Part V
I
walked down the block trying to figure out where to go next. My first thought was
to stop at the casino Kathy worked in and ran. She seemed to be a main cog in
the shit I had been dealing with so I figured I find her I find the problem,
though I was a little terrified about going there because if she is being used
to threaten people Kathy may be higher up in the family than just a spy sent to
steal files.
I stopped near the
alleyway where the entrance for the casino was. There was not a doubt in my
mind that the employees would have been told to keep an eye out for me, so I
decided against going in that night. I needed to drop of the money off home and
come back the next day after I had a chance to clear my head.
Something seemed off as
the cab pulled up in front of my building. The hoodlums who normally hung outside
slinging whatever drugs they could were not standing on the building steps. In
their place was a tall wop looking goon in a leather jacket. I told the cabbie to
pull up the block a little further before letting me out.
I pulled out the
Walther PPK and held it in my right hand while I still carried the briefcase of
money in my left. I walked around to the back of the building and headed down
the basement steps and into the laundry room. I scanned the basement to make
sure it was empty before I stashed the briefcase of money behind one of the
washers before I walked upstairs to my apartment.
I paused at the top
step and saw another leather jacketed thug standing guard outside of my door. I
lifted my right arm and dropped him with a silenced shot. I continued to the
front door of my place. I re-holstered the PPK, picked up the goon’s semi
automatic 9mm two-tone Beretta, and pushed his body from the entrance with my
foot. I slowly entered.
A goon sitting on my
couch turned to face the doorway as I walked in, he lifted his silenced Tec-9,
but before he could pull the trigger I put a bullet through his skull. He
slumped forward; his brain further ruined my already shitty sofa. In one day I
was down a couch and a jacket: thank god I had that briefcase of cash hidden
downstairs. Before I could take another step bullets began flying at me from
the kitchen, I ducked back into the hallway as gunshots followed me. I waited
for a pause in the fire and turned in and shot out the leg of a lanky greased
hair enforcer. He shot back at me and I felt a warm blood running down my side.
Another shot from the Berretta knocked him back into by bedroom. I dropped to
the ground in pain. I took a minute to regain some sort of strength before I
picked up the Tec-9 dropped by the dead man on the couch.
Another round of shots
whizzed past my head. I lifted the Tec-9 and emptied the clip toward my
bedroom. I dropped the Tec-9 and pulled out my snub nose and walked with
caution through the living room toward the bullet ridden hallway.
I turned into my bedroom
where a partially alive man twitched in a pool of blood on the floor. He was
about to be as dead as the cow that was used to make his leather jacket. I
squatted down to him. I didn’t have too much time before the police showed up
and I needed to move my weapons and take care of the place, so I got right to
it.
“Who is the new
godfather?”
“Vai all'inferno,” he shouted
as he spit blood at my face.
“What the fuck is it
with you goombahs and spitting at me?” I wiped his blood off my face. “I’ll ask
again,” I started to get angry, “which of Devoni’s rat sons is the new leader
of you fucking guinea pigs?”
“Non potrò mai dire.”
“Jesus Christ I don’t
speak wop. Can you speak English you dumb fuck!”
“Vaffanculo,” his left
hand struggled to lift his gun, but I lifted mine first and blew a hole through
his face adding brain matter and skull fragments to the pooled blood.
I
re-holstered my gun and checked my own wound that leaked my insides. I ran to
my drawer and grabbed a shirt and wrapped it around my stomach to put pressure
on the wound. I pulled a large duffle bag from m closet and went into the
living room. I threw the dead wop off of my couch, tossed back the couch
cushions, and loaded the duffle bag full of my weapon cache making sure not to
leave behind a single bullet. I could hear the footsteps of someone as they ran
up the stairs. I waited with my gun pointed at the door for him to enter. The
footsteps slowed and I saw the tip of a man’s nose and the tip of the barrel of
their gun as they entered the doorway. I shot the nose clean off of his greasy
face.
I finished emptying my
couch. The last item I pulled out was a small amount of C-4 I had saved for
just such an occasion. I set it up with a remote detonator I could trigger when
I was a safe distance away. One benefit of living in such a shithole was that
there was no lease, and I was able to pay my rent in cash without giving a real
name.
I walked into my
rundown kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and placed the c-4 on the counter. I
grabbed the duffle bag and headed down the stairs making sure to put the
noseless Devoni thug out of his misery on my way out. I headed back through the
laundry room, grabbed my money, and left out back door. I could hear the faint sound
of police sirens in the distance: another benefit of living in a shithole ghetto
is that the police response was slow.
I cut through a parking
lot of another complex and triggered the C-4. I turned to watch as the entire
brick wall outside of my former residence blew out and fell to the grass below.
As the adrenaline of the gunfight began to wear off I started to feel the pain
of the bullet hole. I rushed to the street and hailed a cab.
The cab pulled in front
of Mulligan’s I grabbed my stuff and entered the bar.
People lined up along
the bar drinking and laughing being served by one of the bartenders. The tables
were dotted with people enjoying a late dinner, but Pat was nowhere in sight. I
walked to the back corner of the bar to his office. I knocked and Pat let me
in.
“Ah, ya back,” he
looked the blood leaking through my jacket, “You’re all in flitters boy-o. Sit
down.” He guided me into his chair and left the office. I put my luggage down
and pulled off my jacket. The blood had soaked all the way through the make
shift tourniquet and my shirt. I placed my hand on the wound to feel where it
the bullet entered then checked for an exit point: there was none; the bullet
was still lodged in my side.
Pat came back in with a
whiskey bottle and two glasses. He poured us each a glass and put the whiskey
down, he handed me a glass and picked up a phone on his desk.
“Ay, its Patty, I need
ya down at the pub.” He paused while the person on the other line spoke. “No, a friend of mine.”
He hung up the phone.
He took the empty glass from my hand and grabbed me by my arm and pulled me to
my feet. I stumbled and propped myself up on Pat’s desk. The loss of all the
alcohol thinned blood finally had caught up to me. Pat placed my jacket over my
shoulders.
“What’s in the luggage
laddie?
“Guns and money; I had
to get out.” I coughed with each word.
Pat picked up the
briefcase and duffle bag locked it a way in his large safe. He then grabbed me
by arm and guided me through the restaurant past all the customers to a back
room that led to a staircase
At the top of the
staircase was a large steel door, he opened it a lead me into his apartment. The
place was a simple and serious as Pat. A plain tan love-seat was situated in
front of a small 15 inch TV set placed under a window that looked out over the street
below. A coffee table littered with horse racing programs sat between them. The
walls of the apartment were bare. A closed door on the far right of the living
room led to his bedroom. He guided me to the kitchen and had me lay on the
kitchen table. I stared up at the ceiling as Pat went into the kitchen. The
ceiling fan whirled as the room spun around it as everything faded to
black.
A loud bang at the door
echoed off the brick walls as I drifted away.
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