by Blackie Noir
The Widowmaker grins, “That your problem Ray Bob, broken heart?”
Dropping the other ankle, Ray Bob says, “Yeah, that’s it. Pain in my heart, that’s the problem.”
The Widowmaker’s .357 bucked in his hand, sending the 140 grain Silvertip hollowpoint slug smashing its way through Ray Bob’s sternum, heart, and spine, tearing a grapefruit sized hole in his back, and slamming him to the ground.
Turning, aiming his revolver between Wolf’s eyes, the Widowmaker says, “Problem solved. Now, you got one too?”
His hands at shoulder height, palms out, Wolf says, “Hold on. Be cool here. I’m unarmed. But, problems? No sir, no problem, no sir. Hey buddy, don’t git riled. I got no problem.”
“You’re wrong.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ve got the biggest problem of all.”
“What?”
“You came to a gunfight, didn’t bring a gun.”
#
When Satana heard the second shot she didn’t even flinch. Not like the first shot, when she’d almost gone into a convulsion. Only her, still strong, sense of survival had kept her flat on the ground, feigning unconsciousness. Even so, her eyelids had sprung open just at the moment Ray Bob’s body had landed next to her. Her face now inches away from that of her dead attacker, Satana had been mesmerized by the flow of blood from Ray Bob’s mouth, the emptiness in his eyes.
Her fascination ended when the two men standing over her began a terse conversation. Closing her eyes, listening, she prepared herself for the next shot. That there would be another shot, Satana had no doubt. As to who would fire it, and who would remain among the quick, she could only hope that the newcomer, whoever the fuck he was, would prevail. If such was the case, Satana might get out of this alive. She’d have a chance. Granted, it was a slim one, but a chance non the less. More than she’d had only two minutes ago.
The proximity of violent death had acted as an accelerant to the flame of Satana’s newfound craving for the square life. The opportunity to resume her life as Sally Brown had never seemed so enticing. She now viewed life as the sacred gift it was. The prospect of living it, far from filth and degradation, a treasure. Unfortunately, Sally Brown couldn’t get her through this situation. Sally had neither the street smarts, the will, or the fortitude of her alter ego. She’d need to rely on Satana until the last shot had been fired, the smoke had cleared, and the final drop of blood had been spilled.
#
Two shots, two bodies. Batting 1000. Squatting down next to Wolf, curiosity compels the Widowmaker to pat the body down. Lifting the man’s ratty flannel shirt, he isn’t surprised to see a S&W revolver, probably a .38, tucked into his belt. Sheathed on the belt is a large knife, judging by the handle, a K-Bar. Dude had his shit, just didn’t have the stones to go for it. Not that the Widowmaker had given him the opportunity.
Already knowing Ray Bob’s status weapon-wise, the Widowmaker ignores him, shifts his attention to the woman. Standing, he continues to stare down at her. No readily discernable movement. Taking a step closer, bending slightly, the Widowmaker focuses on her back. Yeah, there it is. She’s breathing. Slow, shallow, measured breaths. So, she’s alive. Good enough. Long as she doesn’t do anything stupid, like turn over and look at his face, she can keep breathing.
Straightening, he slowly turns, a full 360, checking out his surroundings. Cool. Quiet. Just him, the dancer, and three dead dudes. Everything copasetic. Tucking his revolver away, he heads for his truck. Walking, checking his watch, he is unconcerned about possible passersby. This time of morning the area is as dead as Vito, Wolf, and Ray Bob. He remembered over a decade ago when JuicyTown had been a longshoremen’s bar called Doyle’s Dust Up. Shooting pool there. Better times, at least for the Widowmaker. Reaching his truck, the Widowmaker felt secure. Omnipotent.
His ascent to euphoria interrupted by thoughts of the woman, the Widowmaker looks back at her. Hasn’t moved an inch. She’d taken some heavy duty abuse, perhaps sustained severe injury. Hell, he’d take the minor risk and place a 911 call, once he was out of here. Satisfied, he grins, takes out the .22. Staring down at the small handgun he nods. Fuck yeah. Why not?
Pushing off the truck, he starts back toward the carnage. Hey, fucking Widowmaker kills right? Two of them. Can’t count Vito, even though he’d been the original target, he’d been wasted by Ray Bob. The Widowmaker had never been one to take credit for another man’s work. But, shit, neither had he been one to hide his own light under a bucket.
