Josh Stallings - Beautiful, Naked and Dead

“You don’t have a choice. I’m not taking you.”

“I’ll follow you.”

“Look, bitch, you have got us both on the fucking chopping block,” I spat out. Angel crawled onto the floor to get away from my rage.

“You love me, I know it.” Cass searched my eyes, seeking the truth beneath my words.

“I don’t know what I feel. Right now, I’m going to make this shit right. Then we’ll see what we see.”

“And if you don’t come back?”

“Then pack your bags and hit the border.”

“I’m your girl. Tell me I’m your girl.” Her eyes pleaded, “Tell me.”

“You’re my girl,” I said and I might have meant it.

“Then I’ll do what you say. But if you die on me I’ll haunt your ass into the next life. I’ll go to New Orleans and have the chicken man turn you into a zombie. So you better not die.”

“That’s one hell of a threat,” I said with a laugh.

“Laugh if you want, but I’ll do it.”

“I bet you would.” Nuzzling her head into my chest we drove on. She was an amazing girl, a mixture of contradictions. Hard and soft, old and young, hot and cold. She touched me deep down inside, maybe I could live up to the man she thought I was, maybe when this was over I could take her down to old Mexico, rent a house on the beach and find out who we were without the threat of death hanging over us.

Helen lived in a terraced house in the steep hills overlooking the reservoir, it was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright with classic flat roof lines, clean boxes stacked into the hillside. When Helen opened the door, Bruiser bounded past her and me, dropping to his forepaws he barked at Angel, egging her into a game of chase. Helen let out a high whistle and Bruiser bounced into the house followed by Angel. When I introduced her to Cass Helen stared at her face.

“She’s Kelly’s sister,” I told her.

“No, really? You look more like Kelly, than Kelly did. We were good friends, I miss her too much for words.”

“She wrote me about you, she loved talking to you,” Cass said, I knew she was lying but it lit Helen’s face up, so I let it pass.

“Can I get you two some coffee, the goddess caffeine is my one true love.”

“No, listen, some really bad men are after Cass. I need a safe house for her until I can straighten it out. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“What sort of bad men? Moses?”

“Bad enough.”

“The less I know, the better, is that it? What the heck, is this one of my screenplays come to life?”

“I won’t be any bother, I promise,” Cass said, with a coy smile that almost sent Helen giggling.

“Of course you won’t. I have a guest room I never use and I’m on hiatus so I can use the distraction. But it’s all so mysterious, you sure you don’t want to tell me more, Moses, so I don’t have to drag it out of this sweet girl?”

“Let it lay, and when it’s all over, I’ll tell you about it,” I said.

“Every gory detail.”

“You got it.” Cass followed me out to the car for her suitcase. Wrapping her arms around my waist she hugged her head to my chest. I could feel her trembling in my arms. Leaning down, my lips met hers, we stood there kissing, as the sun sparkled on the water below us. Pulling myself away from her I kissed her forehead, got in and drove away. In the rearview mirror I could see her standing in the street, shoulders slumped, she stood there until I rounded the corner. I had to shake her from my head. No room for soft memories where I was going.

On Hillcrest I pulled into a liquor store and bought a pint of Seagram’s and a bottle of ginger ale. In the car I mixed a drink and pulled my whites stash out from under the seat. I needed the jangle and the edge, I needed to wash Cass from my mind. I wanted to run back to her, fall into her arms, make love until dawn and then drink rich coffee while we watched the dogs play. But that was a dream. And I had work to do.

I hit the Pony Express gun shop just before closing. They were out in the sweaty end of the valley, it was a large shop with stuffed dead animals hung across the ceiling. They supplied most of the black powder shooters and re-enactors, folks who liked to dress up as cowboys and play shoot ‘em up. I bought a box of frangible slugs for my.45. They were designed to act like a hollow point while still loading smoothly into an automatic. Under the soft copper casing were four steel balls that split out at impact leaving a deep and wide ugly entry wound. Air marshals and city cops used them because they didn’t over-penetrate, they hit like a fist but didn’t come out the back to kill the innocent. I also bought a length of cannon fuse. From my trunk I took a red highway flare and jammed the fuse into its end. Acme couldn’t have made a better fake stick of dynamite. Crawling back on the freeway I headed for Glendale.

I found the same ugly brown apartment building, pausing at the door I could hear the thump of rap music. I knocked and waited. After a moment the big Armenian opened the door, he didn’t fight me this time, he stepped back and let me enter. The skinny boy in the cast was sitting on his sofa watching rap videos. “What the hell do you want now?” he squeaked. I dismissed him with a glance and focused on the big guy.

“You want some work?” I said, the big boy shrugged, noncommittal. “I need back up, pays a hundred. You interested?”

“Gregor does what I say,” the skinny boy said.

“That true?” I said to the big boy, still not even looking at the punk on the sofa. Gregor shook his head. Grabbing his coat off the back of a chair he followed me out.

“You’re a real chatterbox, aren’t you?” I said, as we drove down Colorado. He shrugged looking out the window impassively. A layer of baby fat surrounded his face giving him a sweet look, his thick black hair was buzzed to a fine fur. The only thing really scary about him was his size and the dull look in his eyes that told you he just didn’t care how things turned out.

“You packing?” I asked, he looked at me like that was the stupidest question he had heard in years. From under his shirt he pulled a matte black 9 mm with a squared trigger guard and a lanyard ring at the base of the grip. It looked more like a tool than the pimped out penis extensions most baby gangsters carry. “What’s that, Russian?”

He shook his head like I was an idiot and handed me the piece. It was Czech, a CZ75. The kid knew his guns I’d give him that even if he wasn’t a sparkling conversationalist. In Highland Park my street was quiet. The Lincoln was still parked down the block. Moving in the shadows I checked out their car, it was empty. Crawling along the hedge I slipped onto my porch. A dim light glowed behind the curtains. Slowly I slipped my key into the lock aware of every click. Striking a match I lit the fuse, it burst into sparks. Popping the door open I tossed the red flare into the room, and pulled the door closed. I waited for a second then burst in sweeping the room with my.45. On the living room floor two mob boys were diving for the flare. They looked up at me stunned. From the kitchen I heard the deep thud of a fist on flesh. The older well dressed thug tumbled into the room and went down. Gregor followed him in, leveling his CZ at the man’s face. Moving between the other two I stepped on the fuse, crushing it out.

“Are you fucking nuts?” Jogging suit said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am. Guns on the floor boys, before I have to make a mess I won’t be able to explain to my maid.”

“Do you have any idea who we are?” the sweater boy said, standing up into my face. A backhand sent him back down. “Oh, you’re a dead man. I’m talking to a dead man.”

“Shut up.” The older well dressed man said, wiping a spot of blood off his lip onto a monogrammed handkerchief. The younger man closed his mouth, shooting me daggers with his eyes. “Now, let’s see if there is a way we can all walk out of here with our heads held high. What do you say, Mr. McGuire?”