Layla's Score

by Andy Rausch

  Before she could respond, Lefty said, “I'd really like Layla to be somewhere safe.”

  “Then you stay behind and watch her little ass,” said Dixie.

  Lefty exhaled, pausing briefly before saying, “This job was my idea. I brought this to you. This is my goddamn job. I'll be damned if I miss out on it.” He paused before adding, “I wanna be the one who kills Bruno De Lorenzo.”

  Dixie said, “Why can't Brooks stay back at the motel and watch the kid?”

  Brooks laughed. Dixie looked at him.

  “What's so funny, Brooks?” she asked. “It was okay if I stayed behind, but somehow the thought of you staying behind is ridiculous?”

  “None of this is helping,” said Lefty, wondering if the level of irritation and annoyance he was feeling came through in his voice.

  “Well, here's an idea,” Dixie said. “How about you leave your goddamn kid at home next time you go out on a job to kill gangsters? How about that, huh?”

  Lefty looked at Layla, who was oblivious, reading an Incredible Hulk.

  Brooks reached over and put his hand on Dixie's wrist, trying to calm her. But Dixie wasn't having it. She waved him away. “You get your goddamn hand off my wrist unless you wanna lose it, Brooks Barker.”

  Brooks pulled his hand back as if it was about to touch fire.

  “Could you please calm down?” he asked.

  Dixie stared at him with daggers in her eyes. “That kind of shit is the reason I left your ass.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I'd like to have a man who could calm me down without telling me to calm down.”

  Brooks looked at her, amazed by what he was hearing. “What then? How do you express to someone that you want them to calm down without asking them to calm down?”

  “Maybe you could just slap 'em across the face like you did that time in Minnesota,” she spat.

  “That was one goddamn time,” said Brooks. “It was a mistake and I admit it. I fucked up. But don't let that one thing overshadow everything else. That wasn't typical of our marriage. We were together for decades, Dixie, and that only happened once.”

  And so on.

  Seeing no other option, Lefty finally opted to take Layla with him on the De Lorenzo hit. The compromise they'd reached was that Dixie would sit with her in the lobby. Dixie had only agreed to do this after Lefty finally caved in and told her about De Lorenzo's call. This arrangement would be safer for Layla, and Dixie could shoot anyone who tried to escape. “As long as I get to kill somebody, I don't care,” she said. “That's the whole reason I came. It's not about the money, it's about the killing. I haven't got to kill anybody in a long-ass time.”

  They were in the Caddy now, and Lefty ejected the Curtis Mayfield CD. He needed mood music, something appropriate for the situation at hand. He slid in Tupac, playing “If I Die Tonight.” Brooks made a face, confused by what he was hearing. Then he looked back at Layla, rapping along verbatim, talking about killing various “motherfuckers.” Before he could comment, Dixie spoke up. “Your Daddy lets you talk that way?”

  Layla looked at her. “Daddy says it's okay to say motherfucker as long as we're listening to Tupac.”

  Lefty looked back at her in the rear-view mirror. “Or Ice Cube.”

  “Right,” said the little girl, nodding. “Or Ice Cube.”

  Brooks asked in earnest, “What exactly is a Tupac?”

  Layla giggled. “Dixie's right. You really are old.”

  Everyone in the car laughed except Brooks, who was still wondering what a Tupac was.

  “Layla?” said Lefty.

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “I love you very much. I want you to sit in the lobby and do whatever Dixie tells you to do.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Upstairs, Tator Tot.”

  “Killing people?”

  Lefty paused, unsure what to say.

  “Only bad people,” said Dixie. “Nobody anyone worth a damn will miss.”

  Layla looked at her dad in the mirror. “So it's okay to kill people if they're bad?”

  “Well,” Lefty began weakly.

  Brooks interrupted. “Some people are so bad you can't do anything else but kill them. They're like a rabid dog, you gotta put them down.”

  “Am I gonna kill people someday?” asked Layla.

  Lefty found himself speechless. Dixie spoke up. “You already did. You killed the hell out of that man yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but he was gonna shoot my daddy. It's okay to shoot someone if they're gonna hurt the people you love, right?”

