Blood & Tacos #1

by Matthew Funk

  Sitting and eating, Essex said, "I got a wig for you and some padding to make you look less, you know."

  "What?"

  "Voluptuous," he got out. "Recognizable I mean."

  "No, I meant what the heck are you talking about?"

  "So I can get you out of town," he said.

  "I'm not leaving."

  "But Graziano's on to you, Marsh."

  "He's on to you, too."

  "I'm prepared."

  "Then prepare me. We both loved him, Book. I want to get his killers, too."

  He was going to argue but could see she was in no mood for the hassle. He allowed too that a smart sexy woman who on her own did a gutsy thing like infiltrate the strip club, knowing it was owned by the Laughing Man, then making sure to insinuate herself to him to learn a few of his secrets, well that was certainly not someone you sent packing given the firefight was about to light shit up.

  "So what's out next move, sarge?" she said, chewing on the hash and eggs.

  "You know that waiting ain't my bag, but they'll make a move. Soon. That smart boy of Graziano's, Kassel, he's like those West Point greenhorn lieutenants we had to suffer in ‘Nam. He's read up on his Alexander the Great and von Clausewitz. He's going to bring in the heavy hitter and draw us out to trap us."

  She regarded him. "Always thinking and always prepared."

  "Let's hope so," he said dourly. "But in any battle, there's always the unexpected factor, that turn of bad luck or roll of capricious fate you didn't account for."

  "Seems we're both pessimists." She got up from her seat and picked up her plate and his even though neither had finished breakfast. She put them on the stove as there was no sink.

  She turned back to him and her intent was clear in her eyes as she took off her shoes using her feet.

  "Look, maybe this isn't such a good idea," he hedged. Because of vocal cord damage from the fire, his voice was coarse and whispery. And at the moment, he was so caught up in conflicting emotions, he could barely talk at all.

  "Maybe," she said, unzipping her jeans and stepping out of them. "Most times you've thought of me as a sister. And me, you're my other brother. We've known each other since junior high, Book. The two white trash kids, miserable thief for a father, and that goofy black kid who always had his nose, appropriately, in a book. We've known too that we've gone back and forth in our feelings for each other." She paused, a solemn look settling on her face, then added.

  "Charlotte isn't coming back. But don't misunderstand, I'm not pretending I'm her. I'm not trying to take her place."

  "I know."

  She was close on him now and he leaned forward and gently kissed her mound encased in her lacy black panties. She caressed the top of his head. He looked up at her, his hands on her thighs.

  "This might be our one and only time. We might not come out of this whole or alive," she said, her voice as hoarse as his. She touched a tear at the corner of his eye, the scars from the fire on his face. She undid his zipper and straddled him. They made love as the Laughing Man and Kassel planned their executions.

  "How is it you call yourself a cop, Chastain?" former petty street thug Ronnie Brownlee, who now went by Rahim Katanga, growled. As leader of the Ministers of Praxis, names were everything.

  The beefy cop spread his arms wide. "Hey, I'm doing my job here, Ronnie boy."

  There was bristling from the other members of the Ministers of Praxis, MPs for short. The two uniformed officers with Chastain, one black the other white, reacted too. Their hands went toward the hilts of their tethered nightsticks.

  The plainclothesman continued. "It's a known fact your little troop here has had run-ins with them Reds," he gestured with his hand as if conjuring up the name. "The Luxumberg League," he finally said, snapping his fingers. "Them."

  "They wouldn't kidnap our youth, Chastain," a woman with a bubble afro said.

  Chastain gave her an up-and-down, like sizing up a double cheeseburger slathered with bacon and onions. "Y'all say four kids went missing after they attended your propaganda class."

  "After school program, policeman," a tall MP emphasized. "We help them with their math and reading skills."

  Chastain pursed his lips, biting back a sarcastic comment. "So anyway, these four don't make it home afterward." He consulted his notepad. "But these are teenagers, between 13 and 16 you said." He looked up, a sincere expression on his face. "They could be off smoking reefer or grabbed a car to go joy-riding, doing who knows what they get into at that age."

  "Jesus," the woman exploded. "We're calling your boss, Chastain."

