Life Among the Dead (Book 4): The End
Page 2
“Hey, KB, want to have some fun?” The woman that had excitedly pointed out her own likeness on the screen has a young man by his belt.
“Eww,” her friend responds.
“Suit yourself,” the short haired woman pulls the man out of the bar behind her like a dog.
“We’re heading to the pool, KB. You in?” another friend asks as the party dissipates.
“No thanks. I’m going to give Rocky some time. Then, I’m turning in.”
The blonde is left all alone except for a troubled looking man at one end of the bar and a relaxed black man on the other that raises his glass to her when their eyes meet, a sign of solidarity in their solitude. Killer B stares passively at the television that has been switched from the little known sports network that broadcasts the league to the news. She wonders how long Rocky will need, it usually depends on the man in question’s stamina.
“Buy you a drink?” a well-dressed, older man asks as he takes the stool next to her, making sure she sees the thickness of his billfold as he places his order.
Her glass is nearly full. “No, thank you.”
“How about some company instead?” He eases his seat closer to her.
Killer B politely leans away from him. “I was actually enjoying some alone time.”
“Me too. No reason we can’t enjoy some alone time together.”
His statement is absurd, but she has certainly heard worse lines. She glances at him and finds him to be familiar, she knows his face.
“I’m in town for the Republican convention. Political talk and heated debate always makes me thirsty, among other things. I’m looking for a little companionship for the evening. I’m willing to pay, I pay more for discretion.”
The man casually taps his full wallet on the bar, if Killer B wasn’t struggling to place his name she’d be offended by his assumption that she is a prostitute. His identity is on the tip of her tongue. She feels she is close to naming him until his face appears on the local news. The bartender has turned the volume down since Rocky’s departure, the man sitting beside her is on the screen in a silent tirade, red in the face.
“Oh, you’re Paul Coburn! I’ve seen you on TV before,” she tells the man propositioning her.
“I’m sure you have. Are you a fan?”
“Not really,” The blonde says plainly. “I love your wife though, what’s her name again?”
“Jennifer,” he repentantly answers.
“Give her my best when you call her tonight,” Killer B tells the man with a smile as she leaves him alone at the bar with his shame.
Paul Coburn stares into his glass. The patrons of the bar have dwindled to just himself and a black man who is casually walking his way from where he had sat before the blonde left.
“Notorious GOP,” the man greets coolly. “She was a lot nicer than most women would have been, showed real class as you brandished your wealth and fame like an extension of your dick.”
The political spokesman stiffens his posture, regretting that he had sent his security detail away for the evening when he saw the sexy blonde he thought was a sure thing.
“Weren’t you spouting off just this afternoon about the sanctity of marriage?” the black man continues.
“You saw the convention?” Paul tries not to sound too surprised.
“Oh, I’m a big fan of bigots, hypocrites, and double standards. I really love the part where you bashed the idea of gays marrying, now I see you here about to sully the institute.”
He’s black, a liberal, and gay! Paul thinks with horror. He’s the perfect storm. He tells himself not to show fear, like dealing with a bear in the woods. He knows he must stand his ground and finish his drink.
“Do you ever actually listen to yourself while you’re screaming to be heard over your opponents?”
“Well…”
“You call it debate, all it sounds like is a tantrum. A blowhard spouting off about morality yet doesn’t practice what he’s preaching.”
All Paul Coburn can do is down his drink and run. He can’t have another altercation leaking out to the liberal media.
“Have a good night, sir,” the black man bids him farewell as Paul escapes to his room alone to call his wife.
3
“He’s clear, boss.”
Gil Price is allowed to enter room 402 after a rather invasive pat down by a very large man.
“I’m not expecting any trouble out of Mr. Price, Angelo. You and the boys can relax. I’ll call ya if I need ya.”
The mobster waits for his men to leave him alone with his guest before commencing with their appointed business. He holds a hand tightly over his stomach, he’d blame the room service cuisine if he didn’t know the true cause, stress. He may not let it show but he is afraid, you don’t cross a man like Benito Sartori and get away with it. He is not only the reason the capo is locked up, the lieutenant is the reason he will stay locked up. He supplied the don with blueprints of the prison for his escape, an outdated copy that will lead him nowhere but solitary with an extended sentence.
“This is it?” Price inspects the merchandise. He holds the vile of green slime to the light, it hardly looks like the miracle cure-all that has made Wilkes Pharmaceuticals so much money helping so many people.
“Sure is. Take it to your lab. Check it out. Do whatever it is you smart guys do. That’s your side of Mercott and Price isn’t it? You do all the brainy stuff.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Price defends.
“Sure there is,” the mobster concedes as he inspects his windfall. He figures he has no need to count it since guys like Gil Price never dare to short change guys like him. They have the cash to spare, only this is not exactly his. His side of Mercott & Price is the brain work, it's the Mercott side, his wife’s family, that funds his research. “Do you recognize this room, Mr. Price?”
Of course Gil knows the room, it’s the exact suite where his indiscretion occurred. He wonders how his affair was captured but can’t bring himself to ask, he just wants to get out of this hotel. “I want the negatives.”
