by A. J. Lape
“Context clues suggest you’re going to shoot me,” I said. “Right, Mark? It is Mark Malone, isn’t it?”
Insert a psychotic, twisted grin. “Yes, it’s Malone,” he said. “And you’re Taylor’s girl, correct?” He dragged the wig from my head, tossing it into the recycling drop-off bin beside us. Malone then told me that he’d overheard me talking to Pixie while I’d been outside the restroom. How in God’s name had I missed him?
In all the things I’d endured in my short lifespan, one thing always rang true—when bad came my way, I chose to connect the dots.
“Now that we have the introductions out of the way, let’s play ball,” I said. “So you were the one who held Willow Taylor down. Am I right? While Kirby York demonstrated to the world that he’ll take what someone isn’t willing to give?”
“Sometimes a use of force makes playtime more enjoyable.”
My blood boiled. I was a non-violent person, but with Mark Malone? I longed to put a bullet through his skull. Well, at least a BB. But even a BB might not wipe the evil off his face. “You’re a real tough guy for sure,” I said. “Since we’re not going to skip off into the night together, I’m going to tell you what I really think. I’m pretty sure you’re bound for Hell, but my guess is they don’t have a vacancy, or you would’ve been there already. So you can kill me now, but the moment I die,” I said, “you’re going to have some dangerous men so far up your rear end you’re never going to sit down comfortably again. Trust me.” I paused. “For some reason, they want to keep me alive. I can promise you’ll be in handcuffs or dead before sunup.”
A sinister leer split his lips, the growl of a psychopath flickering in the dark. Malone reminded me of one of those animals that hung on the outside of the pack. He didn’t belong to any group very easily and was always on the outside looking in. Not only aggressive, he had a passive-aggressiveness about him—the type that found ways to get back at people even if the beef was decades old.
The crunch of shoes on gravel sounded behind us. We wheeled around in tandem, but before I could get a read on the noise, the night unspooled like a dropped ball of yarn. The pffffttt of a silencer struck Malone in the forehead. His eyes blanked out in shock, his thoughts sideswiped by something he hadn’t been ready for. Blood trickled down the front of his face in an upside-down Y, and for a brief moment, he stayed aright. Then as if someone had pushed a launch button, he straightened and then fell like someone chopped his legs off at the knees. His body crashed facedown with a thunderous thwack, then bounced to his side.
He was dead.
Should I scream? Curse? Try to put the blood back in his body? I’d seen several lifeless bodies in my short lifetime, but seeing it done real-time took me back to when I was nine years old. I preferred stumbling upon dead bodies, not having them talk one minute and then suddenly DOA the next. I felt like I’d just stepped inside a bear trap. Pain, shock, and a what-just-happened lit up every neuron of my body.
I stared in gaped horror at the shooter, and my jaw unhinged when the tattoos on his thick arms—the same as Malone’s—came into focus. “You’re 3 Bulls,” I whispered.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuu—
Resembling a satisfied predator, his upturned lips were pleased his killing strike had silenced his problem. I prayed the sinner’s prayer, asking for forgiveness. I even repented of all the salacious, horrible things I’d said and thought about Ivy Morrison. When the man said nothing, I told myself twelve multiplied by twelve equaled one-forty-four. Divide that by two and you got seventy-two. My mind was firing with random minutia while I stood there paralyzed with a case of did-that-just-happen? The shooter rolled Malone over and shoved his hand in his back pocket, removing his wallet. Flipping the brown leather open, he withdrew several thousand dollars and pocketed it. I remained dumbstruck, squinting in the dark and holding my arms tightly to my ribs, trying to keep the body heat inside. The night air felt Alaskan, the kind where you should be wearing snow suits and limit the amount of exposure you had outdoors. Funny how one moment I’d been sweating my deodorant off but right then was chilled to the bone. I could run. Try to hide…but no matter what I said or did, it wouldn’t stop the drumbeat of the hit out on Dylan and our friends. If, in fact, 3 Bulls wanted revenge.
And heads up, that was a mafia mission statement.
About five foot ten, Malone’s assassin wore jeans, a Florida Gators T-shirt, and New Balance sneakers. Acne scars dotted his cheeks, and his ears were so large they had their own zip code. He had a ruddy complexion and short, strawberry-blond locks.