  He laughed hollowly. "You call on us oinkers only when this kind of shit allegedly happens and you expect the department to be at your beck and call. But any other time you're spitting on us and cursing us out."

  "How about you just do your job, man?" Katanga said.

  "We're on this," the black officer answered.

  Chastain shot him a withering look. "This matter will be dutifully investigated. Starting with me grilling their parents, a couple of whom, single mothers and all, have records." He and Katanga glared at one another then Chastain exited the storefront office. He was followed by the two uniforms who looked embarrassed.

  "I'm calling Councilman Ricks," the woman with the large afro said, stalking toward a dial phone.

  Katanga had a different idea.

  As a youngster, Graveheart, not a family name, was fascinated by TV western shows like Have Gun Will Travel and The Rifleman. This was not unusual for a red-blooded American male of that generation as kids were given cap guns modeled on their favorite lawman's six-shooter or bounty hunter Josh Randall's tricked out sawed-off rifle from Wanted Dead or Alive. It wasn't the delivery of frontier justice that fascinated him but the power those masters of the gun wielded on such shows. Seems whatever bit of folksy wisdom they dispensed had more import given their handling of shootin' irons.

  Of course the fact that these actors were the leads and therefore the script was tailored to show them as infallible and stalwart, seemed lost on Graveheart. Or more likely he'd long ago learned to ignore such realities. Ever since he was big enough to hold a gun he had. Not only learned to hold them, but use them quite well.

  The limestone quarry was at the opposite outskirts of town from where the Fuzzy Feather strip club was located, though both off the same highway. The facility was owned by a middle-aged, country-club-going, married church deacon who, in cliché fashion, had tumbled hard, for one of the big-breasted strippers at the Fuzzy Feather. Laugher Graziano had some compromising photos and thus he had no choice but to let his facility be used for the nefarious undertaking underway there this weekend.

  The trap was simple. The kidnapped teens were in a van wired with dynamite in the quarry pit. The instructions were relayed by several dope fiends and other such riff-raff along the underworld grapevine. The Silencer was to appear at dawn or the youngsters would be sent to Kingdom Come.

  His LTD drove up on schedule and he exited the vehicle. It was cold and he was wearing a full length Super Fly-style patterned coat and broad, flat-brimmed hat with a buckle headband. He had on shades too.

  "How do you know you won't be cut down as soon as you step out of your car?" Mathers had asked. "Somebody with a rifle and a scope. What do you call ‘em, a sniper?"

  He was cleaning one of his guns and looked over at her. "You've read Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man?"

  She had a hand on her hip. "At your urging, yes," she answered sharply.

  "There's a few soul brothers and sisters, skycaps at the airport, housekeepers at a couple of the swank hotels and what have you that I make sure to put a few extra twenties in their Christmas funds each month."

  Essex derived income from several patents he owned or had sold for goodly amounts. One of his innovations had been a prototype for a miniaturized walkie-talkie, a kind of phone the size of a cigarette case you could put in your jacket pocket — inspired by those episodes of Star Trek he watched as a kid. He s
tarted to re-assemble his weapon. Essex had invested his monies in such enterprises as a childhood buddy's black hair care products line and an auto parts chain.

  "Yeah?" she said, interested.

  "So white folks see them as part of the furniture. They're there, but not there, dig?"

  "What're you getting at, Book?"

  He smiled. "Figuring some newcomers might be coming to town, I spread extra green around and got the lowdown."

  "Yeah?" she said.

  "Yeah," he answered.

  "You know what they say, Silencer," Graveheart was talking, "I thought you'd be taller." He stepped out from the girders of the elevated office shed made of corrugated metal. Several massive dirt haulers and crane trucks were parked about as well.

  "Ain't no stress." The other man was unbuttoning his coat. A slight breeze came up, exposing the shoulder holster underneath, strapped over his black turtleneck. Sweat dappled below the edges of his sunglasses.

  The two were about 25 feet apart. They stood down each other on the edge of the main pit, the van with the captured teens at the bottom. The wind ceased. Graveheart, all in black including his Stetson, a six-shooter strapped around his waist gunslinger fashion, spread his boots a bit further apart. He was in his shooting stance.

