Low-Skilled Job (Vol. 2): Low-Skilled Job

by Keller, Roger

  The realization that I was being followed, again, cleared the bullshit out of my head. I turned a corner and got a good look at another government issue Ford Taurus, a green one this time.

  “Oh, fuck you guys,” I said.

  I hit the gas and Heather’s Mustang shuddered. My foot went right to the floor, but the Mustang slowed down. “Shit.” I pulled off the road into a strip mall parking lot. The stores were all closed. Even the drive-up coffee shed was abandoned. What the fuck? I checked the time on my phone. Four hours had slipped by. I popped the hood and got out. Steam billowed up into my face. The engine was cooked. What was left of the coolant dripped out of a cracked, decaying hose.

  The Taurus pulled into the lot and parked a few spaces down. I was feeling pretty lit up, so I walked over and tapped on the tinted glass. The driver’s side window rolled down. I found myself staring down the barrel of a Glock.

  “Settle down, buddy,” I said, holding my hands up.

  “Holster your weapon,” SAC MacArthur said from the backseat. “He’s just a little on edge. We’ve noted a lot of unusual activity lately. There was a theft at the National Guard armory, machine guns, various explosives, and a whole lot of ammunition. Something big’s going to happen soon.”

  “Well, I didn’t rob any armory, if that’s what you’re here for,” I said.

  “No. I doubt a lone human could have done it.” MacArthur stepped out of the Ford and rested her arms on the hood. “I had this dream last night where you killed me. Not a good sign.”

  “I killed you, huh?” I said.

  “You weren’t human, anymore,” she said, then changed the subject. “Looks like you’re having car trouble.”

  “Yeah, I doubt Heather has driven this thing much in the last ten years,” I said.

  “Which one is Heather?” She narrowed her cold gray eyes. “Are they recruiting more soldiers?”

  “Vampires use a lot of names,” I said, in no mood to give her any free information. “You’ve met this one before.”

  “When?” she said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “But you’d know her if you saw her. Though I’d recommend staying far away from her.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She squeezed her eyes and groaned. “It’s lucky we ran into you. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”

  “Yeah, I bet it was all luck,” I said.

  I looked into the tinted windows and waved at whoever was in the backseat. The door opened.

  “Mister Ellis?” A blonde man in an expensive suit stepped out.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “I’m Dane Kerry.” He held out a leather gloved hand. I ignored it. A bracelet similar to Miranda’s hung from his wrist. The pleasant image of the busty English brunette distracted me for a second. Kerry brought me back to cold reality by continuing to run his mouth. “…I’m a lawyer, among other things.”

  “I doubt I’ll need a lawyer,” I said. “Pry can’t afford you anyway.”

  Kerry smiled, like an actor at a casting call. His blue eyes twinkled. No, they didn’t twinkle, they were glassed. He was on something.

  “I knew some of the members of the Society of Ancient Wisdom,” he said. “I knew the man they found shot, drained of blood, beheaded, in his own place of worship.”

  “There was a lot more than worship going on there,” I said. “They brought it on themselves.”

  “The vampire who killed him,” he said as he handed me his card, “if you could find the bastard, I’d pay you handsomely.”

  “OK,” I said, pocketing the card. “If he turns up I’ll let you know.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “But, that’s not why I wanted to meet you. Agent MacArthur claims you know Marcello, have even been to his home in fact.”

  Kerry’s voice changed when he mentioned Marcello. I realized what a mistake it was to say so much as hello to MacArthur. I looked at her and exhaled. She shrugged.

  “What about Marcello?” I said.

  “I must see him,” he said.

  “You’re kidding me,” I said. “First, if you know who and what Marcello is, then why would you want to go fuck with him? Second, I’m sure agent MacArthur knows where he lives. She knows everything. Just ask her.”

  “It’s not that simple,” MacArthur said. “We know the general area where he lives, but…”

  Kerry and MacArthur glanced at each other.

  “Well,” I said.

  “I have driven out there several times,” Kerry said. “I always wind up missing a turn or an exit. I find myself driving down a street in the shitty town of Franklin. Once I ended up in another state before I realized how far off track I’d gone.”