Ray Bob and Wolf, on the strength of their actions alone, surely qualified as bona-fide Widowmaker targets. Who knew what that evil pair of scumbags had planned for the dancer once they had successfully abducted her. Well, they’d been stopped. Stopped by him, the Widowmaker. He knew it, and soon enough so would the rest of the world.
Squatting over Ray Bob, he looks over into the woman’s face. Even before sustaining tonight’s despoiling damage, she’d borne the signatures of many fast, hard years. He hadn’t rescued a princess. All the better.
Watching her eyes, he can see them flicking, rapid fire, back and forth, beneath closed lids. Putting the .22 to Ray Bob’s temple, he speaks to her, “Listen up lady, you’ve done just fine so far. Keep your eyes closed, and you’ll be home before daybreak.”
The sharp crack of the Widowmaker’s .22 is all but lost to two pairs of eardrums whose sensitivity has recently been compromised by the blast of his .357. Stepping over Ray Bob, and the dancer, he squats again, places the .22 to Wolf’s temple, fires. Done. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Signed, that was the important part. Important because these kills were different, different method, different weapon, and . . . What else? Witness. He was leaving a witness. Or was he?
Maybe not. Looking down at the .22, he thinks; a witness, bad idea. Stupid. Putting the .22 an inch from the point where the woman’s spine meets her skull, he knows that this would be the better idea. Another squeeze of the trigger, just one more, all it would take to put this worry to rest. His safety would be guarantied. One squeeze, he’d be safe.
Yeah, he’d be safe. But then he wouldn’t be the Widowmaker, would he? He’d be Wolf. He’d be Ray Bob. He’d be any one of a thousand mad-dog motherfuckers killing at will; preying on the afflicted, the helpless, the abandoned, just for the fuck of it. He wasn’t a good man, but, he was better than that. His armor might not be shining, but he wouldn’t tarnish it further with innocent blood.
Reaching over to the woman’s neck, he places his fingers on the carotid artery. Fast, strong, pulse. Voice low, tone gentle he says, “I’m leaving now. These men would have taken your life. Why, I don’t know. Maybe they had a reason, maybe it was a good one. Maybe they were just evil, your pain would have been their joy. Doesn’t matter, they won’t bother you again. My gift to you. That, and your life. Now, just nod your head if you hear me.”
No nod. No words, no acknowledgement of any kind. Good. Shows she’s not a fucking moron. She’s got enough balls to hang tough through all of this, she probably won’t have any trouble, keeping silent, riding out any Q&A the cops can put her through. If she wants to.
Still gentle, he says, “I’m not a fool. Your pulse has tripled since I started talking. That tells me you’re conscious, hearing everything I say. It’s OK you’re not trusting, you’re smart and that’s better. Stay smart, keep your eyes closed till I’m gone. You can repay my gifts to you, with the gift of your silence. I’ll make a call, send you some help.”
She couldn’t help it. As she heard his boots grinding the gravel, ever more distant, Satana cracked first one eye, then two. Not wide, just slits, but wide enough. She saw the man, her champion. Saw his truck. She would forget neither. Shit, the dude was a guy she’d have remembered under any circumstances. Though his ride was ordinary, he drove away in a battered pickup, her savior was anything but. If she gave his description to the cops, they’d probably grab his ass in less than twenty-four hours.
Not to worry hero mine. Nobody: c
ops, doctors, friends, no-fucking-body, would ever hear of her rescuer. When the cops got here, started with their questions, she’d give one story, one story only. Same fucking one, over and again. No matter what. They could break her legs, lock her up, whatever, they’d get the same story. Short, sweet, and simple. Good part was most of her tale would be the stone truth. All true, up until Wolf and Ray Bob started dragging her away. After that, it would be, ‘sorry officer, but I was out like a light from the time they caught me and started beating on me. Don’t know what happened. When I woke up I was knee high in dead guys.’
That was it, her new mantra. Luckily, she’d been clean and sober for a year. She could withstand the rigors of an intense interrogation without being pummeled by the multiple agonies of alcohol and crystal-meth withdrawal. No way she’d be ratting out her hero. When the cops got here she’d be ready.
When the cops got here. Damn! What the fuck was she thinking?
