*
Faldon Rainey was nearing his black Beawich sedan parked around the corner from the Jolly Whaler. He was a big man. Six foot three, or even more when he cared to look up. He was laughing and teasing, happy with the fresh-faced brunette he had managed to coax out of the Jolly Whaler for a night cap in his apartment. It had required a lot of smooth talking and frequent time checks to show off the glittering gold of his Pour Hermes wristwatch and the silver of his rings.
Her name was Sally and she was a secretary in a transport company out in Queens. She didn’t have much of a laugh to Rainey’s ear. It sounded forced and fake and demeaned anything funny he might have said. But it was not laughter that warmed his bed warm and he did not want it cold tonight. ‘We’re almost there, doll.’ He cusped a hand on the small of her back for no other reason than he wanted to get into the habit of touching her. She did not resist.
For all the posturing with his watch he still had no idea what time it was, but even in the world’s busiest city the flow of people and cars was starting to recede. And there was a distinct chill in the air. It knocked down the good reasons to be outdoors to virtually zero.
And yet Rainey realised there was someone leaning back against his car. The street lights were so dim he had needed to be closer to ensure it wasn’t simply a trick of moonlight shadows.
A wave of anger surged through him. Whoever it was, he couldn’t be a friend or acquaintance, for no one he knew would be so stupid. Rainey had broken numerous jaws, hospitalised many a man so that he was more known as a body wrecker than the bodyguard he purported to be.
‘What damned business do you have leaning against my car?’ he spat, striding ahead of Sally.
The man at the car straightened up. It was George Hope and he was wearing his black bandana handkerchief as a mask. ‘Your car is my bank and I’ve been waiting patiently for the teller.’ He sprung forward, lifting a sharp knee into Rainey’s abdomen.
Amidst a sickening groan Rainey crumpled to the ground. Sally might not have had much of a laugh but she certainly knew how to scream. Ears ringing Hope found himself drawing his Colt .45 in self-defense.
‘Get out of here,’ he barked at her. ‘Find a better way home.’
She turned and shuffled as fast as her high heels would take her.
‘Don’t kill me,’ pleaded Rainey, squirming on the ground.
Hope took it as a sign he had not hit him hard enough and gave him another boot. After Sally’s deafening scream, the subsequent muted grunt came as a pleasant relief. He put the gun to Rainey’s head and cocked it. ‘Why should I listen? You don’t even say please.’ He reached into Rainey’s jacket and removed his wallet and a small caliber revolver. He straightened up and fished out the money from the wallet. There was a few hundred dollars. ‘Impressive. Enough paper for a novel.’ He tucked the notes into a trouser pocket and dropped the wallet back onto Rainey.
‘I’ll kill you when I get the chance,’ gasped Rainey, looking all but demonic in the darkness.
‘Good for you I don’t feel that way ‘cause I have the opportunity right here. I’m taking your money and leaving your gun. I’ll put it in the car next to that big old stash of cocaine you have.’ Hope opened the car door and threw it in. ‘Selling that shit you know you’re going to need it. Why don’t you take up robbing banks? There’s only a certain type of folk that goes into a bank so at least the bank robber knows he’s going to be the craziest person in the room. Same can’t be said when you’re commerce is drugs. In fact, it’s often the other way around.’ He started to edge away. ‘If your head ain’t too sore for thinking, why don’t you think about that?’
Death of the Extremophile Page 5