“Negatives?” the mobster laughs. His laughter builds until tears form in his eyes and he must sit down on his bed. His chest feels tight as he tries to find his breath. “No one uses film anymore!”
“How do I know you deleted the pictures?”
“I guess, you just have to trust me,” the man pants. He’s sweating from the unexpected hilarity and still having trouble catching his breath. The air seems thicker. He struggles to gulp it in as if he can’t get enough oxygen. Gil Price watches as a grimace of panic forms on the man’s face, right before he collapses to the floor.
4
After a few aimless laps around the fountain in the lobby and a visit to the pool to see her teammates splashing in the water with some of the guys they met at the bar, Killer B finds herself standing outside her own room. She should have killed more time, Rocky is still in there with her most recent conquest.
The Pivot leans against the wall and waits for her Captain to finish. The raucous liaison embarrasses her whenever someone walks past, but she hasn’t anywhere else to go. All she can do is look at the floor and try not to hear what’s transpiring inside.
“Hi, I’m looking for Rocky Roadkill,” a voice startles her.
Killer B looks up in an instant, while the woman in question moans and shouts orders beyond the closed door. She had been avoiding eye contact with the passersby. It takes a second to focus on the face she meets in the hall, the coach of Pornstar Galactica, also one of Rocky’s ex-flames.
“She’s a little busy at the moment,” Killer B hitches a thumb to the door.
“Oh,” he says, knowing firsthand what that means. “I know I just saw you at the match, but you look familiar.”
“I signed your cast.”
The man had once dated Rocky Roadkill, been on the receiving end of epic romps such as what is happening beyond the door, and of a very bad break-up. “That’s right.”
“Its fine,” he assures her, though she is opening an old wound. “I didn’t want to play for the Bruins anyway. At least this new gig with the league pays better than the minors.”
The door opens suddenly so Rocky’s random lay can be pushed out holding his clothes. “Thanks. That was great,” she tells him dispassionately.
“Finally!” Killer B says on her way into the room.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Rocky asks her ex, the last person she was expecting, or wanted, to see.
“Gross, Rocky!” Killer B complains from their shared room. “On my bed? Again?”
Rocky closes the door, sealing her disappointed Pivot in their room so she can confront her one time boyfriend alone.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
“’Bout?”
“The commissioners and I are upset over what happened tonight.”
“Our winning?” she asks acting innocent and hurt.
“Thai Fighter,” he corrects her.
“Fuck Thai Fighter!” Rocky exclaims. The man looks away, just for an instant but it’s enough to speak volumes to her. “You already have.”
“That’s not the point,” he assures.
“As if I care. I’d much rather ride my pick-ups like Mr. Breckinridge you just met.” Rocky always dubs her conquests with the town they are bedded in until they are replaced by a new one, or simply forgotten.
“The league wants you off the track!” he gets to the point. “You can coach, but you aren’t to play anymore.”
“Why? Because we win?”
“You’re a liability.”
“That’s bullshit!”
“Your overzealous aggression!” he pointedly says. “The injuries!”
“That’s derby!” she counters.
“Not this derby. The decision’s been made. There’s nothing you can do.”
Rocky Roadkill lives for the brawl, now it’s being taken from her. She already feels as if a piece of her is missing. “Fine,” she numbly accepts her fate.
“I’m sorry it has…”
“Get the fuck outta here!”
From a bone jarring slam of the door, Rocky heads to the room’s mini-fridge for her bottle of booze. She downs the remains, unable to believe that her benching has only to do with her actions tonight. She thinks it has to be with their winning, a conspiracy to give these centerfold cunts a fighting chance. They all but told her to take a dive tonight, now they are handicapping Man’s Ruin. She can’t fight the decision, if she tries they’ll just boot her whole team, they need this. She’ll have to find a new player and watch from the sidelines, she’ll just have to accept it.
A bottle shattering against the wall startles Killer B. She looks to Rocky where she seethes. “You all right, Rocky?”
“Peachy,” she answers unconvincingly. “I gotta shower. Be a lamb and get me another bottle.” Rocky locks herself in the bathroom, where most may cry she refuses to give them that power. She resolves to train her girls even harder, to be ruthless like her. It’s survival of the fittest, she tells herself. We’re still gonna be great!
5
Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. The streets of Breckinridge should be silent, instead sirens can be heard. A man in a red suit drops his bell into his charity kettle and calls it a night. He’s been working hard for a good cause and it’s time to retire, but not before a drink.
He feels something in the air, something odd. For a Sunday there are an awful lot of ambulances and police cars wailing in the night.
“Evening, Santa,” the night clerk of the Hammond Suites greets the familiar visitor and receives only a mittened wave as a response.
This time of year Santa avoids his usual haunts when dressed as he is. He heads for the bar knowing he won’t see anyone that may recognize him.
“Usual, Santa?” the bartender asks.
“…so, I came here for a girl, only to meet a different girl…” a young man prattles to the barkeep. “I mean, she is much different… she knows her.”
The youth has pointed out a blonde that leans on the far end of the bar. Like a deer caught in the headlights, she can only stare wide-eyed. She’s arrived at the wrong moment. “Bottle of vodka, please,” she recovers, just wanting to get back to her room as soon as possible.
