SHANK (A Wilde Crime Series)

by kazimer, j. a.

  SHANK

  A WILDE CRIME

  Book II

  By j.a. kazimer

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by j.a.kazimer. All Rights Reserved. For more information, contact OBSCURE Publishing, Denver, Colorado.

  www.jakazimer.com

  FIRST EDITION

  ***

  Buy the first book, Dope Sick: A Love Story, in the Wilde Crime Series

  Once a famous rock star, Colin Wilde nearly dies on a dirty bathroom floor, a lethal dose of heroin in his veins and the name of his murdered wife, Lisa, on his lips. Two years later, finally clean and on the verge of a major comeback, he meets Zoe, a beautiful strung-out dancer. With her help, Colin maneuvers through the seedy world of sex, drugs, and record deals in search of a killer.

  SHANK

  Table of Contents:

  About the Author

  Start Reading

  ***

  Money can’t buy happiness.

  Ian Wilde knows a bluff when he hears one. The tattooed ex-con is so sure the twelve million dollars of stolen money sitting in a bank on Grand Cayman Island will buy his happiness, not to mention his best friend’s life that he risks everything in a desperate con game to acquire it.

  But the tables are soon turned on the gambler when a new player, Frankie Hurley, a feisty woman from his troubled past joins the mix. With the aid of a mismatched crew of childhood friends and the love of Lady Luck, Ian could walk away a winner, or dead.

  One thing is for sure though, he can’t just walk away.

  Chapter 1

  Sex, sand, and twelve million in stolen cash. Paradise. I eyed the brunette sitting two patio chairs away and smiled. Even in heaven you bet on a sure thing. I swallowed the rest of my drink in one gulp. Tequila smoldered its way down my throat, quenching a part of my thirst. I focused on the sun goddess again, tanned, and toned to trophy-wife perfection. A black tattoo snaked up the back of her thigh. She smirked, watching me watching her, and undid the top string of her bikini. My eyes followed its path to the sand, and I thanked whatever island God had smiled on me.

  Motioning to the bartender, I ordered another round, “No lime.” Like my life I enjoyed my liquor straight up. No frills or complications to get in my way. I dug into my Bermuda shorts for a wad of hundred dollar bills and tossed him one. “I’ll be over there.” I gestured to the empty seat next to the woman. The barman winked. I stood, hot sand burning into the bare soles of my feet and headed toward the topless beauty….

  Searing pain kicked me in the nuts, dragging me from my fantasy. I opened and closed my eyes, trying to clear my fogged brain. The daydream disappeared and reality charged in. Island sunlight grayed into a green cloud of hospital lighting. Ice chips, not tequila, quenched my arid throat. And without looking up I knew my fantasy girl had vanished as well.

  When my eyes adjusted to the light it was worse than I suspected. My sun goddess had changed from a vision of perfection to Nurse Becket, a sixty-year-old grandmother in surgical scrubs and orthopedic shoes. Thankfully Nurse Becket’s sagging breasts were hidden beneath her uniform. The pain in my chest grew. A kid, not old enough to play doctor, prodded my wound, humming Whistle While You Work under his breath.

  Reality sucked.

  I closed my eyes, trying to return to the fantasy and a sandy beach in Grand Cayman with a suitcase of twelve million dollars in cash. It didn’t work.

  “Well, Ian,” the young doc said to me, “the infection’s almost cleared up, but you need to stay a couple more days.” Doogie Howser repacked the bullet hole with sterile gauze. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses slipped down his plastic surgically straight nose. My own nose, broken seven times, curved slightly to the right.

  “No.” I winced when the bandage tightened against my fractured ribs. Five in all. Amazing the amount of damage a bullet fired at close range did to the human body. “I appreciate what you’ve done...” Doogie had saved my life, not once but twice. The first time, he had removed a bullet from my chest, a tricky procedure that lasted fourteen hours. Two weeks later he saved me again when infection set in.