  “OK,” I said. “Look, it’s obvious that he doesn’t want you coming out there.” I rubbed my eyes. “The last guy that fucked with him ended up in a glass jar.”

  “Was he still alive, in his original form?” Kerry said.

  “He was dust,” I said.

  MacArthur looked at me then Kerry and made a face.

  “I would pay you of course,” Kerry said.

  “You couldn’t possibly have enough.” I thought about Uli and wondered how many bullets it would take to even hurt him. “Marcello can’t hurt me with magic, but he has other ways, things he can use.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Kerry said.

  “Uh, look man,” I said. “I’ll tell him you’re looking for him if I see him again.” Which will hopefully be never.

  “You have my card,” Kerry said.

  “Well.” I looked back at the Mustang. “I got a lot of walking to do.”

  “I’ll be seeing you again,” Kerry said as he closed his door.

  “I sure hope not,” I said as they drove off. “Fuckers.”

  Chapter 7

  I walked down the steps to Heather’s lair with a plastic bag full of convenience store food that I’d grabbed on my long march home. Heather and Misty looked up from the couch.

  “Whoa, that’s creepy,” Misty said. “When did you get back?”

  “Usually you can tell if a human or something else is in the house before he gets this far,” Heather said.

  I tossed Heather the Mustang’s keys.

  “Your car died,” I said

  “Really?” Heather caught the keys and flashed a puzzled look. “Did you try putting gas in it?”

  “A hose failed,” I said. “The coolant poured out and the motor seized up.”

  “How did you get back then?” Heather shuffled through some unopened DVD cases like they were over-sized playing cards.

  “I walked,” I said.

  “Oh well,” Heather said. “I’ll get another one. I think the Mustang was stolen anyway.”

  “Nice,” I said. “It’s sitting out there with my fingerprints all over it.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Heather sliced the plastic wrap off one of the DVD cases with her index claw. “They’ll have chopped it by now if you just left it on the street.”

  “I hope so,” I said as I put my food away. “I met agent MacArthur again.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “What’d she want?”

  “She introduced me to a lawyer,” I said. “He wants me to take him to Marcello’s place. He also wants me to avenge Prescott the Third, or whatever his name was.”

  Misty looked up when I mentioned Prescott.

  “We should like, bring him to Marcello’s just to watch him get fucked up,” Heather said. “And who the hell was Prescott the Third?”

  “One of the Society people we killed,” I said.

  “Why didn’t the FBI give you a ride back?” Misty

  “It’s never smart to get in a car with the cops,” Heather said.

  I sat down next to Heather and watched the main TV light up with old-school static. The flask was in my jacket, but it was too late and it wouldn’t have helped anyway.

  *****

  A blonde girl, who must have been about thirteen or fourteen, appeared on the TV.
She wore jeans and a simple leather jacket that was decorated with assorted buttons and pins. Her long hair was parted in the middle. She sat on the hood of a ‘68 Camaro and read a paperback novel. The familiar girl’s heavy eye make-up, made it look like she was going to audition for The Runaways later.

  The Camaro sat in an improvised, gravel parking lot in the middle of nowhere. Teenagers milled around while a garage band played on a stage made of stolen milk crates and plywood. A pack of high school seniors approached the girl on the Camaro.

  “Hey, Sarah,” a blonde, who was rocking Farrah Fawcett hair and a red tube top, said. “You know you shouldn’t sit on Dean’s car.” The others looked at her like she’d just thrown a rock at a wasp’s nest.

  “You gonna do something about it, Cindy?” Sarah narrowed her eyes and pocketed the book.

  The others oohed and stepped back. Cindy looked around and found herself abandoned.

  “I’m just sayin’,” Cindy said.

  “Fuck off,” Sarah said. “Wait, where is Dean anyway? He’s always looking for easy girls, so like, you should know where he is, right?”

  “Fuck you, Sarah.” Cindy balled her fists up.

  A long haired ex-jock, who was still wearing his letterman’s jacket in his early twenties, walked up behind Cindy. He smacked her ass. Cindy squealed and spun around. The other girls stared with obvious envy. Sarah smirked.

