John Locke - Lethal People

Ray’s friend sneered. “I don’t give up my gun to no one.”

I squinted to get a better look. “That a Monster Magnum?” I asked. “Hell, I don’t blame you. That’s a damn fine gun.”

The guy with the magnum ignored me, kept talking while he took a step away from Ray’s brother, trying to create distance between them and work his way into my blind side. “Broken nose, belt around his neck—he’s not gonna die. That’s total bullshit.”

Ray’s brother wasn’t so sure. “Joe, shut up. He’s dying. Look at him! My brother’s dying.” To me, he said, “Let him go, Creed. Let him go and we’ll walk away, I swear to God.”

But Joe had other plans. He grabbed the fallen waitress and put his gun to her ear. “Let him go, Creed, or I’ll kill her. Don’t think I won’t!”

She screamed. I laughed. “You think I care if you shoot her? Someone must have forgotten to tell you what I do for a living.”

Ray, the goon on the door, was heavy, and my left arm was starting to gimp up from the strain of holding him there. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep him upright much longer. Ray had been packing a small frame .38-caliber revolver, a good choice for a belt gun. I gripped it in my right hand.

Joe said, “Last chance, Creed. You know what this cannon will do to her head. It’ll put you in mind of Gallagher smashing a watermelon.” He pulled the hammer back and cocked it for dramatic effect.

It worked. It made the satisfying, precise clunk I’d come to love in that particular hand gun. I’m sensitive to the unique sounds each gun makes, and my ears were able to isolate this one over the gasping death rattle in Ray’s throat, above the sound of his legs kicking the bottom of the door from which he hung. I heard it above the commotion in the front of the restaurant as customers screamed and ran and knocked over chairs and trampled each other while trying to evacuate. I heard the sound of Joe’s gun and loved it. Though the .500 was too big to use in everyday situations, I couldn’t wait to add it to my collection.

Joe had made his threat and felt compelled to follow through on it. He instinctively leaned his head back, away from the waitress, which told me he was about to pull the trigger and didn’t want some of her brains on his face. I felt the heft of Ray’s gun in my hand. At twenty ounces and less than seven inches in length, its capacity was only five rounds, but I’d only need one to kill Joe. I didn’t know what Ray was using for ammunition, but I put one of them in Joe’s temple and his head jerked when it hit. He fell to the floor, and a thin wisp of smoke escaped from the hole in his head as dark blood started to puddle. I heard the nonstop shriek of the waitress and wondered how many years of therapy this experience might require.

But I didn’t look at her. I was too busy looking at Ray’s brother. He said, “Creed. Please. Let him go.”

“You going to drop your gun?” I asked.

He shook his head no and I could see tears streaming down his cheeks. Ray’s left leg had gone limp, and his right one was barely twitching. “I love you, Ray,” he said.

I saw what was coming and released Ray just as his brother shot him. Then Ray’s brother dove for the floor to my right, angling for position on me where I was most vulnerable. I couldn’t let him get there, so I took a knee and squeezed a round into his left eye and another into the top of his head. I tried to push the door forward, but Ray’s body kept it in place, so I eased my way out from behind it and checked myself to see if I’d been shot through Ray’s body.

I hadn’t.

I walked over Joe’s body and spotted the magnum a few feet away. You don’t just pick up the Monster Magnum; you have to lift it. I did so and took a few seconds to admire it. The .500-caliber Smith & Wesson Magnum was the biggest, heaviest, most powerful factory-production handgun in the world. It makes Dirty Harry’s weapon of choice look like a BB gun. I hadn’t been counting on a gun this size and wondered why Joe hadn’t thought to shoot Ray. The 50-caliber bullet would have gone through him as well as the door, me, and the wall behind us.

I couldn’t wait to tell Kathleen how lucky I’d been. I felt I finally had a woman I could talk to about these things besides Callie. Callie was great, but there was no warmth to her. She was part killer and part smartass. Callie wouldn’t have considered me lucky; she’d have said Joe was stupid. And don’t even get her started on Ray and his brother. She wouldn’t have fallen for the Glasgow Kiss, she wouldn’t have tried to cut a deal with a guy hanging her partner from a door, and she wouldn’t have waited around in the parking lot in the first place. Callie would have marched right in the front door of the diner, put a slug between my eyes, and stolen Kathleen’s sandwich for the ride home.

I told the people in the kitchen they could come out now, told them to take care of the waitress who was no longer hysterical but had turned catatonic with shock. I took my trophy gun, walked into the diner, and found Kathleen hiding under the table where I’d told her to wait for me. I got on one knee to get a better look at her. She was pale, shivering violently. I put the magnum on the floor and reached out to her. She screamed and slapped my hands away. I told her it was over. She was safe; everything was fine. I wanted to tell her what had happened, tell her how shocked I’d been when Ray’s brother killed him to prevent his further suffering—I was even prepared to tell her more about how I earned my livelihood—but she kept screaming and told me she never wanted to see me again. I knew she’d probably be upset, but I’d failed to gauge the extent.

I removed the tape from my hands and wrists and put the plastic back in my wallet. As

I left the diner, walked to my car, and began the relatively short drive back to Manhattan. When I hit the turnpike, I called Lou first, then Darwin, and caught them up to speed. I asked Darwin if he had the power to prevent police from stopping my car.

He said he’d try.

CHAPTER 15

It was early afternoon, and I was back in Manhattan, in my hotel room. I’d ordered a glass tumbler and a bottle of Maker’s from room service, which for some reason took them over a half hour to deliver. The tardy delivery guy tried to make conversation to increase the tip I noticed was already added to my order. While money is not an issue for me, the thought of paying one hundred and twenty dollars for a thirty-five dollar bottle of whiskey is enough to discourage an extra tip. I dismissed him curtly, and we exchanged frowns. I went to the sink, turned on the hot water faucet, and waited for it to work.

It had been a hell of a day so far. I’d learned that Addie’s entire family had been murdered in order to cheat them out of their lottery winnings. I’d been attacked by three goons who tried to kill me in a public diner. I’d lost Kathleen, the first woman in years who had offered a glimmer of hope for a possible relationship and normal future. I’d made an enemy of Aunt Hazel, which probably cost me visiting privileges with Addie.

The water from the faucet was steaming. I hoped that in a hotel like this, no one had peed in the glass tumbler, but I rinsed it thoroughly anyway. Then I poured a half-ounce of whiskey in it and swirled it around to flavor the glass and kill any stubborn germs that might be hoping to breach my bloodstream.

I sipped some whiskey.

There’s something special about high-tone Kentucky bourbon. My favorite is the twenty-year-old Pappy Van Winkle, but Maker’s Mark is easier to come by and is plenty sumptuous in its own right. Bourbon is not a pretentious drink, although there’s a movement underfoot to make it so. Experts have started organizing tasting groups to explain the “softness” of the quality bourbons and the elegant flavors you’re likely to encounter when tasting them, including such exotic notes as orange peel, licorice, almonds, and cinnamon.