Getting Ugly
Page 10
“Hola, my little Fed friend,” says Big Ugly.
“Hi,” says Leon, seething. He fights to control his breathing and pounding heart.
“Seriously, when are you going cease with the shit?”
Leon pulls back the hammer. “Thinking today’s the day.” Leon stops, thrown by Big Ugly’s expression—he almost appears happy. Wants to be shot?
Big Ugly says, “I wanted it to be you, but you had to earn it. Couldn’t just give it to you.”
Leon scans the area. They’ve landed in a room that looks like a high-end hospital room via W Hotel. There’s a king-size adjustable bed, glass cases lined with prescription bottles, syringes, blood tests…way too much medical equipment for the average human being.
Leon gets it. “You’re sick.”
“Understatement of the year.”
“What’s with the private hospital?”
“My body’s a temple.”
Leon inspects some of the drug bottles. “These aren’t TUMS. This is serious medication. What do you have? Cancer? What?”
“Oh, it’s some nasty, nasty shit,” sneers Big Ugly.
Leon spots the handheld surveillance monitor that Big Ugly has been carrying around. It peeks from his suit jacket, strapped to Big Ugly by a shoulder strap. Leon rips it away. He touches the screen, flipping through the different views. On the monitor he sees Chats’s headless body on the basketball court. Swipe. The carnage of Pike at the elevators. Then the kitchen, the brothers, the vault with dead Agent Cooper and, finally, the crew’s Chevy Suburban and Brobee’s Caddie parked on the road outside the woods.
A light bulb goes off for Leon, then explodes. “Nobody gets near here without you knowing about it.” Leon mind plays through events, stringing together his thoughts, the stories he’s heard, the things he knows. Rearranges them in some form of order in an attempt to apply logic where it has no business being used. In his mind’s eye, it starts to play out clear as day.
The country road. Brobee’s stolen Caddie running out of gas, sputtering to a stop near the woods. Leon connects the dots. Brobee stumbled onto Big Ugly by accident, but he could’ve gone in any direction, up or down the road, even stayed at the car.
The Office. Big Ugly sitting in his designer suit in front of his sea of security monitors. He spotted the Caddie, saw Brobee get out of the car. Big Ugly’s eyes slammed into focus, recognizing. Big Ugly raced down the hall passing his staff and hookers, cigar and scotch still in hand.
Big Ugly storming out the door into the night air, checking his handheld surveillance monitor looking at Brobee. He starts to sing at the top of his lungs, wanting to make sure Brobee comes his way. Brobee walks into the woods. Big smile from Big Ugly.
Back into the mansion, Big Ugly glides through the foyer talking with Bobby. “I know you haven’t been yourself,” says Bobby. “Depression is a natural response.”
“Appreciate your concern,” replies Big Ugly.
Big Ugly moves down the line in the formal dining room handing out stacks of money to his staff. He reaches the Doctor. “I’m not leaving here. You need help.”
Big Ugly nods.
Leon eyes flare. “You wanted us to come here.” He stands over Big Ugly, holding the Colt at his side. Big Ugly’s smile still shines through the blood.
“You wanted one last battle.”
“Warriors were made to war, not die in bed.”
“You wanted us to kill you, go down in flames.”
“C’mon, Leon. Don’t pussy out now.” Big Ugly grabs Leon’s gun hand, directing the Colt at his own face. “You’ve dreamed of killing me. Pull that trigger. This is it. Do it. Take it. Get some release, man. Nobody’s been able to take me out. You can be the one. Conquering FBI hero who got his man.”
Big Ugly licks the gun barrel.
Leon is wrapped in complete disbelief. Big Ugly recites an earlier line he used with Bobby. “You know the win/loss record for people who make the big score and retire to the sweet life? One winner and a fucking pissload of losers. I’m the one.”
“No, you’re not,” says Leon with glazed eyes.
“Pardon?”
Leon rips the Colt away from Big Ugly’s puzzled face. Safely lowers the hammer. Shoves his hate down with a better idea. “You don’t get to win. You don’t get to die like a gladiator. No blaze of glory.” Big Ugly works another angle, other buttons to push. “Think, boy. Cooper destroyed my records. Feds got nothing on me.”
“I know.”
“Whatever the fuck Cooper promised you, it died with him.”