“You girls are going to drink me out of business,” the bartender jokes. “Any particular brand?”
“Nope, whatever you have.”
The blonde avoids the young man’s gaze while she waits for the bartender to retrieve a brand new bottle from the back. It’s no use, he’s closing in on her.
“KB, did Rocky mention me at all?” he asks, his voice thick with hope.
“No,” Killer B quickly breaks the news. “But, I never ask for details.”
“I left her my number,” he explains. “She’ll call, right?”
“No. She’ll never call you, sweetie.” To her teammates, Killer B is a saint. She puts up with Rocky’s behavior and takes care of her like a mother tends to a child.
“Really? It seemed like we had hit it off very, very well.”
“I’m sure you did,” Killer B tries to ease the ego of the man Rocky will refer to as Mr. Breckinridge for the next few days. She’s done this before, in countless cities, for countless men that become enamored by Rocky’s aggressive sexual nature. “But, what you had is all it will ever be. Rocky isn’t the sort to… she had fun, don’t get me wrong. I know she enjoyed herself, but that’s all it was for her.”
She tried to break it as gently as possible, yet she watches the young man’s heart break. His optimistic puppy love is euthanized, put to sleep before it can grow into something else. Bottle in hand, Killer B drops enough cash on the bar to cover it before retreating back to her room as fast as possible.
Mr. Breckinridge slumps on his stool beside Santa, across from the smug looking bartender. He wishes he could just play it off, say something to assure these men that he’s already over it, but he can’t. All he can do is pay his tab and make for his room. If that was the real Santa, he thinks, trying to find the lighter side of his heartache. And he was able to see all the naughty stuff Rocky and I did. I’m getting a lump of coal this year for sure.
6
“Excuse me, Mr…” Gil Price realizes he never caught the name of the scary man on the floor of the suite he once held an illicit affair in. “Mr. Mob Guy?”
He feels for a pulse but isn’t able to find one, leaving him to wonder, “Is this good or bad?” The guy is dead. He can leave with the sample and his money. One of his biggest concerns has been how to explain the substantial missing sum should his wife notice. “That’s one problem solved,” he says over the corpse.
He has people, Price remembers the goons. People that will miss him, and retaliate. He sits on the bed at a loss as to what to do now, he just knows he must do something. I should just take the sample and leave the cash. That was the deal. He has a golden opportunity to help millions, and make millions. Why not do it for free, take the cash so Ramona doesn’t notice. His wife’s name clinches it, with this guy no longer able to send candid pictures he knows he’s safe. That just leaves the matter of the body.
The man was shady, he can’t imagine that it might be beyond his ilk to skip out on his men, leave the country without paying them for services rendered. He had dismissed them for the night, said he’d call if he needed them.
The man’s luggage backs up his claim that he planned to leave the country, a massive rolling case. Price hefts it onto the bed and unzips it. The expensively tailored suits that were packed so neatly are crammed into laundry bags provided by the hotel. Everything is removed; socks, underwear, toiletries, a pistol with a silencer, and a few bottles of prescription medicine. Everything goes into the plastic bags except for the gun in case he runs into the goons and a shaving kit that just won’t fit.
Now all he has to do is stuff the heavyset man into his own suitcase.
The limp corpse unwittingly resists Price’s efforts, flopping opposite to where he is placed. It takes a few attempts to get the man’s torso stuffed into the bottom of the case. It’s a snug fit, his head is craned at a painful looking angle into the corner. The arms and legs are the next problem, the man is so girthy Price can’t get them all in at the same time. When Price tries to get all the limbs in one pops out, he must juggle and stuff them until he gets the cover closed, even with all his weight on the suitcase he can’t get the zipper to go around.
Gil Price must step back to think this through. He feels hot under the collar and frustrated, sweat beads on his forehead. “If only his arms and legs had a few extra bends.” It dawns on him what he’ll have to do.
The elbows and knees will have to bend differently. Price holds the mobster’s leg to his chest and braces himself for what he’s about to do. He won’t feel it, the desperate man tells himself before forcing the joint against its normal range of motion.
A chill runs through Gil’s body after hearing the sickening crack and feeling the tendons give. “Oh, my god!” he exclaims yet knows it isn’t over yet. The way he plans on packing he needs to be able to stuff the man’s legs alongside him, and the arms will have to be laced on top of his chest as neatly as possible.
After three more grisly snaps Price is able to get the zipper to go around the bag. He checks the room for any items that may be left behind, using one of the dead man’s socks as a glove to prevent leaving any prints. He’s not thinking since his prints are already all over the room from his previous visit, among other traces of evidence. The drawers are empty, the bathroom is clear. He needs to go to the lobby to snag a luggage cart without running into the guy’s men or looking too suspicious. He needs to take everything out of the hotel to give the illusion the mobster just took off in the night. “Simple.”
7
The shower cuts out. Killer B waits outside the bathroom with Rocky’s bottle. She wants to turn in for the night, but won’t be able to sleep until she knows what happened between her friend and her ex.