Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

He scrunched up his face, thinking about it. “Sorry, Charlie,” said Mercury. “Nothing personal, but you’ve been a whole lot of trouble. Beggar says you have to go. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to have to see if you can stick that knife in me before I take three steps back and draw my Berreta. One way or another, we finish it.”

Our eyes locked. Then he moved.

He stepped back, his hand flashing into his jacket, and I leapt for him with the knife. It was a trick. His hand came right back without the pistol, and he stepped forward, caught my knife hand and twisted. I kicked him away but had to lose the knife. He swung a fist. I ducked under and punched him in the gut. He caught my arm, pulled me forward, and head-butted me in the nose.

Blood exploded down my face. I staggered back. He came after. I punched. He blocked and kicked my legs out from under me. I sprawled in the snow, tried feebly to scoot away. He pulled his Berreta, pointed it at my chest.

“I just wanted to know,” said Lloyd. “I wondered if I was better than you, and now we both know it. I’m going to kill you now. Nothing personal. Beggar wanted me to tell you that this bullet was for Sanchez.”

I flinched at the sound of the gunshot. Mercury’s face exploded. His blood sprayed across me, dotted the snow with red stars. He fell backwards, landed flat, a grizzly snow-angel.

Amber stood naked, legs spread, Mercury’s shiny automatic in her little fists. I wobbled to my feet, went to her, took the gun, wrapped her in my arms. She cried a long time against my chest, both of us barefoot in the snow.

I swung in the hammock on the porch of the villa. It had only taken me about two hours to find Marcie after my plane touched down in Acapulco. She was stretched out in a beach chair next to the pool of a luxury hotel, sipping an umbrella drink and reading an art magazine. She burst into tears when she saw me, hugged me hard.

Then punched me square in the face.

We’ve reached an understanding since then.

Once I’d determined that Amber was going to be okay, I let her have the Impala to drive back to Orlando. I gave her every cent I had on me to make sure her trip went okay and told her it might be six months or so before I could contact her and Danny again. I needed to lay low for a while. She let me know I could contact Danny through Clemson University. She’d see to it.

She really did seem like she was going to be okay as she dropped me off at the Chattanooga Airport. She kissed me on the cheek again, said I’d be in her thoughts.

I put a plane ticket to Mexico on Minelli’s credit card.

In the ninety minutes I had before my plane left, I dropped the key to the airport locker in the mail. I used the card Agent Dunn had given me to get the address. I also sent him a note saying one of the conditions for my help was to put Stan in a witness relocation program if they ended up nabbing him. Maybe Dunn would even be grateful enough to do it.

It would be strange for a while without Stan’s guiding hand, but I was starting a new life. I was my own boss now.

A slight breeze picked up. I rocked in the hammock. Marcie and I had stayed in the luxury hotel one night before I’d explained we’d have to make her cash stretch for as long as possible. We were waiting to hear if the real estate agent had sold her house. Until then we’d moved into a reasonably safe and clean neighborhood with the locals. Rent on the villa was modest.

I heard someone approach the villa, but I kept my eyes closed. I knew what Marcie’s quick steps sounded like on the cobblestones. She climbed the stairs to the porch and put something on my chest. I pretended I was still asleep.

She cleared her throat pointedly, and I opened my eyes.

I was looking straight into the eyes of a big stuffed iguana.

“Please tell me this isn’t dinner,” I said.

“Do you know what they’re charging for these nasty things in the tourist shops?” she asked.

“No.”

“Take a guess.”

“Twenty bucks,” I said.

“Not dollars, dumbass. Pesos.”

“I have no idea.”

“Two thousand fucking pesos.” She put her hands on her hips. “Can you believe that?”

“It’s unbelievable.”

She grunted her derision at me. “Laugh it up, boy-toy. We need to make a living. I could stuff these things in my sleep.” She picked up the lizard and shook it at me. “I have a very marketable skill here, you know.”

“I can always go in on that deal with Hernandez,” I told her. Hernandez was a shady fellow I’d met a few nights ago in one of the local saloons. We got to talking over a few pints of tequila, and he told me about a scheme he had going where he and his pals stole cars in Texas and smuggled them over the border to sell in Mexico.

“No!” Marcie smacked me on the forehead with an open palm. “We don’t do things like that anymore. You want me to kick your ass?”

I just laughed.

She tucked the iguana under her arm and went inside the villa. “I’m serious,” she called over her shoulder. “We have to earn a living somehow.”

I unfolded the telegram that had arrived an hour earlier, read it again.

Stash all counted. Account in your name at Bank of Zurich. Account number: DH123-45567. Balance: $1,428,076.00.

– Jimmy the Fix

“We’ll get by somehow,” I shouted at her.

I closed my eyes. The breeze picked up just a little as I slipped into mariachi dreams.

It should be evident by now that the fine folks at UglyTown Publishing are doing something special.

I’d like to thank them for allowing me to be part of it. Additional thanks to the crew at Dell for taking it to the next level.

But long before the manuscript of Gun Monkeys was ready to show a publisher, two guys helped me wrestle with it.

Todd Neuman and Anthony Neil Smith.

Thanks guys for all the sweat on my behalf.

Mr. Smith especially went above and beyond.

I owe you a beer, crimedog.

VICTOR GISCHLER lives with his wife Jackie and two evil cats in Claremore, Oklahoma, where he teaches Creative Writing for Rogers State University. Raised on a steady diet of John D. MacDonald novels, Victor has thrown himself into hard-boiled, noir fiction with a passion. He’s published short stories in Blue Murder, Thrilling Detective, Plots With Guns. Crimestalker Casebook, The Best American Mystery Stories 1999 , and elsewhere.