  Nurse Becket frowned, her thin lips forming a perfect circle. “You’ll do as Dr. Simon says.” I grinned and closed my eyes. A cross between a drill sergeant and Mother Theresa, Nurse Becket told me when to eat and get out of bed, threatened me with sponge baths, and changed the television to soap operas when I fell asleep. If there was a hell on Earth Nurse Becket ran it. Late at night, I thought of ways to dispose of her body instead of counting sheep. Wood chippers and large garbage disposals came to mind.

  Dr. Simon’s next words pulled me from my murderous musings. “How about this, if the infection’s gone by Friday I’ll release you.”

  I didn’t trust him, and I hated being tied down with tubes and painkillers. It was like prison but without the shackles or lumpy oatmeal. I had to get out. I had a business to run. It wasn’t much of one, but without me, who knew what shape I’d find it. Frankie looked out for things, but O’Malley’s took a special touch and the willingness to crack a few skulls to keep it in the black. Not that it had ever been in the black but I remained optimistic. “Friday?” I glanced up from the fresh bandage.

  Simon nodded. Nurse Becket shot a clear substance into my I.V., and my pain receded along with my ability to think. A warm haze swirled around me, and I closed my eyes.

  A warm ocean breeze played with the straps of the brunette’s bikini. The taste of tequila was sweet on my tongue….

  Chapter 2

  “Ian.” My cousin, Colin, stood over my hospital bed, his voice pulling me from the drugged depths of a narco-slumber. I cracked open an eyelid. A dim overhead bulb kept the room in shadows. My eyeballs felt gritty, a side effect of the morphine and the sandman.

  Rubbing the whiskers on my cheek, I examined my cousin. He looked happier than I’d seen him in a long time. Clean. Healthy. His face had lost its hard edges of grief and sorrow. A Betty Boop look-a-like named Zoë had changed everything for Colin. Indirectly, she was also the reason I was laid up in the hospital but I didn’t blame her. Somewhere there was a bullet with each of our names on it. This one happened to have mine.

  “What’s up?” My greeting came out slurred, like after one too many shots of good Irish whiskey. I opened and closed my mouth, trying to unstick my tongue. At my pleading look, Colin handed me a cup of water and a pink-stripped straw. Tricky to look like a hard ass when drinking from a pink straw, but I tried anyway.

  Colin smiled, enjoying my struggle. “I want you to be my best man.”

  I choked, spitting a fountain of water from my shocked lips. Marriage? Damn. “Congratulations,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Marriage and family were huge responsibilities. I had all the responsibility I could handle running a business and staying out of the joint. I chose my words with care. “I’d be honored…”

  “Good. The date’s set for one month from now.” His expression lacked the horror I expected from someone who’d be married in a month. If it were me I’d be heading for the nearest exit screaming like a girl.

  “Are you sure you want me to be your best man?” I asked.

  Deep frown lines etched Colin’s face. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. You are the only family I have.”

  I grinned, easing the tension. “As long as I don’t have to wear a suit.”

  A knock sounded on my door, and Zoë walked in. Her short black hair curled around her face li
ke the halo of an innocent angel, but I knew better. She was tough, much tougher than I’d given her credit for six weeks ago.

  “And a tie.” She winked at me, long lashes hiding darkening circles around her eyes.

  Colin wound his arm around her waist. “You heard the lady.”

  I groaned, already dreading the rented tuxedo with year-old sweat stains I’d be forced to wear. Zoë glanced at Colin and they burst into laughter. So much for compassion. “I heard from Clair,” Zoë said as she took a seat at the edge of my bed.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about Clair, a coke addict who’d almost had cost Colin and Zoë their lives, yet when it mattered she’d come through and saved my ass. We’d spent a few blissful hours getting to know each other, but neither of us was in a position to get more involved, no matter how great she looked naked. “How is she?” I asked, picturing Clair’s beautiful body and even more enticing lips. After the shootout, she had left New York for a rehab clinic in Washington, DC. She sent me a postcard of the Washington Monument, signing it ‘with love’. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that either.

  “She’s doing well.” Zoë gave me a sad smile.

  Colin rolled his eyes, like me he was less forgiving of Clair’s treachery. “When are they letting you out?”

  “Friday.” Otherwise I’d flee bare-assed down the hallway and out the front door.

