too many bad words.)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My Family. My Friends. My Characters.
I couldn't have done it without each and every one of you magnificent bastards.
Jason Sinner of SinnaptixEdits, for his great edits,
Thank you, all.
PREFACE
It was a hot stinking motel room somewhere just outside of Reno, Nevada. The walls yellowed with years of cigarette smoke. A foul smell hung heavy in the air. I wanted to get out as soon as possible. The air conditioner hummed to life, even that wouldn’t help this shit hole cool down. The whole place made me sick, but I didn’t have to be there much longer. The job was done. Two silenced shots in the night and it was over. He was dead. He was dead and I had killed him. He wasn’t the first or the second or even the third man I’d killed. I’d lost count of that a long time ago. I couldn’t or just wouldn’t bring myself to think about it. I never knew this man dead at my feet. He’d never wronged me, but I killed him without a second thought. When I came into the room, he’d woken up to find me with my gun drawn. Just before I shot him, he’d asked me, “Why?”
I gave the only answer I had. “It’s just my job.”
CHAPTER ONE
“It’s just my job.” That’s what I told him. And, told myself. I had returned home to Vegas. His body wasn’t even cold yet. Before I had left, I tossed the room. Made it look like he was robbed. The drugs I had taken from his room, I dumped out in the desert, I didn’t want them. Just another gangland murder, the cops wouldn’t put up much of an investigation. They never seemed to care when a drug dealer was killed.
It was one of those days, the kind that no matter what happens, nothing ever goes right, ever. When happy times seem a distant dream, and all your mind can think of is all of the shit that’s gone wrong. Yeah, it was one of those days. I know everyone has them, it just seems like I’ve been having them entirely too often. Can you feel lonely when you have no one to miss? I didn’t think so, but perhaps I was wrong. I don’t know, and I didn’t know that shitty day was about to get much worse.
My name is Vincent Black. I’m tall and of medium build. I’ve got cold blue eyes from my very white father and an olive complexion and long wavy dark brown hair from my long dead Spanish mother. I’m a hitter, a hit man. Or at least, I was a hit man. I’ve gone through some wild changes. Recently my entire world has been tossed into a blender and mixed all to hell, like some cheap tropical drink one gets at a cheesy bar. Yep, just stick an umbrella in me and call me done.
My life used to be so simple, a normal life. Well, normal for someone that kills to earn a living. I’m rich by my own makings. I grew up poor and abused. My mother died before I can remember and my father turned into a drunk. He used to be a very successful businessman until my mother was killed; I don’t even know how that happened. When she died, he lost his company and his mind. All he had left was beating me, and his good buddy jack. Did that good ol’ fatherly love turn me into the cold heartless killer I became? Maybe. Do I give a fuck? Nope. I am what I am and I is what I is... Yeah, me and Popeye. I don’t have a problem with that. At least, I didn’t have a problem with it before. Some people call what I do evil. Killing for money. I’m a bit different though. I do have morals.
The men I kill are murderers, rapists and thieves. I’ve never killed a child or a woman. Does that make me less evil? Despite how evil the men whose lives I’ve taken were; they were still someone’s son or brother or friend. I don’t know if it makes me less evil. But no matter what the answers are to those questions, there will always be a place for evil and those who kill evil in this world. I’m sure I fit into one of those two categories.
I’m a person of passion. I’ve got passion about my beliefs, cars, cards, and killing. Though, for a long time that passion for killing has been dying.
Like I said, it had been one of those days. After my evening of work, I drove right to the casino for some R and R. I’d been at the blackjack table for about two hours. It was a quiet table. Three of us sat there, the dealer, an old lady playing with her rich husband’s money, not seeming to mind losing it all, and myself. I’d have bet my whole bankroll that her husband was up in the hotel room right now with some slut. I’d also bet she knew it. Guess I was not the only one having a shitty night. I don’t know why I figured that about her situation. Sometimes I just get feelings about people and what their life is like. Maybe it was her tone, the way she sighed a “thanks” when she bought her chips, or maybe the look of painful loneliness on her face. Who knows? Who cares? It wasn’t my problem. I was enjoying the quiet table.
Normally, high limit tables are quieter, but it was 3:30 a.m. so even the background noise wasn’t very loud. I liked it. I’d been playing well that night. I was concentrating on the cards. It helps to escape the world, even for just a bit, and that was nice.