Normal looking—except he’d just assassinated someone.
“We want no beef with the man who is protecting you,” he said.
Twenty Bucks? “Who is protecting me?” I inquired.
He frowned in confusion but ignored the question. “Why didn’t you run?” he said.
I should’ve limited my fluid intake because I had to pee like a Russian racehorse. So long story short, other than wanting to curtail another hit, running wouldn’t be good. “I want answers,” I said. “Why kill one of your own?”
“We don’t trust his mouth.”
I totally got the loose-lips-sink-ships thing.
The crunching of gravel sound knocked on my ears again, and I almost came out of my skin, wondering what was next.
A tall and lean man cut through the dark, gun drawn and aimed right at Mark Malone’s executioner. Malone’s executioner didn’t move a muscle. No bodily kickback registered on his person at all. He’d expected the other gunman. Thing was, his face was familiar. I performed a double-take and said, “You’re…you’re the guy…” I trailed off.
I realized with a start he was the man I’d chest-bumped while exiting the restroom. The golfer who’d had an aversion to SPF. His baby blues pierced into mine like a hot poker. “Boss said leaving you unattended could be like giving a two-year-old a circular saw,” he said. “No shit is all I have to say.”
I made a mental note to laugh when I had a chance. So very true. But who in God’s name was Boss? And had he sent him to play guardian angel? “Who are you?” I demanded, pausing to frown. “And who is Boss? Twenty Bucks? Because let me tell you a little secret. He’s a closet romantic. Likes Downton Abbey to obsession. The man even appreciates big band music…the vintage stuff. And although it adds odd comfort he’s at least partly human, leaving me out of the loop was grade-A stupid. Why didn’t the two of you let me in on this? I wouldn’t have stressed so much.”
No Sunscreen’s eyes flashed—like he’d caught himself in a faux pas—but he offered up no name.
“Bill Roy? Are we all good?” he said, interrogating Malone’s executioner. So was he a card-carrying member of 3 Bulls too? Because how did he know his name?
“We’re good,” Bill Roy told him.
I held up a palm in a stop sign gesture. “Wait. Back up,” I said. “Are my friends out of the woods? My guess was Malone was attempting to send Dylan a message. Are they safe from payback, or not?”
Malone’s executioner gave me a slack, bored expression. “Not my call, but I’d be watching my back.”
Then that meant I would have to give him the video information Kirby York had killed one of their own.
Here was the tricky part—even in this situation, I wouldn’t do it for free. Number one? The mob wouldn’t respect it. I would have to prove I was a business woman. Number two? I wanted the money he pilfered from Malone. Again…a business woman. More than likely it was dirty money, so it wouldn’t be like I was stealing from a hardworking man or woman. And why did I want the cash? I could buy back Raymond’s baseball card collection. It wasn’t the answer I’d been praying for. I thought I’d find something to bet on and then walk away with the kitty. However you wanted to spin it, it was an answer nonetheless.
Biggest caveat? Would Bill Roy be willing to barter?
“What if I can give you something to end your war with Cell Block D?” I said.
Bill Roy lifted his head, a curious
and sarcastic sneer lining his crooked teeth. He was shocked I knew those details. Frankly, so was I. “I’m listening,” he said.
Add another hand in a stop sign. “One condition. If you like what I have, I want the cash you took from Malone.” To buy back Raymond’s baseball card collection, I omitted. “If you don’t like the information, then you can walk away. No harm done. But I’m betting you will.”
I’d sent the video files to my burner phone as a text message to myself. Calling up the videos, I showed Bill Roy the evidence of Kirby York pulling a broken bottle on Dylan and then in the background of the Nash murder scene with Travis Hewitt…and then in another frame where York had a gun in his hand with Hewitt’s dead body out to the side. York had a sadistic smile of pleasure on his face while he gazed at Hewitt—when he’d later told 3 Bulls he’d run to safety and that their competition (Cell Block D) had been who’d pulled the trigger. Hopefully, it would be enough for 3 Bulls’ management to doubt York’s recall of events.