  Lefty paused again before saying, “That's right, Tator Tot. If someone is gonna hurt your friends or family, you've gotta do whatever it takes to protect them.”

  “So you shoot them, right Daddy?”

  Brooks said, “Sure thing, kid. You blow their cunt asses away.”

  Soon they were at the Belmont Hotel, residence of asshole extraordinaire Bruno De Lorenzo, and Lefty couldn't wait to come face-to-face with the guy. Lefty parked the Caddy in the parking lot. There were no goons visible from the parking lot. In fact, there was no one around at all.

  “This is where De Lorenzo lives?” asked Brooks.

  Lefty nodded. “Casa de Lorenzo.”

  “Who lives here?” asked Layla.

  “The dickhead we were talking about,” said Dixie.

  Layla nodded. “The one Daddy's gonna kill.”

  “Layla,” said Lefty. “Let's not talk about Daddy killing people.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's not nice.”

  “What's not nice?” asked Layla. “Killing people or talking about it?”

  Lefty rolled his eyes. “Either one, Tator Tot.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Sometimes you gotta do things you don't wanna do to put food on the table.”

  Layla paused for a moment, considering this. “So you kill people for food?”

  “Layla,” interrupted Dixie. “Why don't we let your daddy think for a minute and figure out how he wants to do this.”

  Brooks turned to Lefty. “That's a good question. How do you wanna do this?”

  “I honestly hadn't given it a whole lotta thought.”

  “You thought we'd just go rushing in there like the goddamn Wild Bunch?”

  Lefty nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Helluva plan you got, kid. I'm glad you got it all worked out.”

  “What's the Wild Bunch?” asked Layla.

  Brooks turned to the little girl. “You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”

  Layla smiled. “It's 'cause I'm curious.”

  “You are that, Tator Tot,” said Lefty.

  Dixie spoke up. “This sounds as poorly planned as anything I've ever seen.”

  Lefty looked back at her. “Thanks for your positive input.”

  “I just call it like I see it,” Dixie said.

  “How many guys you think are in there?” asked Brooks.

  Lefty thought about it. “Probably as many as Liz Taylor had husbands.”

  Brooks leveled his stare at Lefty. “How many husbands did that bitch have?”

  “Seven,” said Dixie.

  “But do we count it as seven or eight?” asked Lefty.

  Dixie gave him a puzzled look. “Why would we count it as eight?”

  “Because she married Richard Burton twice.”

  “He's still only one guy,” said Dixie. “If he was two guys, we'd count him twice. But he was just one guy, so we count him as one.”

  “None of this is important,” said Brooks. “I don't give a damn if Liz Taylor was married to forty-two guys, all named Jimmy, each with a ten-foot dick. That shit don't matter. What matters right now is this job. We need to discuss this before we go runnin' in there, gettin' our peckers shot off.”

  Lefty nodded.

  “So there's probably about seven guys in there,” said Brooks.

  “Give or take,” said Lefty.
>
  “How many bullets we got?”

  “I got a full magazine,” said Lefty. “That's fifteen shots. Then I got another mag in my pocket.”

  “Christ, you could wipe out the whole hotel all by yourself,” said Dixie.

  “Why do you have so many bullets, Daddy?” asked Layla.

  “Don't worry about it,” said Lefty.

  Brooks took no heed, speaking to this anyway. “He may need to shoot some of those SOBs more than once. Sometimes these bastards don't go softly into the night. Sometimes you gotta shoot a motherfucker three, maybe four times before they die.”

  Dixie looked at Layla. “Brooks, the little girl don't need to hear all that.”

  “Damn,” said Brooks. “Lefty brings her along on a hit, lets her sing about all kinds of motherfuckers, but somehow I'm the bad guy.”

  Lefty looked at him, his eyes narrowing. “Is there something you wanna say about my parenting?”

  Brooks returned his gaze defiantly. “I think I just said it.”

  Before Lefty could say another word, Dixie said, “The job, boys. Let's talk about the job.”

  “She's right,” said Brooks.

  “Okay, Dixie and Layla stay in the lobby,” said Lefty. “They watch to see if anybody shows up unexpectedly or tries to run out.”