Laying there, between two dead maniacs, waiting for the law to arrive; cuff her, take her away, and begin grilling her. She didn’t really think they’d treat her as an innocent victim, hospital bed and sympathy, did she? With her rap sheet? Dream on, girl. She didn’t have to stay, what was holding her? Her pain? Shit, let’s check it out.
Pushing up to her hands and knees, Satana fights off a surge of nausea. Making it to her feet, she staggers under an attack of vertigo before finding her balance. Rubbing foot against foot, she removes her pumps. Bending to retrieve the shoes, she is staggered once again by a wave of dizziness. This time she drops to her knees. Taking a few deep breaths, sharp pain and a clicking noise in her back where ribs meet the spine, she regains her equilibrium.
Standing; this time she’s gonna make it goddamn it, she feels strong. At least strong enough to do what needs to be done. Her mouth, face, and head are one huge parcel of pain. But she’ll deal with it. Shoes in hand, she takes her first timorous steps. The pain of gravel on bare feet is minor compared to her overall agony. Piece of cake. Picking up speed and confidence with every step, stopping momentarily to retrieve her blond fall, Satana heads for her Camero.
She reaches Vito, gargantuan proportions somehow reduced in death, lying crumpled in the dirt. Picking up her purse, looking down at Vito’s bulk, Satana feels no remorse, nothing even close. Well, at least she doesn’t spit on him. Call it respect for the dead. More respect than he deserved. Epitaph? Live by the sword . . .
Hobbling past the body she stops. Time for some clear thought. She’s on her own here. God bless her hero, her rescuer. But, what if he changes his mind? Thinks she’ll roll over on him, and consequently considers her a liability. If the slayer of Wolf and Ray Bob came gunning for her, her ice-pick wouldn’t cut it. She’d need some serious fire-power. Vito’s .380, serious enough.
By the time she had the pistol snug in her purse, Satana realized that Vito, more useful in death than he’d ever been in life, could provide even more assistance. The cash box Vito had placed under the counter, she’d watched him count out over four grand into that box as she waited for him. She needed that money, but she’d have to move quickly, especially if her savior hadn’t been bullshitting about sending help.
Moving well now, activity having loosened her sore, bruised, muscles somewhat, Satana is relieved when her feet switch from walking on gravel to the cool, smooth, tile flooring of JuicyTown’s interior. Securing the tin box and its loot from under the counter, she flashes -- why not? What the fuck? It’s worth a shot.
Really moving now, fuck the pain, she sprints across the room, then down a narrow corridor to Vito’s office. Straight to the safe, dropping to her knees, Satana closes her eyes, mutters a prayer of desperation, and places her hand on the safe’s handle. Please. Puleeze! Shit. She can’t believe the lazy fucker locked it. Fuck.
Furious, Satana gives the big lever a final furious wrench. Bing-fuckin-go! It turned. All right! And . . . Behind door number one, we have . . . Ledgers, note books, box of .380 shells, and? Five stacks of old bills, secured by rubber bands. Oh, yes.
Eyes frantic, she scans the room. On the tattered couch, huge plastic shopping bag from ‘Big & Tall.’ Seconds later, after dumping a half dozen tent-like shirts on the couch, Satana is throwing all: tin strong box, her purse, fall, shoes, .380 shells, stacks of cash, into the bag. C’mon girl, move. Move. Move!
Fuck! She can’t believe it. All this, all that has gone down tonight. All that she has been through. Her incredible run of luck. And now, motherfucking Camero. Cranking, cranking, refusing to start. Get. A. Grip. She is alive. That’s what counts. Even if the law pulled up, right now, busted her, she was still ahead of the game. Think. Intelligence, not panic. What to do? You need getaway wheels. Only temporary. Well? How about Vito’s Escalade?
Smiling, warming to the idea, Satana feels a sharp twinge of disappointment when, finally, the Camero starts with a roar. OK baby, all is forgiven. Good girl. Momma’s gonna get you a new battery tomorrow. Maybe some new teeth for momma while we’re at it. Twin geysers of gravel spray out from under Satana’s spinning rear wheels, as she peals out across the lot.
Acquiescent, the copses of Vito, Ray Bob, and Wolf, accept their harsh anointment of rock, sand, and dirt.
Chapter Sixteen
Nadine loved it. Magenta riot of bougainvillea spilling across the roof, dropping down the porch posts of her rented cottage, providing a vivid splash of color in contrast to the darkness of the eucalyptus trees bracing either side of the small dwelling. Rays of early morning sun intensified the glorious image her eye framed as she walked down the drive leading to her home.