  "This is how it works, hombre," he said. "You live, the kids go free. You die, they die."

  "Let's get to it…honkey."

  The Silencer took a step to the right and time slowed as the two readied themselves for the showdown. It was only seconds that went by but each worked to keep their heart from thudding too loudly in their ears. Each took the measure of the other, each with eyes on the opponent's hands and then in the time it took a dog to flick its tail, the guns came out. Both men fired, the Silencer's round zinging past Graveheart's torso.

  Conversely, the Silencer dropped his modified gun, clutching his chest as he went over onto his back. Graveheart had grouped two dead center mass.

  The out-of-town hitter had assumed he'd feel more elated but it was what it was — killing was becoming as blasé to him as going to the corner store for a carton of milk. How sad. He raised his hand to signal for the toggle switch to be flipped, transmitting a radio signal to the dynamiter to blow up the teens. But nothing happened. He looked over to where two of Laugher Graziano's men were supposed to be crouched down beside the huge tires of one of the big haulers.

  He couldn't see them from where he was, but why hadn't they stood up once the Silencer was put down? Smith & Wesson in hand, he advanced. Both hoods were proned out, dead. The remote control device was gone. The Silencer had struck.

  "Holster your piece and let's settle this for real, Graveheart," Booker Essex called out. He wore no fancy coat or hat, but was in sans-a-belt slacks and a similar black turtleneck Rahim Katanga, as his stand-in, wore. His gun in its shoulder holster.

  Graveheart knew better than to try and spin around, firing. He was fast but not inhumanly so. He'd be dropped in a blink. From above he heard a sound, and glancing up, saw a female head with a puffy afro atop the raised office. In the clean light of morning, he could easily see the glint off her rifle. She'd slept up there through the night.

  "I'll be more fair than you," Essex continued as the gunman stepped away from the truck. "You win, you walk away."

  Graveheart didn't waste energy or risk distraction with a response or gesture. His hand trembled slightly from excitement. Every sense was breathlessly on edge in him. It was as if each millimeter of his skin were receptors for all the atoms swirling about him. He'd never felt this alive before. This was a challenge.

  Nothing happened, then simultaneously both men drew their guns and each fired a single bullet. The bang of Graveheart's pistol was the only one audible. They gaped at one another and Graveheart worked up a crooked smile as he wheeled about and fell over, exhaling one last time.

  The teenagers were freed and Katanga and his Ministers of Praxis started to leave. The militant paused and looked back at the Silencer. "You did good, brother."

  Essex nodded and they went their separate ways. He still didn't know which of the three had been responsible for the bomb. He wouldn't rest until he found out.

  Bert Chastain had a big grin on his mustachioed face as the foxy blonde lead him by his erect penis to one of the happy alcoves after his steam. After the deaths here at the Fuzzy Feather and the subsequent newspaper investigation, Laugher Graziano had been forced to sell the establishment. Not much was known about the buyer but he'd retained a number of the girls who'd worked their under the old management – and re-opened the upstairs VIP section as well. One of those chicks was this knock-out called Ginger Strawberry who had his stiff johnson in hand leading him.

  "Baby, I can't wait to get down with you."

  "Me either," she grinned, looking back at him.

  In the alcove the blonde sat him down on a built-in bench. He now sat on the towel he'd had around his waist. She kneeled before him, Chastain's erect member quivering. That feeling and his hard-on faded fast as an arm went around his neck and the cold muzzle of a modified .32 pressed against his temple.

  "Essex," he wheezed.

  "Listen to me, asshole," the Silencer said to the suddenly uncomfortable and vulnerable nude man. "I knew sooner or later you'd come around for your usual taste," he began.

  "I'm a cop, Essex, if you kill me they'll hang your black ass for sure."

  The Silencer squeezed harder, choking his captive. "Don't kid yourself, Chastain. As shitty as you are, won't too many of your fellow blue on blues get too worked up about your demise."

  "Look, I already told you," Chastain said, his voice cracking some. "I had nothing to do with planting that bomb."

