Josh Stallings - Beautiful, Naked and Dead

“Now turn off the lights before we attract attention, and let’s get down to business.” I said.

“You don’t give the orders anymore got it?”

“Got it. You, my friend, are the big swinging dick here. So what do you want to do?” I said with a disarming smile.

“That’s right, damn it. Larry, kill the fucking lights, you want the cops coming or what?” The driver killed the lights and I could see he was alone in the car. “Ok tough guy, now you bring me the girl.”

“I will, because you asked me to. But um, first, just to keep things straight, I should see the cash. Not that I don’t trust you. You are in charge here.”

“See that’s nice, you’re respectful, if you were like that from the start this whole thing would have gone a lot easier.”

“Trust me I see the error of my ways.”

“Good. Larry, you lazy fuck, get the bag.” The driver got out and moved to the trunk.

“Not for nothing, but, did you guys do the girl in LA?” I tossed it off like I was asking if he thought it might rain.

“That bitch was fine. A real screamer.” The blood in my veins started to boil. My head pounded. Every cell in my body screamed. This smarmy mother fucker had to die. My hand snaked towards my pocket.

“Whoa! Dumb fucking move ace!” Sweater boy snapped the hammer back on his pistol. From ten feet he couldn’t miss my head. My hand moved into my pocket. “Pull out your hand, slow!” he yelled.

The beef in a running suit dropped the black gym bag he was holding and reached for his shoulder holster.

My.45 was almost clear of my pocket when I heard the report of a high-powered rifle. The passenger window of the Crown Vic popped and the sex doll’s head exploded. Dropping to the ground the sniper’s second shot whizzed over me. Sweater Boy swung his barrel down. The.45 rocked in my hand, flame flashed and his ankle shattered into a bloody mess. He went down howling, his pistol slid across the gravel. I rolled to the left as a third rifle bullet puffed the ground beside me.

The son of a bitch had a night scope.

Gregor fired up the Crown Vic and had her rolling towards me. He fired wild shots out the window. Skidding to a stop he blocked the snipers view of me. The metal pinged as a slug tore through the car door.

Sirens wailed and two unmarked cars burst through the gate, their cherry tops spinning red into the night. The beefy goon had his arm under Sweater Boy and was trying to get him into the Lincoln. Kneeling against the Vic’s front fender I took aim. My first hardball ripped a hole in the back of his cardigan and ruined his spine. Beef dropped his pal and leapt for the car. I popped him in the knee and watched him go down. Running towards them I hoped the cops had scared off the sniper.

I kicked the piece out of Beef’s hand and tossed the crack vials into their car. A gurgled breath came from the crumpled Sweater Boy. He looked up at me, his eyes pleading, his mouth unable to form words. I stomped my boot down on his head. I could feel his skull crack.

“Boss!” Gregor yelled. The cops were almost on us.

The second stomp ended the punk’s breathing. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would have been.

Grabbing the gym bag, I was barely into the Vic when Gregor hit it hard and we spun out the opposite direction from the cops. We were doing seventy-five when we hit the chain link fence. Bouncing over a planter the Vic skidded onto the city streets and didn’t slow down until we saw the glittering city by the bay rising up out of the mist.

In a filling station, Gregor held up the flap on his coat. A sniper bullet meant for me had passed through the car, through his coat and punched a hole in the door. “Bastards. Somebody’s buying me a new coat,” Gregor said.

“You want a new coat? I’ll buy you a new coat.”

“You didn’t put the hole in it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then you don’t have to buy me one, but somebody does.”

“Yeah, I see your point.” I left him in the car to worry about his wardrobe while I went to the phone booth. First I dialed the number my hacker buddy had gotten for Sabatini. It rang three times before a thick headed bruiser answered, I asked him to put Leo on.

“Pal, you got the wrong number, no Leo’s here.”

“Tell him it’s McGuire. Tell him I ain’t dead.” Twenty seconds later I heard Leo pick up.

“Mr. McGuire, I’m glad to hear your voice.”

“But not surprised, are you?”

“No, I was told you had been lucky.”

“I whacked your skinny friend. Cops have the fat one.”

“I heard that as well. But you didn’t call me to recount old times, did you?”

“No, the girl’s dead, I got my cash. I just need to know no one is coming after me for the punk.”

“No one will be coming after you.”

“No offense, but that’s not just coming from you is it? You’re with Sabatini?”

“Yes, he’s here and we both agree you have earned a walkway.”

“Good.” I hung up and dialed Agent Sanders’ cell.

“I’m a little busy right now McGuire, some perp blew holes in a couple of mobsters and ran off.” Sanders said when I reached him.

“What a shame.”

“You’ve got some real issues with anger, that boy’s head looked like so many pounds of ground chuck.”

“Fuck him, how’s the fat one?”

“He’ll probably lose a leg, but he’ll live to see trial. “

“Then you should be happy. Now you owe me a cup of coffee.”

“I should put an APB out on you.”

“But you won’t, not until you know what I’m holding. And trust me you don’t want to find out in a room full of your brother cops.” He tried to play it tough, keep control but I knew he’d meet me. After a bit of arguing we settled on a coffee shop down in the Mission district. He said he could be there in twenty minutes. So we headed over.

Ten years ago, Mission had been home to heroin, jazz, street kids, pimps and whores. Dot com money had driven most of them out of one end, moved the poor and beat down onto a reservation of two city blocks while they gentrified the rest. Eddie’s Cafe was a lone hold out, it still had the original grease on the walls. I took a booth that was upholstered more in duct tape than vinyl and told Gregor to sit at the counter. I had the recorder in my pocket ready and waiting. Gregor was well into his second stack of pancakes when Sanders walked in.

“What is keeping me from arresting you for murder?” he said as a greeting.

I set the digital recorder on the table and pushed play. Sanders went a lighter shade of pale when he heard his voice agreeing to the setup. “You know I have copies of this, so why don’t you stop hyperventilating and tell me about Torelli.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Yes I am, but let’s leave her out of this. Torelli?”

“Alfred ‘the Animal’ Stolloti,” he said in a defeated drone. “Two years ago he turned state’s evidence against the Chicago mob. Since then he’s been living in witness protection. Three months ago he fell off the map.”

“He was Gino?”

“Yes.”

“And you think Sabatini had him clipped.”

“That’s the working theory.”

“And you figured Kelly saw it go down?”

“No, Bette, her sister.”

“Bette?”

“You know her as Cass.”

“You got it wrong, Kelly was dating Gino, she’s your witness and she’s dead. If the punk I gave you doesn’t roll over you’re just going to have to make your case another way.”

“That’s not the way we see it. No, it was Bette and we’ll find her sooner or later. If the mob doesn’t find her first.” His courage was coming back as he saw a way to spin it on me. “What do you think their response might be if it slipped that you set up their men? If I was you, I’d go home, pull the blankets over my head and say my prayers. Bring me the girl, or tomorrow I call them. “