  Guilt filled his face. “I’m so sorry.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said that.

  “Enough. This,” I waved down at the bandage, “wasn’t your fault. It was my mistake.” Colin had asked me to protect Zoë and Clair while he took care of some business. There was an ambush and I walked into a bullet. Simple.

  Zoë patted Colin’s hand. “The blame belongs on Bev and her cronies.” Bev a high society trophy wife murdered Colin’s first wife and then her own husband, Jack for millions and millions of drug dollars. Of course Jack deserved it so it was like an act of karma. But then she also unjustly attempted to kill Colin, which put her on my shit list. I nodded, reinforcing Zoë’s words. Colin still looked unsure.

  “Bev’s charged with two counts of first degree murder.” Zoë smiled. “She’ll never get out.”

  “What about Oscar?” The machine closest to the bed beeped in warning as my blood pressure rose. Bev’s lover, Oscar, had escaped capture after we uncovered their dirty deeds. He walked the streets with an ax to grind, both crazy and dangerous. I knew, one day soon, I’d see him again and this time he’d be the one riddled with bullets.

  Colin shook his head. “No luck. Oscar’s in the wind.”

  “I’ll find him,” I said with complete confidence, my tone as harsh as the rasp in my lungs. Zoë shivered and Colin rubbed her shoulders. “Did the cops get Jack’s Grand Cayman stash?” I asked, remembering my fantasy of a topless woman and millions of greenbacks. Jack, before his loving wife put a bullet between his eyes, had stashed twelve million dollars at a bank on the island.

  “Nope. They have no idea.” Colin shrugged, wanting nothing to do with money stained with the blood of his first wife. “Besides there’s no way to touch it.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  ******

  A taxi pulled to the curb in front of a dilapidated bar in the worst section of Hell’s Kitchen. The worn sign above the door read: O’Malley’s. Or as I called it, home. I’d owned the bar for six years. One of these days I might get around to changing the name. After paying the driver, I squeezed out of the cab, careful not to bump my ribs. When my feet touched ground the cabbie took off, tires squealing. This area wasn’t known for its hospitality.

  Hell’s Kitchen, or The Clinton as it was now called, was home to gangs of thugs and crack dealers, making it into an urban war zone. The rat-a-tat of tech-nines regularly occurred, almost like clockwork at night. My block, scheduled for revitalization in the next decade, housed the poorest of the poor: addicts, dealers, artists, and gangsters. Here a man survived by wits and brutality.

  “Hey.” I waved to a young kid no older than ten perched on a graffiti-coated newspaper box, his brown skin glowing in the sunlight. Joey Dean’s lanky ten-year-old legs barely touched the ground. He used my corner to watch for cops while his big brother sold crack down the street. That’s how it was in the Kitchen. One hustled to stay alive even at ten.

  He shot me a wide, goofy grin. “Frankie’s not going to be happy.”

  “I don’t give a shit.” I smirked, flexing my biceps. “I’m the boss. I make the rules.”

  Joey laughed, unimpressed with my bravado. What was wrong with this city? I couldn’t even get respect from a kid. Shaking my head, I opened the bar door. Stale beer, Jameson Irish whiskey, and cigar smoke hit my nose. It was good to be home. Another odor drifted toward me. Roses. What the fuck? “Damn it, Frankie. I said no flowers,” I said, my fists clenching. Roses lined the bar. I counted six planters in an assortment of pastel colors.

  I could feel my temper rising, but before I exploded, Frankie, a long-legged redhead, threw her arms around me. Her vise-grip squeezed my busted ribs but I didn’t mind. I’d missed her, even if she drove me crazy at times, always pushing me. The flowers were a prime example. I said no so she waited until I was out of the picture and did exactly as she pleased. What Frankie wants, Frankie gets, one way or another.

  “You’re back.” She stared up at me, her bright green eyes scanning my face. “Ian, you should have called. I would have picked you up.”

  I untangled myself from her embrace. “You would have nagged, and that’s the last thing I need.” I leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Lose the flowers. This isn’t a whore house.”