  "Shut up. For now you're of value to me. Make sure you let the other scumbags like you, the vice cops on the make, the robbery-homicide boys getting their cut, that the Fuzzy Feather is open for business. Let the word go out to the crooked city council members, judges, all of them, got me Chastain? Tell ‘em they get a discount."

  "What the fuck are you up to?"

  "What my loot in country would have called reconnoitering."

  Chastain understood. "You want dirt on them. You got this joint bugged."

  Essex released his hold and tapped the bent cop twice, hard, on the cheek. "Now you're getting smart. And just in case that rat brain you call a mind is thinking of crossing me, you should know I'm just taking over what the Laughing Man started."

  If it was possible, Chastain's eyes got wider. He'd done all sorts of activities and had certain conversations over the years at the Fuzzy Feather — activities that could get him fired and conversations that would get him federally indicted.

  "Looks like I got no choice. I'll be your Huckleberry…for now."

  "Good boy," Essex said, disappearing into the passage behind the trick panel in the wall he'd come out of to surprise the cop.

  Marcia Mathers had stood before the two in her short robe and heels, though she'd tied the robe shut. "I'm the manager here now, so you'll report to me. We clear?"

  An uppity, devious colored and a broad had him by the short and curlies. What had he done to deserve this? "We're clear."

  She walked out and after getting dressed and back outside in the wintery evening, Chastain pulled his coat close. Despite being a stone killer, the idea of not knowing when the Silencer would strike next made him uneasy — very uneasy.

  THE END

  Among discoverer Gary Phillips' latest is another short story, "Feathersmith's Excellent Plan," in the Dead of Winter e-anthology, and a collection of his previously published short stories, Treacherous: Grifters, Ruffians and Killers, is out from Perfect Crime Books.

  The Most Penetrative Game

  By Jimmy Callaway

  Anyone who's spent even a few moments browsing in a used bookstore has seen them: rack upon shelf upon rack of men's adventure novels. Most prominent is The Executioner, created in 1969 by Don Pendleton. Pendleton's protagonist, Mack Bolan, an Army vet who takes
the law into his own hands, is the star of hundreds of novels.

  Hundreds.

  Can you even imagine? I mean, I am an avowed comic book nerd, and the big name superheroes I so adore have probably each had a comparable number of adventures. But there's something about these adventure novels that boggles my mind. Maybe it's because there are no pictures or something, I dunno.

  Anyways, we're not here to talk about the Executioner series, but its progeny. In the 1970s, when the backlash to the hippie counterculture was at its highest, there were many, many Executioner knock-offs to be found in the spinner racks at your local A&P. The Destroyer was a series of kung-fu novels; The Butcher was another vigilante who moonlighted at a deli. Or maybe not, there's not a whole lot written about these lesser Bolans, aside from a few largely unreadable fan sites. One of the more popular series of the '70s was The Penetrator, who starred in over fifty novels between the years of 1973 and 1984. The fourteenth Penetrator novel was a little ditty with the delightful title, Mankill Sport.

  It rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Mankill Sport. I dunno, I love it. Unfortunately, the title is the best part of this book, although I have certainly read a lot worse in my time.

  Mark Hardin (any similarity to Mack Bolan here is, if not intentional, surely not accidental) is a Vietnam veteran who has come home from the war only to find the freedoms he fought so hard for in Southeast Asia to be taken for granted. Hardin becomes a one-man army, just like Bob McKenzie in Strange Brew. Or I guess a two- or three-man army, since he has backing his war Professor Willard Haskins, in charge of intel, and Hadin's trusty Cheyenne sidekick/mentor, David Red Eagle, also in charge of intel, but in a much more spiritual sense. But nothing sissy, y'know, more like a Bruce Lee spiritual.

  Mankill Sport, of course, needs a villain, and it has a doozy with the perfectly named Johnny Utah, drug overlord of Detroit, MI. The book opens with Utah brazenly executing two police officers. Granted, they're crooked police officers, but still. Pretty ballsy, Utah. Utah's M.O. is he runs Detroit, but since he technically lives out in the ‘burbs, the city cops can't bust him since he's bought off the soft, doughy Bloomfield Hills P.D. This seems a bit flimsy on the face of it, but having lived in suburbia all my life and dealing with the fat, mustachioed cops therein, I can believe it.