“You’re under arrest.”
“You think you can just walk back into your old life? Get fucking real.”
He’s getting to Leon.
“Maybe not,” admits Leon.
“Maybe? Seriously? You’re nothing. You’re a cum stain on a tranny’s skirt.”
Leon starts to raise the gun, so Big Ugly pours it on. “I’ll be out of lockup before I finish my McMuffin, and once I’m out I’m going to run a killing spree that’ll make cancer look like a fun way to check out. I’m a bad man. Baddest motherfucker in the history of bad motherfuckers.” Leon whips the butt of the Colt across Big Ugly’s jaw, putting him on the floor. Ending Big Ugly’s sermon.
Leon leans in close, wants to make sure Big Ugly gets this. “They are going to find you in a house littered with bodies. In particular, three dead cops and an FBI agent. And, oh yeah, millions of unaccounted for dollars that I’ll bet my balls isn’t on your last tax return. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’ll fuckin’ stick, Billy Badass.”
Big Ugly’s stomach drops farther and farther with every word.
“You get to die in a cage you pathetic, silly cunt.” This is the first time Big Ugly’s ever had a sliver of fear in his life. Leon is enjoying this moment, the moment he’s earned. “First day, they’ll probably kick your teeth out so your mouth gives that smooth vagina-like feel.”
Big Ugly panics.
A new side to the scariest man alive.
He jumps at Leon. Twisting the Colt away, he jams it under his own chin attempting to shoot himself. Leon pounces on his back, pushing the gun away at the last second. The shot rings out harmlessly as they struggle for control of the gun.
Fighting against Leon’s grip, Big Ugly uses every fiber of his being trying to stick the gun in his own mouth, fighting to pull the trigger. Dying to kill himself.
Both their faces burn red. Veins pop. Spit flies. Fingers fumble around the trigger.
Odd change in circumstances, one Leon never could have imagined—him trying to save Big Ugly’s life, Big Ugly trying to end it.
Grunts.
Punches.
Profanity.
A gunshot rings out.
Silence…then a crack of thunder.
“Fuck you, Grande Ugly.”
27
The clang of steel sliding shut rattles behind Big Ugly as he walks though the maximum security facility. Draped in an orange jumpsuit, his new identity is stenciled neatly above his breast pocket—he’s just a number now. His hard gaze burns as the bars slam with that unmistakable sound. No longer the untouchable master of darkness in a ten grand suit, today he’s just another guest of the U.S. Correctional System.
In the yard, Big Ugly keeps to himself. Even here he’s confident he has no equal and would rather not mix with the local yokels. From behind Big Ugly, a mix of tattoo-skinned, shaved-head felons move toward him, a gleam twinkles in their eyes.
The smallest one is six four, two sixty, and they are not fans seeking an autograph. Big Ugly has only been here a few days and so far he’s already killed an inmate, paralyzed two, and sent three guards home for some much needed time for healing and reflection. Some of the prison officials unofficially decided that Big Ugly needed “socialization” with other inmates in order to facilitate a smoother transition. They even went as far as to allow this very group of shaved-head felons some extra shop time in order to create something special for the task.
The Guards look the other way.
Big Ugly turns, facing the pack of hostile inmates he finds a defiant grin. He still holds onto his edge, still able to find just the right thing to say to people.
“Who’s fucking first?”
The crazed felons attack.
Big Ugly thinks of Leon.
Leon would enjoy this.
The bluest of water kisses the white sand, sun beaming through the slight, whispering breeze. A gorgeous bikini-clad waitress snakes down the beach of the remote island paradise, delivering a cocktail.
She reaches Leon, who’s sprawled out in a chair like a lazy feline. Healing cuts and scars pepper his face and tanning body. His leg is still strapped in a brace, and his arm hangs in a sling from a gunshot wound.
The waitress hands him a towering Bloody Mary with a sexy smile. Leon digs into the tattered Nike bag that rests in the sand next to his chair, pulling a hundred from under the beach towel on top. The waitress takes the bill, pausing as she notices the dried bloodstains.
“Sorry,” says Leon as he fumbles around, finding her a clean, fresh hundred. He sips the cocktail as he lies back, waving off the change. The waitress thanks him with a smile, her blonde hair rippling in the ocean breeze.