“If you bring this to your bosses, you can show them how valuable you are,” I said. “Then you can usher them to a peace deal, so to say, and you can all get about your everyday business. They won’t need to protect York when he’d killed one of your own. And knowing how York doesn’t like Dylan Taylor, I’m betting he was the type that’s been jealous since he left the womb. Ergo, he’d been jealous of Travis Hewitt enough to kill him at close range.”
Bill Roy cocked his head to the side, unconvinced.
“Well, aren’t you persona non grateful,” No Sunscreen murmured. “She verified your suspicions, Bill Roy. And don’t try to deny it because it was written all over your face.”
“Are you trying to deny it?” I challenged. Bill Roy didn’t speak. “That’s what I thought,” I muttered. “Listen, this is so easy it’s dumb. Do it, Bill Roy. It’s a win-win. You can be the new trophy boy.”
Bill Roy shifted his weight on his feet. No Sunscreen didn’t like the unexpected movement, following Bill Roy’s motion with the barrel of his gun. “I don’t know,” he grumbled.
“What’s there to know?” No Sunscreen asked.
“Exactly,” I tag-teamed. “If the universe is going to serve up answers, then you sure as heck should accept the meal. Besides, Killjoy,” I said sarcastically, “I mean, Bill Roy, you owe me. Malone threw my wig in the recyclables, and now I’m out fifty bucks with a wig that has dumpster cooties on it.”
No Sunscreen coughed to cover his laugh.
Bill Roy stuck his finger in my face so fast it’s a wonder he didn’t dislocate his wrist. “I don’t owe you dick, girl.”
I stomped up into his chest. No Sunscreen followed with a growl, shoving Bill Roy backward with a strength I wouldn’t have guessed him to have. “Yes, you do owe me dick,” I snarled. “Well, not technically in the flesh,” I said, quickly backpedaling, “but you do owe me something.”
“And this is truth?” Bill Roy pushed.
I snorted. “No. It’s a big fat lie because I don’t have anything better to do on a Saturday night except stand next to a dead guy and the guy who shot him.”
My eyes bounced to Mark Malone—his eyes stuck in a wide-eyed shock, blood pooling around his head. A splotchy tint had crept up his neck…yup, DOA. On some level I thought he would get up and walk away. Look to the sky and find Jesus or something. I was in shock. A dead young man lay next to me. That didn’t happen on the reg.
Bill Roy didn’t get a chance to say anything. No Sunscreen spoke overtop him. “If you don’t take the deal, you’re a fool. Take it, and never look at her again. I work for the man who is keeping her alive, and let me make something clear. If she doesn’t return to LA in one piece, he will pay you back…with interest. Do you understand what I mean?”
In a matter of seconds, I had Bill Roy’s cell phone number, and I sent him all the video evidence. Once Bill Roy gave me the money, I counted out five grand and shoved it in my bra.
For a split second, I thought things had ended, but then Bill Roy bent over Malone’s lifeless corpse and produced a hunting knife from his back pocket. He sliced into Malone’s lifeless arms, removing the tattoos. Blood slid through his fingers like water from a faucet at the rip and stretch of flesh. My mouth dropped in horror at the squishy sound. Bill Roy met mine and No Sunscreen’s eyes one last time as he carried two pieces of Malone with him off into the night.
Chapter 14
CAN YOU BUY A CONSCIENCE ON AMAZON?
An eye twitch motored in my left eye. No Sunscreen informed me that cutting gang tattoos from Malone’s arms was meant as a message to law enforcement he was in bad standing. You could count me in with an, “Oh really?” Honest to God, I had that low-key of a reaction. Can you buy a conscience on Amazon? “Give me a lift,” I said when the shock wore off.
No Sunscreen placed his gun in the back of his pants, sliding his shirt overtop it. “What?” he said, adding a stunned blink.
“That wig cost me fifty bucks, and Malone tossed it into the recyclables. I want it back.”
He muttered the F-word, in triplicate. “I don’t know who’s crazier…you or Boss…but when that man demands something—like me tracking you down and saving your ass—you do it or die. Come on,” he grumbled in defeat. “Make this fast before this asshole begins to smell.”