It’s odd, no matter what’s wrong in life, if you can concentrate on something else, if you can think of something else; it all seems to fade away. Granted, when you come out of lala land, there your problems are staring you in the face, “Ha Ha we’re still here.” I hate that part, but I’d worry about that later, or continue to ignore them. I was leaning toward door number two.
However, or whenever, your wakeup call comes, it always seems too damn early. My wakeup call was about to come and smack me in the face with a two by four. Reality has that annoying tendency to pull you down when you’re up and kick you when you’re already on the ground.
When a new player found his way to our table, I would have thought nothing of it but he sat right next to me. All these empty chairs and he sits right next to me. Great, he hadn’t even bought in and he was already annoying me. That’s just great. The dealer was in the middle of shuffling a new shoot, time for a smoke. I clicked open my silver cigarette case lying in front of me on the table, normally I’d ask if anyone minded but tonight I didn’t care.
I pulled out a Djarum Black and shut the case. I tapped the end of the cigarette on the case’s mirror-like finish. It was one of those movements that veteran smokers have down pat. Before I got the cigarette to my mouth, a match flared up in front of my face. As fast as I jerked my head back, it was obvious that it had startled me, and making me jump isn’t a very smart thing to do. The old lady sitting third base, to the far right of the dealer, began laughing. At least she can still laugh. I gave her a polite smile; I guess I could be her clown, just this once. The match still burned in front of me. This guy was starting to give me the creeps. Out of convenience, I finished putting the cigarette in my mouth and took the offered match.
“Thanks,” I said, clenching the cigarette between my lips. It takes talent to talk with a smoke in your mouth and be coherent, especially as thick as clove smoke is, most of the time it goes up your nose and you’ll sneeze like mad.
“Not a problem,” he said. His accent was thick and heavy upper class British. If I had looked at him before he spoke, I would have guessed that. Christ, he was wearing a brown tweed suit: the kind with the patches over the elbows and one shoulder, with a matching vest and a bright red shirt. If it were two hundred years ago, I probably would have been expected to call him lord or some shit like that. Fuck that. Maybe he wasn’t being weird, maybe he was just being British, same thing!
“Buying in, sir?” the dealer spoke up.
“Ah yes.” He drew out his wallet from an inner jacket pocket. “Hum,” he hummed loudly. He was back to annoying me. Maybe another night I wouldn’t mind playing cards with him; tonight I liked the old lady that didn’t say much. He pulled out some cash, counted out five thousand and dropped it on the table. “That should last a while I think.” I thought, this guy is going to lose it all and not care. Was I the only one at the table trying to make money?
“Changing five thousand!” the dealer yelled out to the pit boss. Jimmy was what the kid’s nametag read. Not James or Jim, but Jimmy. He couldn’t have been more then twenty-two. Twenty-two, I say that like I’m a whole hell of lot older than
him, but sometimes, like in my case, age isn’t a sign of how long one has walked this earth. I’d soon find out that thought was truer than even I knew. Young or not, here he was dealing on a high limits table at one of Vegas’ largest casinos. His salary probably didn’t equal what I had in front of me, let alone the other two at the table. The three of us could lose every chip in front of us and it wouldn’t matter, not to us and not to him. I wondered if he even cared about his paychecks. When he wasn’t here, he was probably at another casino sitting in our place winning big. “Good luck, sir.” He slid the chips to the Brit.
The Brit nodded a silent thank you. I for one was glad he’d shut up, but I wasn’t naive enough to think that it would last. So we all placed our bets and it was time to play. Now it’s been my experience that the first hand of a new shoot is a good one, not always but most of the time. A six to the Brit, an ace went to me, and a queen of hearts to the lady—poetic don’t you think? Jimmy turned a nine on his up card. I liked where I was sitting.
“Good luck on that ace.” Jimmy patted the table. Did he care? No, but it's etiquette. And now for round two, the Brit got a five; I got ‘my’ face card, the jack of spades, “blackjack.” A lot of dealers will yell it out for all of high heaven to hear. I was glad Jimmy didn’t. The old lady got a king dressed to suit her queen, poor lady; I’ll bet this good hand was killing her. Jimmy drew his hold card. I had my blackjack I couldn’t care less what that card was, I got my fifteen hundred in winnings plus my thousand-dollar bet back. All I had to do was sit there and watch. The lord of the cards hit, he fucking hit! He had an eleven! Double down, always double down with an eleven! Obviously he was not a card player by trade. So he hit and got himself a ten. Twenty-one! What a fucking idiot. The lady just waved her hand lazily over her cards; at least someone was playing intelligently this hand. Jimmy flipped his hold card; revealing a jack, Yippy-Fucking-Skippy, everyone wins!