  Brooks looked at Dixie. “What are you gonna do if you see someone?”

  “I'll do what I do,” she said. “I'll kill 'em.”

  “What if a whole group of people come in?” asked Lefty.

  “We shoulda got walkie-talkies,” said Brooks.

  Lefty exhaled, a judgmental expression on his face. “Walkie-talkies, Brooks? What do you think this is, Scooby Doo? Don't you think we might be noticed sneaking around the building with big-ass walkie-talkies?”

  “They would definitely notice me sitting in the lobby if I was talking into a walkie-talkie,” said Dixie. “That shit would be noticeable.”

  Layla said, “Can I have a walkie-talkie, Daddy?”

  “How do we approach the penthouse?” asked Brooks.

  “We knock on the door, tell 'em it's room service,” said Lefty.

  “That's kind of obvious, don't you think?” asked Dixie.

  Lefty turned around and stared at her. “You got a better idea?”

  Dixie shrugged. “No, but I doubt I'll have a worse one.”

  “You might,” said Brooks. “Don't sell yourself short. You're capable of some super crappy ideas.”

  “Marrying you was the worst,” said Dixie.

  Lefty looked at Brooks. “How many rounds you got?”

  Brooks held up his big Colt Python. “I just got this,” he said. “It holds six bullets. Then I got more rounds in my pocket.”

  “Old school,” said Lefty.

  “Old school,” agreed Brooks.

  “I'd be afraid to use a piece of hardware like that,” said Lefty. “It only holds six bullets at a time. What do you do when you're in a situation where there are that many guys total?”

  “Shoot carefully.”

  “I'm serious.”

  “So am I,” said Brooks. “I also got the shotgun in the trunk. If one don't get ya, the other one will.”

  “You're gonna carry both?”

  Brooks nodded. “I am.”

  “You're a regular Johnny fuckin' Rambo.”

  “Nah, I'm just Brooks Barker.”

  “I suppose that's enough,” said Lefty.

  Brooks nodded. “I've put a lot of guys in the ground, and I'm still here. What does that tell you?”

  Dixie looked up from staring at Layla reading her Black Panther comic. “Are we ready to do this or what?”

  “I guess it's time,” said Brooks.

  They all started to climb out. Once they were out of the vehicle, Brooks made his way to the trunk. Lefty popped it open, and Brooks extracted the shotgun. Dixie came around and took out a .45, sticking it into her waistline. Lefty closed the trunk and they all turned towards the building.

  Each adult had their handguns tucked away out of sight, but Brooks stood out carrying the shotgun at his side. They all strode through the entrance of the Belmont, the two men walking behind the females, the idea being maybe they would sort of block the desk clerk's view of the shotgun. When they walked in, Layla was explaining the difference between the Incredible Hulk and Abomination, but none of the adults were listening. They were scoping out the lobby. There was only one desk clerk, a pudgy little fat guy with a terrible comb-over. He barely glanced up from whatever he was looking at behind the counter.

  The men and women separated, with Dixie and Layla making their way to chairs in the middle of the lobby. This way they could watch the smarmy little desk clerk to make sure he wasn't up to any fuckery. Lefty and Brooks went straight, heading for the elevator.

  Dixie saw the clerk turn and watch Lefty and Brooks getting on the elevator. He paid Dixie and Layla no mind. He picked up the house phone and held it to his ear. He went to push a button, but Dixie took out her .45 and shot him in the throat. He grabbed wildly at his wound, blood streaming out between his fingers and onto his cheap suit. Dixie popped off a second shot, this one catching the pudgy bastard in his mouth. His head shot backwards, and he left a Rorschach blot on the wall behind him before toppling to the floor.

  Dixie looked at Layla as she put away the .45. Layla's eyes were big as saucers and she was energized. “It was like Brooks said, you had to shoot him more than once to kill him.”

  Dixie nodded. “That happens sometimes. It ain't like the movies where everybody dies with just one shot.”

  “Why'd you shoot that guy?”

  “He was gonna call upstairs and tell the bad guy that Brooks and your daddy were on their way. Then when they got there, Bruno and his guys would have killed them.”

