by Pro Se Press
Outside, I heard feet stomping up the fire escape. I scanned faster, damn. Some mook started beating on the door.
“Got it.” I snatched the key-tagged 5J out of the box and Candi and I rushed out of there.
We left just as he was giving the door the shoulder. I pulled the front door shut behind us and noticed the old padlock hanging in the hasp. I lifted the lock, put the hasp in place, and then slipped the lock in the opening. The old lock refused to yield, but from the inside it may as well have been the vault at Fort Knox.
“Let’s hit the stairs.” We ran to the exit sign and gave the door a shove. It opened faster than I thought it should and I pulled up short to listen… It was quiet so we gently let the door close behind us and started down the stairs at a pretty good clip.
I was wondering what had become of Rosales. I knew he wouldn’t have given up that easy. I patted my hip and was happy for finding my old Smitty right where it belonged.
When we passed the sixth floor I heard a door open and close several floors above us, but I didn’t hear any footsteps on the stairs. It struck me odd until I was almost laid low by the fifth floor exit door.
The door swung in fast and I grabbed it with one hand, while drawing my pistol with the other. I cocked the hammer and jammed the barrel right into the mouth of the head that darted around the door.
Dick Weeks almost pissed his pants. “Oh, Shit!”
“Damn it Dick, I almost let the air outta your melon.” I lowered the gun. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know. I came to see about you. The one that says he’s a cop smells like the mash room at the brewery. The other three are just a bunch of street punks,” he offered.
“Go to your apartment, lock the door, and call the cops,” I ordered, as I led Candi past him. We made for my place at the end of the hall, but quick.
I pulled out the tagged key and jammed it into the lock. I turned the key and we entered.
I got my keys and turned around. Candi was standing just inside the door, but she had one eye screwed onto the hallway. She was something to look at, but like every broad of her type—not entirely trustworthy. Something about her just wasn’t making sense. I went to her and looked out. The hall was clear so we made for the elevator.
I pushed the button and we waited. After a minute or so, I looked up and saw the glowing B on the indicator panel above the elevator door.
“Damn, well here we go again,” I exhaled and turned in the direction of the stairwell.
Just then, my punching bag from the basement came out of the stair well along with another punk. The punching bag held a length of two by four, but the other punk had an automatic pistol.
I whipped out my roscoe and cracked off two rounds. The punk with the lumber hunkered down, but the other one didn’t even flinch. As he raised that pistol, I grabbed Candi.
I shoved her in front of me and we ran toward the other end of the hallway. I pressed her into a shallow door opening as two bullets whizzed past my head.
I had fired four shots. I had two left. They had to count.
The punk fired his last three rounds and dropped the magazine. I raised my gun and shot him right through the left kneecap.
Two things happened just then—the punk dropped his pistol and fell to the floor screaming. Then that punching bag with legs dropped his two by four and charged me.
I gotta give credit to the sonofabitch, it was a ballsy move. Stupid, but ballsy.
He started having second thoughts when I stuffed my fist into his busted nose. My second punch connected with his chin and dropped him like a brick. Candi and I lit for the stairs.
Just then, I heard a phone ringing back in the direction of my apartment.
“I hope that’s Dick Weeks saying the cops are on their way.”
“No kidding,” she huffed.
We weren’t taking our time hustling down the steps. It was all I could do to slow down enough not to go ass over handlebars.
“I hope that’s the last of it,” Candi said with a sigh, as we rounded the landing at the third floor.
I nodded my agreement. “Yeah, but I got a feeling we’re not out of this yet. Rosales or one of his goons is still around here someplace.”
Half way down the next flight Candi turned her ankle. If I hadn’t caught her, she would have ground in her face.
“Ow-Och-Ouch! Damnit!” She cried, as she limped down the last few steps to the second floor landing.
Candi braced herself against the wall and tried her weight on the ankle.
“I just... “She broke off.
I tried to support her, but she shoved me off.
“I just need a minute,” she winced, as she put her weight down on it.
The joint looked okay, a little puffy, and red, but she was only putting weight on the side of her foot. She hobbled around the landing on it a little with tears on her cheeks.
“That looks painful,” I said and started toward her.
“I’ll be fine. I just need a damned minute please,” she hissed. She gave me the predatory glare of a harpy.
I gotta hand it to the gal, she had sand. She was working that ankle pretty good after a couple of minutes. It was starting to swell up like a bastard and she could put more weight on it, even if it didn’t bend so good.
“Okay, let’s go before I lose my nerve.” She hopped over to the staircase and we were on our way. We were moving slower, and I was carrying most of her weight for her, but at least we were going.
Along that time, I was really wondering what had happened to Rosales. It seemed like too much to hope for that he’d given up and gone home. That protection racket had been going on for a long time. Protection stiff-armed by the very same mob that the law was supposed to protect people from. It was a cash cow until Candi had started squirreling away some of their money.
“Y’know the police are supposed to protect you, not the mob. Not the Joey Catanza’s and Angelo Delapina’s of this world,” I said, for no reason other than to make her ankle throb.
“No shit, Sherlock,” she spat her spicy retort.
We limped our way to the bottom of the last flight of stairs at the ground floor landing. The exit door loomed in front of us. I let go of Candi and she sat on the second step, massaging her swollen ankle a bit.
“It really feels a lot better,” she whispered in a halfhearted attempt at being optimistic.
“It’s swollen to the point of numbness, just like when a boxer breaks a bone in his hand during a fight. It hurts like hell until it swells, then he can beat you stupid and never feel a thing. That is until the swelling comes down.”
