NOT DEAD YET
by
Peter Menadue
Copyright 2016 Peter Menadue
Cover illustration: copyright Michael Mucci at michaelmucci.com
"Bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days"
Psalm 55:23.
PROLOGUE
Pedro Garcia watched Hector Morales and Tony Thompson mix lactose into the mound of cocaine on his glass-topped dining table. They were stretching eight kilos of muestra-quality coke to ten, though Garcia would still tell his buyers it was pure: the fuckers were too dumb to tell the difference.
Both men wore plastic aprons, surgical gloves and paper masks to filter out coke dust. An Ohaus gram-scale and large pile of polyurethane sandwich bags sat on the table so they could divide the coke into 50- and 100-gram packs.
Garcia had supervised this operation many times, but still felt nervous. He hated being close to the perdica. If the cops bugged his phone or got a pal to betray him, a smart lawyer might get him off the hook. They caught him with the product, he was totally fucked. But he had to be there to make sure Thompson and Morales didn't skim off any coke. They were amigos, but he wouldn't trust his own mother with that much product.
At least, if the police raided the apartment, the steel-reinforced front door would take at least two minutes to break down. Plenty of time to flush away the coke. He also had a nine-mill Glock tucked behind his belt.
Thompson put down his plastic mixing spoon and turned to Garcia. "Gotta take a piss," he said through his mask.
Garcia looked at Thompson's hands to make sure they were empty. Didn't want him slipping coke down his socks or up his culo. "OK, don't be long".
Thompson headed up the hallway, while Morales kept working.
Garcia stared out the window at the glittering surface of Sydney Harbour and daydreamed about how much he'd make from this shipment. His main buyers would gobble it up. In a couple of days he'd make a couple of mill. Then he'd fly to Bangkok, get high as a kite and chase puta up and down Pat Pong Road.
Footsteps in the hallway. Sounded like more than one person. His nerves sizzled. Mierda.
Thompson emerged, no mask, holding a silenced pistol. Just behind him was another guy - a big bastard with grey hair, hard eyes and a mean mouth - also holding a silenced pistol, very steady.
Dios Mio. They were going to kill him. Fuck.
Without warning, Thompson lifted his pistol and shot Morales twice in the chest. Morales flopped onto the floor, below the poster of Che Guevara.
Garcia's heart was now a big bass drum. Being a drug dealer was dangerous. But he'd always believe he would never catch a bullet. He was too smart, too lucky and too fucking handsome to get iced. He had a special deal with God.
This could not be happening.
But it was. Jesus. So fucking unfair. A minute ago he had the world on a string. Now he stared into nothingness.
If he grabbed his pistol, he was dead; if he didn't grab it, he was dead. Whatever he did, he was dead, dead, dead.
Anger flared. No begging. Not to these pricks. He'd die machito. But his tongue betrayed him. "Please don't shoot me," he sobbed.
Thompson said: "Sorry, Pedro, this is how it's gotta be. Don't move, or this'll hurt."
Garcia wondered why he ever came to Australia, a stupid fucking country far from everyone he loved in Columbia. He fondly remembered the huge cake his mother made for his tenth birthday, and the time his father gave him a new bicycle, a few days before he was gunned down outside their home.
His brain switched to Spanish and his time as an altar boy: "Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore e con te…"
He tried to slow down time and ignore the pistol. There would be no bullet, no death.
Thompson shot him in the forehead. Red mist sprayed from the back. The second bullet ploughed into his chest.
Thompson considered emptying the whole clip. But Garcia was a friend. Respect made him only fire twice. That way, he wouldn't feel bad afterwards.
The older guy said: "What crap did he say at the end?"
"Sounded wog."
"Yeah, crap."
Both men looked at the mound of sample-quality coke, glistening in the sunlight liked a pile of diamonds, which it almost was. The old guy grinned. "Fantastic."
Their greed made them love the whole world and each other. But not for long - not long at all.
Not Dead Yet Page 1