  “Hi, Dean,” Cindy said, striking an awkward pose and thrusting her chest out.

  “I’m not high yet, baby,” Dean said, cutting past her.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. Dean rested his hand on the Camaro’s hood and leaned close.

  “Sarah,” Dean said. “So, you, uh, got the, you know?”

  Sarah nodded. “Over here.”

  Sarah jumped off the Camaro and walked into the shadows at the edge of the lot. Dean followed, hands in pockets, looking right and left. Sarah stopped under a tree. I’d seen her like this before, camouflaged by the shadows. The only thing missing was the glowing eyes, and the teeth. Dean held out a roll of bills. Sarah snatched them out of his hand and counted them, twice. Dean turned in a circle, keeping lookout while she counted. Sarah handed him a small, rolled up, paper bag. Dean didn’t bother looking in it.

  “Thanks babe.” He ran back to the others.

  Sarah smiled in the shadows and shook her head.

  The colors and shapes on the screen melted together and spun like a kaleidescope. I watched seasick, as the psychedelic mess reformed. Swirling colors materialized into a new scene. Sarah walked up the steps to a dilapidated, two story house. Blue paint was peeling off the walls, exposing the gray dead wood underneath. Sarah paused at the door. She pushed it open, but stood to one side and peeked through to the poorly lit room.

  “Quit fuckin’ around and come in,” a voice said from inside. “I know it’s you.”

  Sarah walked in, right hand in her jacket pocket, holding something. Playboy centerfolds and pages from gun and car magazines had been tacked up on the walls of what was once a family living room. A rugged long-haired man sat at a wooden dining room table under a brass, three bulb lamp. His custom .45 waited, hammer cocked, in an oil-darkened leather shoulder holster. The table was covered with drugs and the related paraphernalia. A scale and chemical testing equipment sat next to a paratrooper model .30 carbine. Two dozen loaded magazines were stacked next to the rifle. The man stood and rubbed his shaggy blonde beard. A gold detective badge was fixed to his belt.

  “It stinks in here,Vince,” Sarah said. “I think the fridge broke.”

  “That’s not the fridge,” Vince said.

  Sarah pulled her t-shirt over her nose and crept into the hall.

  “Stay outta there,” Vince said.

  Sarah didn’t look back as she pushed a door open with her knuckles. Inside, a headless, handless and footless body hung from a makeshift wooden frame on steel hooks like a side of pork. The body was obese and covered with gray and black hair. Sarah focused on the three neat bullet holes in it’s chest.

  Vince looked up, realizing he was being ignored. “Oh, fuck.” He ran for the bathroom.

  Blood dripped from the body into an old fashioned, claw foot bathtub. A bone saw, butcher’s knife and other tools waited in the sink. Every surface in the room was covered in bloody hand-prints and droplets. A pile of lumpy, plastic trash bags sat by a stained toilet in a puddle of blood. One of the bags was about the size of a soccer ball.

  “Sick,” Sarah said. “You guys didn’t even flush the toilet.”

  Vince pulled her out of the bathroom. “You, you didn’t see anything,” he said, shaking her, “got it?”

  “Let go, asshole.” Sarah twisted loose. “You know I’m cool.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Vince said. “It was your daddy that wasted him. And I know you wouldn’t rat on him.”

  “Who was he?” Sarah said.

  “You didn’t know him.” Vince pushed her back into the living room.

  Sarah picked the .30 carbine up and unfolded the stock. “I think you’re getting paranoid, Vince.”

  “That thing’s loaded, girl,” Vince said.

  He grabbed for the rifle. Sarah spun and danced back, giggling, holding the gun just out of reach. Vince cocked a fist back, but thought the better of it.

  “I just wanna wook at it,” Sarah said in a faux girly voice.

  Vince sat back down and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “What day is it?”

  “Friday night,” Sarah said while looking down the carbine’s sights at the door.

  “Goddammit,” Vince said. “Where the fuck is Captain Derrico, and where the fuck is your old man?”

  “My dad got some shrooms, so he’s probably out communing with the universe somewhere.” Sarah put the carbine back on the table. “That cock, Derrico, is at the mayor’s fundraising party.”