  Layla's already big eyes got even bigger, and she opened her mouth, gasping. “They were gonna kill Daddy?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Dixie. “So it's like he said, it's okay to kill people who are gonna hurt the people you love.”

  “So you shot the fat man.”

  Dixie nodded. “I shot the fat fuck.”

  Layla raised her palm. “High five,” she said. Dixie put her hand up and they slapped palms together. The little girl went back to reading her comic, and Dixie sat there in the empty lobby, watching for people to shoot.

  Brooks and Lefty were riding in the elevator together, on their way to execute Bruno De Lorenzo. As they rode, Lefty asked, “How many men you figure you've killed?”

  Brooks made a pained face. “Don't you know it's not polite to talk about how many people someone's killed? It's like sexual partners, it ain't right to talk about them. It's sort of disrespectful to the other person who's getting screwed or shot.”

  Lefty grinned. “Either way they're getting screwed.”

  This made Brooks grin too. “This is true.”

  “I'm sorry I asked. I didn't mean no harm.”

  “No offense taken, kid. The thing is, I've known guys who would brag about how many guys they killed all day long. But then there are other guys—”

  “Guys like you.”

  Brooks nodded. “It's like a guy who returns from the war. It ain't nice to ask him how many Victor Charlies he killed out in the bush. And it ain't nice to talk about how many of these guinea scumbags a guy's racked up here in the states. Either way, a guy's just doing his duty, doing what he's ordered to do. He don't necessarily like taking those lives, but it's his job. It's what he does.”

  Lefty nodded. “You don't like killing people?”

  “Depends,” said Brooks. “I can't lie. There are times when it feels real good to kill someone, if it's someone you know deserves a bullet. Sometimes it feels good to be the one who does it. Like this guy Bruno De Lorenzo. If he did a fraction of the shit they say he did, then we'll be doing the world a favor.”

  “So in a way we're good guys, doing God's will.”

  “Could be,” said Brooks. “Think about it. Everyone we kil
l is a criminal of some sort. None of them are good guys. They're all mobbed up, doing some kind of criminal shit.”

  Lefty said, “Like us?”

  Brooks nodded. “I know, I know. Trust me, I see the fallacy of the theory, but I like to think it's at least somewhat okay because we kill more people than we are. Sure, you and I are basically bad guys, but in the end we kill hundreds of bad guys, most of 'em far worse than us.”

  “How do you know they're worse?”

  “Good question,” said Brooks. “Truth is I don't. I suppose it's a question of semantics. What do we really consider to be good, and what do we consider to be bad? I like to think we're lesser of evils.”

  “Lesser than who?”

  “Someone like this bastard we're about to whack,” said Brooks. “I feel pretty secure in the knowledge that he's way worse than either of us. Hell, he's way worse than both of us together.”

  Lefty nodded. “I'm sure you're right.”

  “I'm always right,” said Brooks. “Don't you forget that, kid.”

  Lefty looked up, seeing that the elevator had arrived at the penthouse. “We're here,” he said. At that moment the elevator doors slid open. The two men walked out, Lefty leading the way. They walked to the door of De Lorenzo's suite. Lefty shrugged. “Here goes nothing.” He knocked, stepping out of the way so he couldn't be seen through the peephole. He saw it go black, indicating someone was peering out.

  A moment later the door opened a crack, one of De Lorenzo's goons peering out past the chain-lock. “Who are you?” This time Lefty skipped the candy-gram routine and kicked in the door, snapping the chain and sending the guy reeling back. Lefty had his Glock up. He was about a millisecond away from shooting the guy when he realized the penthouse was empty. Disappointment set in at once. He aimed the gun down at the guy, on the floor now. “Where's everybody at?”

  The guy sat up. “You're gonna have to kill me, because I ain't telling you shit.”

  Lefty squeezed the trigger, shooting him in the inner thigh. The guy reached for the wound, blood seeping everywhere. He was whimpering like a baby. “The next shot's gonna be your dick,” promised Lefty. “Now where's everybody at?”

  The man looked up at him with big, frightened eyes. “Don't shoot my dick, okay?”