“Great, thanks a lot, Jerk-face.” She must have been feeling a little better because she batted her eyes at me again. It still annoyed me, but not as much.
“All right, let’s go wait on the cops,” I said, and pulled the door open.
“Yeah, let’s.” It was the tin gravelly machismo of Rosales.
“Hey asshole, I thought I smelled something.” I started for him, but he waved me off with a rather ominous looking .45 with a long slide and high chrome finish.
“Candace has something that belongs to a mutual friend of ours. The friend would like to have their property returned.”
The slick little bastard had no idea that I knew what he was talking about.
“Okay, c’mon Candi.” I went to her, and as I helped her up, I whispered in her ear, “Back my play.” She nodded into my neck and I pulled her to her feet.
“Whoa, what is this?’ Rosales demanded, “Let her go and get out of here.”
I supported Candi more than I needed to and she limped more than she had been, but she wasn’t acting out the wincing or the fresh tears.
“Dry up cupcake, our friend says to smoke you once I get his money back. But, what say you and me go have us a good time on his dime? I’ve seen that pretty little ass in the air a couple of times. I’d treat you real good.”
I reached for him again and, if I hadn’t bee
n holding Candi, I would’ve gotten him. Instead, he jammed the gun in my face and says, “All right, pokey bait, you try that again and I’ll blow you away, and drag that crippled piece of ass out of here by her hair.”
“Okay,” I said, and turned Candi to the door.
“Take me to the money and no funny business,” he spat.
“Okay Rosales, I don’t want any trouble. I’ll return Angelo’s money. Just leave me alone,” Candi said softly, defeat thick in her voice. I hoped my bone-headed play was gonna work.
“Take him to the money.” She gave me a trusting look.
We left the stairwell and walked or hobbled up the hallway and across the lobby. I saw Dick Weeks sprawled over the front desk as we passed.
“You Sonofabitch,” I spat, giving Rosales a dirty look.
I led them to the bank of mailboxes nearest the door to the mailroom.
“What’s this?” Rosales asked, confused.
“You want the money, I need my key to the mailroom,” I said flatly.
He was a little close with that .45 for my liking, so I unloaded Candi in his direction. She collapsed right into him, throwing him off balance.
Danger quick, I pulled open the mailbox marked Security, reached inside, behind the key ring, and closed my hand around the handgrips of an ancient .32 caliber revolver.
Rosales shoved Candi to the ground and raised his .45, as I brought that old .32 to bear. The cavernous marble lobby crackled with gunfire.
He fired two rounds.
I fired only one.
That slow moving raw lead .32 tore a dime-sized hole through his neck, severing the carotid artery on its way through.
His bullets punched neat holes in the wooden Mail Room sign that hung two feet above my head.
Rosales crashed to the floor where he bled out in a gasping, gagging heap.
I helped Candi get up and we met the cops at the door. When it was all said and done I took Candi up to my place, and I gave her the business. Then she gave me the business. We were at it until we collapsed in what I thought was mutual satisfaction.
Sometime in the seventh inning stretch, I dozed off and Candi slipped out. That would have been a great way to cut that broad off, but she lifted my keys on the way out.
Next thing I know, somebody is beating on my door like—well, like it’s the cops. I pulled on my shorts and went to have a man to meatbag chat with the culprit. I unlocked the door and jerked it open. And who was standing there? None other than Patrol Supervisor Mark Spitz, and Mike Lewis, shitbag detective—crooked bastard.
Spitz says, “What can you tell me about your relationship with Candace Pinkerton?” He held out that morning’s edition of the Champion City News Sun.
The morning paper showed photos of Candi and Antonio Rosales as they were in life, with brief and unceremonious explanations of their deaths. It turned out that William “Bull” McCaffrey didn’t wake up dead after all. He stumbled up to a black and white parked under a bridge, where he nearly scared a sleeping patrolman half to death. His statement and the statements of the barkeeps and waitresses we encountered at The Grille, White Walls, and The Truck Stop painted a clear picture that supported my statement. It was Dick Weeks who witnessed Candi exiting through the lobby, and getting into my car, that saved me from a ride downtown.
It turns out that after she hooked my keys, Candi drove my car to White Walls to clean out the safe. At some point, some drone from the outfit either walked in on her, or met her getting out of the car. The District 1 patrol unit found her body in my car, parked across the street from the bus station. The duffle bag, which supposedly held her retirement fund, was nowhere to be found. All the money she had on her was $160.00, enough for a ticket to Chicago.
I don’t know how I feel about it really. There was something about her, but she was never really up front about a lot of what was going on. My Supervisor was bent way out of shape, as was the lieutenant, so I’ll be reassigned to my same beat on the overnight shift. Good thing I’m off tomorrow.
Damn! That day was like a week in hell.
You have just finished reading
A WEEK IN HELL
By J. Walt Layne
Edited by David White
Copy Editor- Dave Brzeski
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock
Submissions Editor-Barry Reese
Director of Corporate Operations-Morgan Minor
Global Relations and Accountability Coordinator- Beth Alvarez
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers
Cover Art by Terry Pavlet
Book Design, Layout, and Additional Graphics by Sean E. Ali
E-book Design by Russ Anderson
Visit the Pro Se Press website at http://www.prosepulp.com for more New Pulp novels and short story collections
Pro Se Productions, LLC
133 1/2 Broad Street
Batesville, AR, 72501
870-834-4022
[email protected]
http://www.prosepulp.com