The Devil's Music
Page 13
“I trust Libra for a lot of things, but sometimes, like now, it’s good for a bossman to get hands-on, know what I mean?” He nodded to indicate the unseen back alley door in the shadows behind him. “We’re done talking. Let’s go, you two. Line up behind each other and move it very slowly.”
They could have killed us there inside the club, but gunfire would travel this early in the AM. Even in this neighborhood, that might draw questions and cops. There was nothing to be done except to watch for a break and when it came, grab it. Stomper moved with a sort of wound-up tenseness, like he too was waiting for a chance, any chance, to react. But we were facing a double-barreled shotgun and you always have to be careful around shotguns.
Libra intercepted me when we were halfway between the table and Leon. Mr. Gangbanger planted himself directly in front of me, blocking my path, his snickering sneer right in place.
He said, “This is where it gets good. I dearly love taking apart white boys that think they’re tough.”
I said, “I might be harder to finish than Chantel.”
“Not so far.” He drew open my right lapel with the fingers of his left hand and slipped his right hand inside the jacket to deftly thumb the holster release, allowing him to grab the butt of the .44 and ease it from the holster. His sneer turned into a course chuckle. “And you know what really surprised me about Chantel? That hot little bitch was a virgin, can you believe that?” He chortled. “ ‘Course, she didn’t die no virgin. I seen to that.” His attention got sidetracked by my .44 Magnum that he held in his hand. He stared down at it. “Damn, this here’s a fine old piece, bro. Think I’ll keep it after I cap your ass.”
Several things happened then, their sequence coming so fast it seemed simultaneous...
Isaac Crawford suddenly materialized from the shadows of that unattended alley doorway somewhere behind Leon. Isaac aimed an automatic pistol at arm’s length, its muzzle touching the back of Leon’s head.
He said, “Drop it, you double-dealing son of a bitch.”
Leon’s face became an expressionless mask. He lowered the shotgun and released his grip of it. The shotgun clattered to the floor.
For the briefest instant, Libra’s attention was diverted in that direction. It was the break I’d been waiting for. My left hand shot up from beneath Libra’s hands that held my gun for inspection, lightning fast like a martial arts blow that raised his hands with it and smashed my pistol into his face with enough force to break his nose with a nasty little crack!
He gasped with shock and pain. The .44 flew from his grasp. I used my left arm across his chest to slam him bodily against the bar while my right hand dug the little .32 from my belt at the small of my back. Then I had him braced against the wall, my left arm pinning him while my right hand poked the .32’s muzzle deeply into his mouth, snapping and popping off several teeth in the process.
“Say one word,” I snarled. “Make one dumb move. I’ll start pulling this trigger until it clicks on empty. Go on, punk. Please! Say something.”
His eyes were extended saucers of fear. His head shook frantically from side to side.
I chanced a look in Isaac’s direction just in time to see Leon make his move. We’ve seen so many movies and TV shows, we've bought into the notion that if you point of gun at someone, that puts you in control of the situation.
It doesn’t always work that way.
Leon twisted to the side so fast, it caught Isaac by surprise and before he could recover, Leon’s right elbow came around to catch Isaac full in the face, forceful enough to trip him backwards, off his feet. Leon pivoted and took off running toward that alley doorway, beyond the walk-in coolers, that fed onto the black alley where it all began.
I could not pursue Leon. I still had Libra pinned to the wall with the sweaty, frightened punk unwillingly performing fellatio on the snout of my .32.
Stomper surprised me.
The old bluesman became animated with a ferocious roar like an enraged black bear giving vent to all of the built-up anger and frustrations he’d experienced. Leon had made it halfway to that alley doorway before Stomper sailed into him with a low tackle that sent them both pitching down and, even from across the room, you could hear Leon’s head slapping the floor. A satisfying sound. Then Leon was still. The old black bear that was Stomper Crawford leaned back on his haunches and looked damn proud of himself.
Isaac stepped forward looking not much worse for the wear. He picked up the shotgun from the floor while his dad retrieved my .44 from where it had skidded into a corner.
And then...
The place was overrun with cops! At least a dozen of them, heavily armed, came pouring in. They took a well-behaved Libra off my hands, hustling him away for further questioning. Once Leon regained consciousness, he would be handcuffed and ready for his ride downtown.
Two officers were assisting Isaac in divesting Stomper of the miniature microphone transmitter that had been taped beneath his shirt, clearly catching everything that had been said and transmitting it to be recorded and archived as evidence for the prosecution.
I’d re-holstered Betsy and the little .32 again rode discreetly concealed at the small of my back when Joe Gallegos and Neil Dickensheets put in an appearance.
The DA’s man was beaming.
