down with you."

"Me either," she grinned, looking back at him.

In the alcove the blonde sat him down on a built-in bench. He now sat on the towel he'd had around his waist. She kneeled before him, Chastain's erect member quivering. That feeling and his hard-on faded fast as an arm went around his neck and the cold muzzle of a modified .32 pressed against his temple.

"Essex," he wheezed.

"Listen to me, asshole," the Silencer said to the suddenly uncomfortable and vulnerable nude man. "I knew sooner or later you'd come around for your usual taste," he began.

"I'm a cop, Essex, if you kill me they'll hang your black ass for sure."

The Silencer squeezed harder, choking his captive. "Don't kid yourself, Chastain. As shitty as you are, won't too many of your fellow blue on blues get too worked up about your demise."

"Look, I already told you," Chastain said, his voice cracking some. "I had nothing to do with planting that bomb."

"Shut up. For now you're of value to me. Make sure you let the other scumbags like you, the vice cops on the make, the robbery-homicide boys getting their cut, that the Fuzzy Feather is open for business. Let the word go out to the crooked city council members, judges, all of them, got me Chastain? Tell ‘em they get a discount."

"What the fuck are you up to?"

"What my loot in country would have called reconnoitering."

Chastain understood. "You want dirt on them. You got this joint bugged."

Essex released his hold and tapped the bent cop twice, hard, on the cheek. "Now you're getting smart. And just in case that rat brain you call a mind is thinking of crossing me, you should know I'm just taking over what the Laughing Man started."

If it was possible, Chastain's eyes got wider. He'd done all sorts of activities and had certain conversations over the years at the Fuzzy Feather — activities that could get him fired and conversations that would get him federally indicted.

"Looks like I got no choice. I'll be your Huckleberry…for now."

"Good boy," Essex said, disappearing into the passage behind the trick panel in the wall he'd come out of to surprise the cop.

Marcia Mathers had stood before the two in her short robe and heels, though she'd tied the robe shut. "I'm the manager here now, so you'll report to me. We clear?"

An uppity, devious colored and a broad had him by the short and curlies. What had he done to deserve this? "We're clear."

She walked out and after getting dressed and back outside in the wintery evening,
Chastain pulled his coat close. Despite being a stone killer, the idea of not
knowing when the Silencer would strike next made him uneasy — very uneasy.