Then, a glitch. The tableau disrupted. What’s wrong with this picture? Simple. There’s a man, an unfamiliar man, set smack dab in the middle, ruining the montage.
Nadine didn’t know who the guy was, and she didn’t care. Six in the morning wasn’t the time of day for a total stranger to be sitting on her meager front porch. The cigarette butts at his feet indicated he had made himself at home. Gripped by post Chuey Medina paranoia, she is grateful for the handgun in her fanny-pack. Adjusting the pack from her butt to her belly, Nadine unzips the flap and slides her hand inside.
Reassured, her fingers wrapped around the .22’s hard rubber grips, she walks to within ten feet of the man before she stops. Looking down on her visitor she says, “Lost?”
By the look of him the guy very well could be. Rumpled, the man could almost pass for a derelict, if derelicts still wore suits. Although the suit is clean, wrinkled but clean, Nadine can’t tell if its color is dark blue, gray, or a faded black. Not to mention, double-breasted, wide lapels? C’mon. But, she was forced to admit, the suit did go with the hat.
Fedora. Nobody wore fedoras anymore, did they?
Shoes? Wing-tips, what else?
Thankfully, the tie that fronted the dark maroon shirt was medium width, basic black. How her retro-fashioned visitor had managed the restraint to avoid the double-wide, hula-girl sporting, tie that his ensemble demanded Nadine couldn’t begin to guess.
Returning her stare, the guy pulls out a cigarette and, lighting it with a chrome Zippo, blows smoke up at her. Squinting around a nose that resembles Nadine’s own before she’d had it fixed, he says, “Nadine Kozok?”
Fuck. She doesn’t know if she should respond with gales of laughter, or just dismiss this clown. No, be kind. The guy’s addled, got to be. Deciding on humor, Nadine searches for a voice. That 40’s movie tough guy, not Bogart, the little one. Fast moving, fast talking, voice a high pitched rasp. Cagney, that’s the dude. Impressions are not her forte, none the less, Nadine, rolling her shoulders, twisting her face, says, “Who’s askin? Eh?”
Deadpan, eyes hard, the man replies, “Johnny Vance”
Eyeballing his attire, speaking in her own voice, Nadine says, “Sure it’s not Johnny Vintage?”
Slowly unfolding his lanky frame, Johnny Vance rises to loom over Nadine. Offering his knobby-knuckled hand, he says, “I knew I was gonna like you --- partner.”
Ignoring Vance’s hand, choosing to keep her gun hand tight around her revolver, she says, “You’re Detective Vancetti?”
“Johnny Vance around the department. Detective Vancetti, that’s for citizens. What about you Kozok? You rude? Gonna leave my hand sticking out here like I’m panhandling?”
“You’re Vancetti, how about you show me some ID.”
“Fine.” Producing a battered leather badge wallet, similar to Nadine’s pristine version, he flips it open revealing his gold shield and ID card.
“OK. I’ve been a little edgy lately,” Nadine says, “so I appreciate your doing that.”
“Enough to shake my hand?”
“Sure, but it’ll have to wait till I grab a shower. I’ve been out running, I’m wringing wet, my top, shorts, no place to even wipe my palm.”
Vance grins, “Don’t worry about it, but if you’ve got to have a shower, better make it a quick rinse. We’re pressed for time.”
Looking at his watch, he says, “I’ll give you fifteen minutes, then I’m out of here.”
“Excuse me? I don’t know what your hurry is, but I’m still off duty. Not due to report in till Monday. Tell you what Vance, I have no idea why you’re here or what you’re talking about, but you can take your fifteen minutes and leave without me. Go.”
Dropping his cigarette butt to the walk, Vance says, “Listen to me . . .”
Livid, Nadine says, “No. You listen to me. Fuck this shit. I come home from a kick-ass run, feeling great. Terrific way to start to my day. But no, what do I find on my doorstep? An aging Robert Loggia sprawled on my porch, covering my walkway with cigarette butts. Who the fuck you think cleans up around here, Mega Maid?”
“Look . . .”
“No! You look. Fifteen minutes for a quick shower? The minute you introduce yourself you start ordering me around? Where do you get off, pulling that kind of shit? Another thing . . .”