Robert Browne - Kiss Her Goodbye

Those days were long behind him now, but Gunderson still knew how to use the tools of the trade. In fact, he’d copped this crappy old Commando with nothing but a slotted two-inch Craftsman. The Jeep had served its purpose well, but now he needed something roomier. Something that said soccer mom.

The Suburban was the perfect choice.

The elevator bell rang and Mr. and Mrs. Waste-of-Space stepped inside, the Husband of the Year still complaining about how late they were as wifey-poo adjusted and readjusted her ample, if sagging, bosom.

Gunderson waited for the doors to close, checked to make sure the aisle was clear, then swung his legs out of the Jeep and crossed to the SUV.

Approaching the driver’s-side window, he fed the length of a slim-jim down past the rubber, gave it a little shake and a tug. The lock popped open. Once inside, he pulled a stubby screwdriver from his pocket, jammed it into the ignition, and started the engine.

The whole operation took less than forty seconds.

On his way out of the parking lot, Gunderson paid the attendant five bucks (and they called him a criminal), rolled the Suburban up the ramp into traffic, and headed back the way he’d come.

As ripe little Jessie exchanged shy glances with the pimply-faced geeks in her biology class, Gunderson thought about his sweet Sara lying silently in her hospital bed and allowed himself the slightest of smiles.

Retribution is a wonderful thing.

When the buzzer buzzed, Bobby Nemo’s muscles tensed. An instinctive reaction. He’d been on edge for weeks.

“Oww,” Carla groaned, “you’re hurting me.”

“Shut up,” Nemo said. He got off her, told her to get dressed, then pulled his pants back on and eased onto the sofa, letting his gaze drift to the television set across the room. ESPN extreme sports.

He was trying to look relaxed, but he didn’t feel so relaxed.

“That’s it?” Carla said. “We’re not gonna finish?”

The buzzer buzzed again.

“Get your clothes on and answer the goddamned door.”

Carla pouted. Pushed her lips together and got all teary-eyed. Nemo hated when she did that. Made her look like some needy skank, especially when she sat there on the floor with her tits and ass hanging out. He knew what was coming next.

“You don’t love me anymore.”

“Jesus, Carla, don’t start, okay?” He picked her T-shirt up off the carpet and threw it at her. “Just shut up and get your ass in gear.”

She got quiet then and pulled the T-shirt on, the words MAN BAIT plastered across her surgically enhanced chest. She reached under the sofa for her panties, started to slip into them, then had a sudden change of heart and flung them at Nemo instead. “Asshole.”

She got to her feet and sashayed toward the door, the T-shirt barely covering the crack of her ass. She was planning to give their caller a beaver show, doing it to spite Nemo, because she knew how much he hated it when she did that.

Of course, Carla made her living giving beaver shows. Let guys stick dollar bills up her snatch even though a sign at the back of the club where she was headlining clearly said TOUCHING OF DANCERS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. God knows what she let them do during the private dances.

But that was work. This was different. Nemo had been staying with Carla for a few weeks now, and this was the second time she’d gotten pissed enough to go to the door bare-assed. Last time some poor geek of a Mormon kid got a glimpse of that little Brazilian wax job of hers and almost shot his wad right there in his Fruit of the Looms.

Carla had laughed like a friggin’ hyena, but Nemo didn’t think it was funny. Not one bit.

The buzzer buzzed a third time. Nemo’s hand slipped under the seat cushion next to him and touched the grip of his Desert Eagle.

Carla called out, “Who is it?”

“Chu’s Chinese. I’ve got your order.”

About goddamned time, Nemo thought, and withdrew his hand. His muscles relaxed. Everything was cool. Nothing to worry about.

For now, at least.

The first time Nemo saw his face on TV, he almost shit a brick. This was the day following the Northland First amp; Trust disaster, when he, Alex, and that dimwit Luther were nursing their wounds at a house on Lake Shore Drive, a big mother of a place owned by Sara’s brother, Tony.

Reed was an unwilling participant in the proceedings, a petulant little prick who spent one minute crying about his kid sister and the next threatening to call the police. So Alex wasted no time setting him straight.

They were watching CNN on Tony’s big screen, watching a report on the robbery, when Nemo’s face filled all sixty-two inches of the thing, some candy-assed news anchor telling the world what a fuck ball he was.

Nemo didn’t feel like a fuck ball, and he sure didn’t feel like spending the rest of his life in a federally franchised HoJo, so he split from Alex and Luther that day, telling them they’d all be better off if they didn’t travel in a pack.

They kept in touch, using stolen and hacked cell phones, Luther the lucky one because he’d never been identified, living back home with Mommy. Alex carved his own shit-hole out in the boondocks while Nemo grew a beard and played nomad, bouncing from place to place. He thought about leaving the country altogether, but that would make him a stranger in some strange land and he didn’t exactly relish that thought.

In the end, he stayed where he belonged, right here in the city, where he felt comfortable. The Feds probably figured he was holed up somewhere in South America, but he never got overconfident, always stayed alert. Keeping to himself during the day, he cruised the bars at night, constantly looking for a safe place to perch. He spent a few nights out at Fredrickville, holed up in some cracker-box motel that a friend of Luther’s managed, but a restless spirit sent him back to the city, prowling for a better grade of poon.

Then he met Carla, a dancer at the Pussy Palace, a G-string-optional strip dive on South Clinton.

Carla always opted to go without.

That night, she took him to a private booth and gave him head like you wouldn’t believe. Nemo didn’t know if it was the size of his unit or the fact that he thanked her afterward that made her fall for him, but she invited him home and he’d been here ever since. It had worked out real good, because Carla didn’t watch the news or read the papers and had absolutely no idea who he was. Carla was a cute little piece of ass, but she’d never be a contestant on Jeopardy.

Nemo watched her get up on tippy-toes and look out the peephole. She was short, but it was all muscle and soft curves.

“Puny little oriental guy,” she said, then turned and gave Nemo a defiant grin. “Let’s give him the full show.”

She peeled off her T-shirt and tossed it aside. Her tits probably would’ve bounced if they weren’t so pumped full of silicone.

“Jesus, Carla. You’re gonna get your ass popped for indecent exposure.”

“You call this indecent?”

She turned back to the door, reached for the dead bolt, twisted it.

The moment the latch clicked, the door burst open, knocking Carla on her ass. She yelped in surprise as a horde of federal flak jackets barreled past her and piled into the living room. “Federal agents! On the floor! Now!”

Every one of them carried heavy firepower.

Nemo’s hand ducked under the cushion again, but before he could reach his Eagle, three agents were on him. Big hands grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and pushed him to the floor. He felt the pressure of a knee digging into his back as his arms were jerked behind him and nylon cuffs looped his wrists.

The room got quiet then, except for Carla, who squealed like a terrified puppy as they dragged her naked hide outside. After she was gone, Nemo heard footsteps thump toward him across the carpet-someone with a slight limp to his gait. A moment later, an agent knelt down next to him and got right in his face.