Leon returns the smile then asks, “You know the win/loss record for people who make the big score and retire to the sweet life? One winner and many, many losers.”
She smiles through her confusion. “Que?”
Leon offers a big smile. “I’m the one.”
Leon coughs hard.
Wheezes.
Gasps.
His lungs struggle to find a breath through his closing throat.
The waitress giggles and leans down to Leon’s ear, speaking perfect English. “Sorry, sweetheart.” Leon’s eyes bulge as he grabs his throat, panic spiking as his brain starts to process the very real possibility of dropping dead from lack of oxygen.
The waitress kisses his forehead. Leon notices the small black heart tattoo above her right breast. His mind splits in two.
She’s the blonde ATV driving hooker!
The last thing Leon sees is the blonde pouring the drink into the sand before picking up his Nike bag. She checks the contents, finding his room key along with various papers and a keychain. She proudly walks down the beach, raising the bag above her head as if showing off a trophy or championship belt for all to see.
Just on the horizon, near the water, the other girl, the brunet ATV hooker, stands with her double Ds muted under a tasteful dress. She waits for her girl with a warm smile. She thinks of the time spent in captivity with Big Ugly. It was a rough time, but today she and her girl get what they’ve earned. All that weird shit with that monster of a man took its toll, and most of the girls at the mansion relied heavily on the drugs and booze to get them through the endless days and nights with Big Ugly.
Not the brunet and the blonde.
They paid attention.
To everything.
They took note of the details, of the devil performing those details. They watched Big Ugly, how he got information, how he processed that info, how he did his business. It’s easy to dismiss two hookers with fake double Ds who spread the dumb girl act on thick as molasses while being used so causally for sex.
Now? Today? It’s a much different time.
Their time.
They didn’t leave the woods that day. No, after they gave Big Ugly’s message to Leon and the crew they hung around. They laid low and paid close attention. They watched Leon kill Cooper and take Big Ugly kicking and screaming to the proper law enforcement authorities. They studied Leon’s patterns, tracked the man, picked up the trail that lead them here to this perfect little island paradise.
The blonde reaches her love, Nike bag in hand. She wraps her arm around the brunet’s waist. “I’ve got the key to his room.”
“The storage shed?”
“Yup.” The blonde dangles the keychain. “Gotta be where he keeps the rest of it.”
They get lost in one another’s eyes. So much shared between them, so much endured. No words are needed. The blonde and brunet lock their finger together, holding hands as they walk along the sand watching the waves roll in.
Two winners in a world of so many losers.
Mike McCrary’s new crime thriller REMO WENT ROGUE is coming soon…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
You can’t do a damn thing alone, so I’d like to thank the people who gave help and hope during this little fun and self-loathing writing life.
First, thanks to Elmore Leonard, Don Winslow, Stephen King, Chuck Palahniuk, Duane Swierczynski, Charlie Huston and Dennis Lehane. You don’t know me, but thank you for what you do. Thanks, in no particular order, to the following writers, bad-asses, good dudes and Book Gods: Blake Crouch, Allan Guthrie, John Rector, Peter Farris, Johnny Shaw and David Hale Smith. Thank you for talking books and the publishing world with me, even if you didn’t know you were doing it.
Big, massive, sloppy love to the good folks at MXN Entertainment for never wavering in their help and support over the years. Mason Novick…thank you doesn’t cover it, man.
Love and appreciation to my family and friends who have put up with me and my bullshit—you know who are. Thanks to Mom and Dad for not selling me for medical experiments, and last but not least, thank you to my beautiful wife and daughter. You have endured and embraced me during my bitter, cranky, moody and (let’s just fuckin’ say it) dark days. For that and for everything, every day…I love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike McCrary is a screenwriter who has worked with (or at least been in the same room with) the producers of several movies you’ve probably heard of, you may or may not have liked them, but you’re heard of them. His short fiction has appeared in Out of the Gutter, Shotgun Honey and The Big Adios.
Mike barely earned an Economics degree, somehow got an MBA, and has been a waiter, securities trader, dishwasher, investment manager, and an unpaid Hollywood intern. He’s quit corporate America, come back, been fired, been promoted, been fired, and currently writes stories about questionable people who make questionable decisions. He lives in Texas. Keep up with Mike at www.mikemccrary.com or follow him @mcmccrary.