I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2)

by Tony Monchinski

  “Is this guy kidding me?” Cassidy took his eyes off the kid, not giving him the audience he wanted. Maybe if it wasn’t the same song over and over again…

  Sully sat on the other side of Johnny, his hands folded on the bar, toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

  “Nigger won’t even look at me,” Katonah was saying to Anthony Vella down at the end of the bar where Cassidy couldn’t hear him. The Sausage encouraged him: “Yeah, that’s right. Won’t even look at you.”

  Katonah finished his Vodka with one gulp, “Doules!” The alcohol had brought some color to his face, more swag to his bearing, though he needed little help in that department. Tony Katonah standing there at the bar, swaying in place as David Byrne sang in French, Katonah thinking this Cassidy wasn’t all that. Thinking he could take him out if it came to it. Hoping it would come to it.

  “Remind me again,” Cassidy said to Spasso. “Who’s he the nephew of?”

  “Exactly.”

  Sully remained stone-faced, hands on the bar.

  The cue ball cracked against the others, the fans turning slowly overhead. Doules polished his glasses, stopping to answer the phone on the bar.

  When he handed the receiver to Spasso, Johnny listened, said uh-huh, listened, went uh-huh, finally said okay and hung up. The men at the bar looked at Johnny expectantly.

  Spasso nodded and the toothpick hanging from Sully’s jaw straightened. Johnny took one more sip from his soda, “Let’s go.”

  Outside they stood around on the sidewalk, waiting on Bum to bring a car around for them.

  One of the two old guys in the chairs was eye-balling Cassidy, Cassidy looking back over his shoulder once at the man.

  “You want to know what he just said?” Katonah had invited himself along, standing there with the others, his hair all spiked up, a leather coat on top of his rayon shirt. Cassidy was convinced the kid got his eye brows sculpted too.

  “No,” Cassidy said, but Katonah told him anyway: “He just said, what he just said—Ch’a t’possina cachia cchio e ti metto in mano.”

  Nunz looked at Katonah as he said it, unimpressed.

  “Means,” Katonah with a drunken smile, “he’s gonna take your eyes out of your face and put ‘em in your hands. That’s my Uncle.” Proud of the fact. “You know he was asking the boys they could get a bazooka? Now what’s an eighty-somethin’ year old man doin’ wantin’ a bazooka you think?”

  “Where we goin’ anyway?” Cassidy asked Spasso.

  “The Moses Houses.”

  “Niggerville,” blurted Katonah. “You’ll ‘scuse the expression.”

  “No.” Cassidy gave the younger man the attention he’d been after. “I don’t think I will.”

  A dark Dodge van pulled up, Bum Aulisi getting out, squatting down in the street, going to work swapping out the plates.

  “Tony,” Spasso warned Katonah as they got into the van. “He punches you in the mouth, I ain’t gonna say anything.”

  “Why’d he want to do that?”

  Sully adjusted the rear view mirror.

  “Hey Sul,” Katonah held up a CD. “Play this.”

  “No CD player.”

  “I got a cassette too.” Katonah searched inside his leather coat.

  Nunz the Wop whispered something under his breath.

  58.

  7:35 P.M. (CEST)

  “I believe you know my son,” she’d replied, baring her fangs.

  Boone looked at her and shook his head. “Great.” It all made sense now. “Just great.” Once again he was getting cosmically fucked. “Tell you what, if you’re going to kill me, just fucking kill me already.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  The driver continued to look straight ahead, taking the sedan onto a highway.

  Boone stared down between his legs at the leather seats, mumbling under his breath, thinking of Rainford and others he wasn’t finished with yet.

  “What’s that?”

  “Bullshit. I said this is all bullshit.”

  They drove in silence for some time, Boone staring at his hands. When the sedan pulled over and she told him to get out, Boone got out, the chauffeur holding the woman’s door. They were on some secondary road, pulled up near a windmill. Headlights shone on the highway some distance off. The windmill’s blades turned slowly in the night.

  Spotting Stash standing there, Boone breathed a sigh of relief.

  When Stash showed up, the situation was never good, but the ghost had this way of stepping in every time Boone’s life was in danger and lending a hand.

  Boone waved at Stash but the apparition remained where it was.

  “I have a theory.” Kreshnik’s mother looked from Boone to the revolver in her hand, like she was mulling some decision. “It’s probably nothing, but perhaps not.” She aimed the revolver straight at Boone’s face. “Would you help me test it out?”

  “The fuck?” Boone looked past her to Stash just standing there staring back at him, Stash doing nothing. “Well what?” He demanded of the apparition only he could see. “You gonna do somethin’ then?”

  She thought he was talking to her. “You knew my son.” She cocked the revolver. “And I think you know my ex-husband.” She steadied the .44. “He called me Elizaveta.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  Boom!

  Boone went down, most of the top of his head a mishmash of red, grey matter and skull shards strewn in the dirt. Elizaveta lowered the revolver and waited, watching the unmoving body.

  Arms crossed, her chauffer shifted his weight from one foot to the next.

  “No,” she remarked to the night after some time had passed, “No, I guess I was wrong.” She returned to the car, her driver holding the door open for her, leaving the body where it lay.

  The windmill blades turned lazily in the evening air.

  About the Author

  Tony Monchinski, PhD, is a high school teacher in New York State. His other novels include Eden and Crusade, both published by Permuted Press. Tony, who would like to hear from readers of I Kill Monsters: Fury (tmonchinski@gmail.com), lives with his family in Peekskill, New York.