  “I was trying to add a touch of class.” She caught the attention of Merv, a regular. “You like the flowers, right?”

  He hiccupped once, took a long swig of beer, and blinked as if he’d just noticed them. “They’re nice. They make the bar smell nice, like Judy.” I laughed. Judy was a local hooker with a crack habit and missing teeth. She tried to conceal that fact she didn’t bathe with too much perfume. Frankie shot Merv a glare and then stomped back behind the bar.

  “Get rid of them.” I picked up my knapsack filled with dirty laundry and pilfered hospital supplies and headed for the stairs.

  Before I reached the last step, Frankie called out, “Ian? Wait. We need—”

  I unlocked the door to my apartment and groaned. Two things hit me. First, my room didn’t smell like moldy beer and decaying pizza anymore. It looked different too. For one thing, it was clean and a stack of sapphire colored luggage lurked in the corner. “Frankie!” I yelled as blood pounded in my head. She’d be the death of me.

  “Talk,” she finished. A few seconds later, she jogged up the stairs. “Before you say anything let me explain.” She gestured to the clean room, talking fast. “My building manager raised my rent.” I nodded, not buying the mask of contrition on her face for a minute. She quickly pressed on, “I knew you wouldn’t mind if I crashed here for a couple of days.”

  “I do mind.” I rubbed my eyes. Fuck, I was worn out, tried to my very core. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this kind of crushing exhaustion. “Mickey will let you stay with him.” Mickey was Frankie’s older brother and my best friend. He and his wife, Beth, had plenty of room in their two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away. Why wasn’t Frankie staying there? Unless….

  She interrupted my thoughts, “But Mickey just got married. Besides, this is the perfect solution.” Her tone was innocent, a little too much so. “I need someplace to stay and you need someone here while you recover.”

  Damn, she was a good liar. Too good, but the sparkle in her eye gave the game away. I’d warned her before—never overplay your hand. “Did Colin come by?” I asked. When I’d left the hospital, Nurse Becket insisted I receive in-home care. She had recruited Colin in hopes of convincing me. He wanted me to stay with him but I’d refused. I didn’t need a babysitter, especially one with boundary issues and a smart mouth.

  “No, why do you ask?” Fr
ankie blinked up at me, all innocence and bright eyes.

  I glared at her.

  She laughed. “Too much, huh?”

  “You can’t stay.”

  “I’m staying.” Little lines of stubbornness tightened around her mouth. “Besides if I stay I don’t have to worry about leaving here at night. It’s not safe.” True. The city was a dangerous place. But, damn it, I didn’t want her underfoot day and night. She touched my arm. “Just last week I got groped on the train and mugged by the time I reached 10th.”

  And with that I lost the argument and gained a roommate. I motioned to the couch. “You sleep there.” I shook my head at the dust ruffle covering the worn, lumpy sofa. Women. I would never understand them. “But for God’s sake, no more ruffles. And if I see any potpourri you’re on the street.”

  She jumped up and down, offering me a glimpse of the hell I made for myself. “This is so great.” She bounced again. “You’ll see.”

  What the fuck had I done?

  Chapter 3

  Living with Frankie wasn’t so bad. The first night we stayed up talking about the bar. She knew more about the business than I did, having spent the last ten years of her life running it. Old man O’Malley had hired her right out of high school. At the time, Mickey hated the idea of his innocent baby sister tending bar, but came around when the free beer started flowing. After that O’Malley’s became our hangout and, later, my albatross.

  Six years ago I’d won the bar in a crooked card game, and then stupidly spent the night celebrating. When I awoke the next morning, hung over and in way over my head, Frankie was there with a Bloody Mary, an aspirin, and some much needed guidance.

  Occasionally we butted heads, each quick to unleash our shared Irish temper. Mostly though we argued over little things like atmosphere or expensive beers. She wanted to upgrade. Buy new bar stools and mugs without chips. I thought, why waste the dough? It wasn’t like our clientele cared one way or the other. As long as the beer was cheap they’d drink it. Hell, they’d drink piss if it got’em drunk. She’d roll her eyes and storm away. Problem solved.