  “Fuck,” Vince said. “How much did you sell tonight, anyway?”

  “All the speed,” Sarah said, “and most of the grass.”

  “Let’s see it,” Vince said.

  Sarah handed Vince a roll of bills. “I counted it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” Vince said. “You know we could find other work for you. It would be easier and fun. There’d be parties, quality dope, foxy clothes. You could make a lot more money too, retire before you’re eighteen.”

  “Wow.” Sarah tilted her head down and sneered. “It’s like, really funny how you can’t even look me in the eyes when you talk that bullshit. You must have been a real cop once. No, I bet you were always like this, deep down. That’s what that shit you keep snorting does. It brings the real you out.”

  Vince stood, knocking his chair over, his bloodshot eyes blazing. He towered over Sarah like some kind of strung-out grizzly bear. Sarah put her right hand in her jacket pocket. They both eyed the .30 carbine.

  “You could do it, couldn’t you?” Vince said. “You wouldn’t get away with it.” He swallowed, his voice changing as doubt crept in. “The Syndicate would find you wherever you ran.”

  Sarah tilted her head back and laughed. “You’re only half Italian, Vince. Quit talkin’ like you’re some fuckin’ made guy. We’re all expendable.”

  “We need to find your dad.” Vince grabbed a bottle of Vodka from the table and gulped it down like water. “It’s all moving too fast, getting out of hand. I can get it back on track, but we need Hartmann.”

  “Ugh, fine,” Sarah said, “but my dad’s going to be even more messed up than you are.”

  Vince, the crooked detective, weaved behind Sarah all to the way to his plain, beige Chevy sedan. Sarah hopped into the driver’s seat.

  “You’re too loaded to drive,” she said.

  Sarah dialed in some Doom Metal on the Delco radio. Vince rubbed his face and leaned on Sarah. He broke down and started crying.

  “Oh, come on,” Sarah said.

  “I don’t know how to fix this,” Vince said, sobbing into Sarah’s shoulder. “When we get to Reggie’s place, I’ll set everything st
raight.”

  Sarah patted his head and groaned. “Um, there there. You’re just like, tired or something.”

  Vince looked up into Sarah’s eyes and grabbed her by the back of the neck. He kissed her, or at least tried to shove his tongue into her mouth. Back in Heather’s basement lair I groaned.

  “Whoa, I wonder what’s he seeing now?” Heather said in the real world.

  “I don’t know,” Misty said. “I concentrate on the TV, but all I see are weird colors.”

  Tunnel vision had set it and all I could see was the TV where Sarah struggled with Vince.

  “Motherfucker, every fucking time with you fuckin’ pigs.” Sarah reached into her jacket pocket. Vince held her neck in an iron grip and slid his free hand under her t-shirt. Sarah opened up a gravity knife. Vince didn’t see it until the blade opened up his face.

  “Shit, Goddammit.” Vince clutched his cheek, as blood dribbled through his fingers. “You crazy little bitch.”

  The door opened behind Vince and a huge hand grabbed his shoulder. Vince, all two-hundred pounds of him, was yanked through the door like stuffed toy.

  Sarah got out and rested her arms on the car. Her gravity knife dripped blood on the hood. A huge man, who looked like a cross between a Seventies era stoner and a Viking berserker, threw Vince against the car. The Viking’s gray-streaked brown hair was long and braided by his ears. Massive arms like slabs of beef bulged out of his sleeveless, blue work shirt.

  “I’m looking at a dead man right here,” the Viking said.

  “Gawd dad,” Sarah said. “I had everything under control.”

  Sarah’s father drove a fist the size of a kettlebell into Vince’s stomach. He snatched the .45 out of Vince’s shoulder holster before the detective could recover and tossed it on the overgrown lawn.

  “Stand down, Hartmann,” a tall, olive skinned man in a tuxedo said.

  “He was messing around with my daughter.” Hartmann said as he drew a Randall knife from his belt. “You saw it, Derrico.”

  “Nothing really happened,” Sarah said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hartmann said. “I’m going to cut this pig into a hundred little pieces.”