“I must say, Kilroy, you said you’d take us to Libra.” His gaze took in the sight of Leon regaining consciousness, and the wattage of his beaming only increased. “You didn’t mention you’d be handing over the kingpin of Five Points. Well done, Kilroy. Well done.”
Joe eyed me with an amused smile that Dickensheets didn’t see.
“And so my amigo comes up yet again. I don’t know how you manage to do it every time, buddy, but this time provoking Leon Miller into an admission, which is what his behavior clearly was in addition to what he said, that was well played.”
I tried to be modest. The adrenaline was still pumping through me. I felt a little cocky. Coming out on top after a scrape like that is a heady sensation.
I said, “It was team effort. Thanks for going along with it. Did you get everything?”
Dickensheets answered for him with a nod.
“It’s being transcribed tonight for processing first thing in the morning. The resulting list of charges should be impressive.”
They became busy discussing the matter between themselves. I tuned them out when I was joined by Isaac and Stomper.
The close father-son bond was there as always between these two, but now there was also the respect of one man for another. Isaac’s pistol had somehow vanished with the appearance of so many police officers. Stomper’s weariness was gone. His eyes burned with the spark that had illuminated his old publicity photos, as if there weren’t converging cops and bruised bodies all over the place.
“Kilroy,” he said, “I want to thank both you and my son for saving my life. I’ve really been blessed by the people who I’ve come back to. Michelle and your friend Carl, too. Well, uh, now that Leon’s out of the way... d’you think we can start making real plans now for a jam session?”
I couldn’t hold back the laugh I felt even after the rough road of the past twenty-four hours.
“Stomper,” I said, “welcome home.”
“From here on out, my pop knows who to trust. You risked your life to help him with this mess tonight, Kilroy.”
“That’s right,” affirmed Stomper. “My daughter’s flying out next month for a visit to mend things between us, and my career is back on track. I’ve got the world by the tail, yes sir!” He put his arm around his son’s shoulder. “Reckon when we’re done here, we best get back to Michelle and Carl, let them know how things turned out.”
I said, “And don’t forget to talk about how things are going to turn out. Carl Hensman digs your music as much as I do, Stomp, and my buddy’s a good man all around. He’ll make you a great agent and producer. He’s someone you can trust. You’ve got a good team behind you.”
“I believe you’re right,”
Stomper nodded sagely. “I believe they could make old Stomper a blues star all over again.”
And he was right.
That’s exactly what they did.
A Look at Blood Red Sun
Japan is at the brink of surrender. It is the eve of the Emperor's announcement of his country's acceptance of the Allied terms of surrender. But a core of fanatical extremists in the Emperor's military, descended from the legendary Samurai warriors of feudal Japan--and other, more shadowy factions of power shrouded in the mysteries of this ancient society--vow never to surrender. The overthrow of the Emperor is only the first step in their insane scheme.
Sergeant John Ballard is a battle-hardened commando. The best the army's got when it comes to fighting dirty. Years of surviving on the edge are starting to eat away at him but Ballard can't stop now. General Douglas MacArthur himself has just handed Ballard what may be the most impossible mission of the war.
Keiko Tamura is a young Japanese woman, gutsy, independent; the blood of the Samurai flows in her veins. Educated in America before the war, she is willing to risk her life to end the military madness that has brought her country to ruin.
Unlikely allies thrown together, these two alone stand in the way of one final, sinister, far-reaching plot with millions of American and Japanese lives at stake.
AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON.
Also by Stephen Mertz
Blood Red Sun
Night Wind (Night Wind Book 1)
Devil Creek (Night Wind Book 2)
Dragon Games
The Korean Intercept
The Castro Directive
The Vampire Chase
Jimi After Dark
The Dark of Midnight & Other Stories
Hank & Muddy
The Moses Deception
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About the Author
Stephen Mertz is an American fiction author who is best known for his mainstream thrillers and novels of suspense. His work covers a wide variety of styles from paranormal dark suspense (Night Wind and Devil Creek) to historical speculative thrillers (Blood Red Sun) and hardboiled noir (Fade to Tomorrow). Mertz is also a popular lecturer on the craft of writing and has appeared as a guest speaker before writer’s groups and at universities.
Steve’s writing output increased dramatically when he emerged as one of the country’s most in-demand writers of adventure paperback novels, averaging four books per year for ten years. His work on Don Pendleton’s Mack Bolan series is regarded by fans as some of the best in that series. He also created the Mark Stone: MIA Hunter and Cody’s Army series, written under the pseudonyms Jack Buchanan and Jim Case respectively.
Stephen Mertz lives in the American Southwest, and he is always at work on a new book.
Find Stephen online:
www.stephenmertz.com