No Sunscreen threaded his fingers together and squatted down to gain leverage. I slipped out of my heel and popped my left foot in his hands. After a four-foot boost, I leaned over the recycling bin, mini skirt riding up my hips. I felt a breeze in my nether region. I honestly didn’t care. With a grunting stretch, I snagged my wig that had thankfully landed on nothing more offensive than a cardboard box. Once I dropped back to the ground, I slid into my heel and positioned the wig back on my head. “How do I look?” I asked.
“Certifiable.”
I puckered my lips, blowing a sarcastic kiss in his direction. The buttwipe. One more time, my eyes darted to Malone and hoped for a reanimation, angry at myself for caring. Caring that he had a mom and dad somewhere when I knew he would’ve been just as happy to see me on the ground instead of him. I fought my urge to be human, swallowing down the mixed emotions. When No Sunscreen sighed, I realized my actions hadn’t been so silent. My cheeks were suddenly wet with tears.
He blinked in shock. “You feel bad,” he said.
I sniffed a few times but held my chin high regardless. “I don’t feel bad, per se. Sometimes I cry because I don’t get to hit something.”
“He was not a good person,” he said softly. “Remember that. Remember what he was trying to do to you…and did to your friends. Sometimes feeling bad for the wrong people can make you the dead one. But I think you know that already. The same goes for Bill Roy. They don’t feel, honey.”
The understatement of the century…
I didn’t need to guess what caliber of nutjobs they were. They killed and liked an audience while doing it.
I delved deep into the part of my psyche that existed totally on rationale. Emotions were the last thing I thought about when I met up with the nine-year-old little girl who watched her mother die. It was all about survival, putting one foot in front of the other, and getting the job done. With a few shakes of my head, I forced an inhale and found the part of normal that was normal for me. “Listen, about your boss,” I said, my voice a little stronger. “Tell him I appreciate the bailout, but you were a little late to the scene. I wanted Malone to rot in a jail cell. So if you ever need me as a reference, I won’t give you glowing remarks.”
No Sunscreen shot a tentative glance over his shoulder at the sound of sirens in the distance. He found my eyes with a smirk, but I couldn’t tell if it held humor or if it merely was because I’d become a pain in his a-s-s. “And what were you going to do? Perform a citizen’s arrest?” he goaded me. “Tell the authorities who you are and why you were even here? How would that bode for you, Jester?” We’d bypassed first names and went straight to a nickname basis. That sent shivers to places that should
never have shivers. “I’m thinking I arrived right on time,” he continued. “You made your deal. And hopefully ended a mob war. I merely cosigned the transaction.” I remained stupefied, but when he pivoted to leave, he shot a statement over his shoulder. “Jester?” he murmured, eyes twinkling. “Nice underwear.”
My leopard print thong and I flipped him the condor.
“Where the hell have you been?” Boozy hissed.
God bless you too, Boozy, I mumbled in my head.
I’d hightailed it back to the rental car, running into Boozy and Bodhi along the way. Both grasped me around my elbows, opening the car door and throwing me in the backseat with a careless disregard, much like a fisherman depositing rotting tuna on a dock. Sirens lit up the night on a constant howl, blaring like a five-alarm fire was in progress. Both were in the front seat with Boozy behind the wheel. Bodhi wrenched himself around to stare at the recycling drop-off boxes after I’d told them what had happened, how it happened, and about the 3 Bulls assassin and unnamed man who poofed out of thin air.
“Don’t go back there, Bodhi,” I said when he wouldn’t quit craning his neck. “If you have a nervous stomach, then just trust me. Sometimes you can’t unsee what fate makes you see.”
“Just because my father is an actor doesn’t mean I can’t handle things,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”
Point made.
Bodhi then quizzed me, asking if I was all right, needed a shot of whiskey, a hug, or something else he promised to get. In the technical sense of the word…yes, I was as good as it gets. But what would I do with the information now that I had it? The three of us exchanged worried glances when I told them I had no plan on how to get the information to Detective Monroe Battle that wouldn’t implicate me as an interference in the investigation. Let me play Devil’s advocate. Outing me could compromise the investigation if a defense attorney discovered my identity and my relationship to the victims. If he and/or she was worth their proverbial salt, they would move to have my evidence removed from the case.