“My my, quite the hand wouldn’t you say?” Lord Dumb-Ass spoke up. If he split tens while I sat here I’d kill him, I’d fucking kill him and not lose a minutes sleep over it. God, I knew that he wouldn’t stay quiet. “What did you think?” Oh fuck, he was talking to me. I turned my eyes to look at him; maybe if I kept my head pointed at the table, he wouldn’t see me, if only. I raised my eyebrow in a questioning manner.
He took that to mean, “Please repeat.” Of course he did.
“What did you think? Good hand eh?”
“Yeah.” I’m not much into talking, more so if I don’t like the person I’m speaking to. “It was alright.”
“Oh with your luck that was a wonder hand!” He wasn’t getting that I didn’t want to talk to him. “If I had your luck—”
That was it! I cut him off right there. “My luck?”
“Why yes!” Great, he was going to keep talking. “With your luck I could have gotten a nice pot out of that one.”
“You know if you had my skill,” I really pronounced the word skill, “you would have gotten a nicer pot than I did. If you had doubled down like you should have, then you’d be happy with a nice new two thousand dollars!” A bit rude wasn’t I? Good.
“Well I am a bit new at this game, perhaps you could assist me.” He really didn’t sound at all insulted. I should have tried harder.
It’d be a cold day in Hell; I thought to myself but just shrugged my shoulders.
“Come now, I’m sure no one would mind,” he said, glancing around the table for objections. Persistent bastard wasn’t he? “Does the casino have any rules on that, dear boy?”
“No sir,” even from the ever-excited Jimmy, it sounded cold and monotone. I’m sure he loved being called dear boy.
I looked up and tried giving him a friendly smile. If it looked faked, he didn’t notice. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.” Being rude didn’t seem to work, maybe being polite would, but I wasn’t banking on it. My good quiet night was about to go all to hell.
We played for another hour or so, the three of us. I don’t think the British invasion won another hand, but he kept buying more and more chips like he didn’t care. And, I was right the man wouldn’t shut up, at least his attention had turned from me to the forgotten wife sitting with us. Apparently she at least liked him; maybe it was the accent, maybe it was the English charm. Who knows? Who cares? Oh, oh, not me, not me! At least she left the table smiling and laughing. He made somebody’s night a bit happier. Wasn’t mine.
I was debating leaving at that point. I didn’t want to return to his line of fire. But I was having an excellent night with the cards. Could I put up with his shit and still have fun with my game? Oh hell, I was already gambling, why not keep it up. Oh… how my nerves were tested that night. I didn’t know a human being could be that fucking annoying! How could anyone ask so many questions about nothing? I started to make bad calls, hitting when I should stay that sort of shit. But good old Jimmy was there to snap me back, just with a quick little “sir?” or “could you repeat your hand signal please?” nothing obvious, just little things to make me check my hand again. I was thankful for Jimmy’s help, but every time he had to save my ass, I was just that much closer to putting a fucking bullet into that Brit’s head. Stupid question after stupid question, whoever said that “there is no such thing as stupid questions” never met this fucker. For another hour I did nothing but nod in response.
“So,” he asked, “do you live around here?” What were we, a fucking date? I tapped the table for a card, just staring at that dumb fuck. I just wanted to punch him.
“Sir?” I should have looked at the damn hand. But I just tapped the table still staring at lord of the dumb questions. “Busted sir, sorry.” At that point I turned my head and looked. And looking back at me were two kings and a queen. Thirty, fucking thirty.
“I’m sorry, I should not have been distracting you.” He began counting chips. “Here, you must let me pay you for the loss. One thousand wasn’t it?”
“No.”
“I insist.” He began pushing the chips my way.
“No.” I took a deep sigh. “I take a risk every time I put chips on the table. It was my loss and my fault.”
“At least let me buy you a drink.” He began to wave over a waitress. “What will you have?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“No, no, no, I must right this wrong.” How very British of him.
The waitress was standing behind me, resting a hand on the back of my chair, holding her tray in the other. Good-looking girl, couldn’t be rude to her, now could I?
“I’ll have a Dr. Pepper please, no ice.” She gave me a smile like I was nuts, perhaps I was. I get that smile a lot from people. Not many people drink a soda without ice, especially in the middle of the fucking desert.
“Oh come now, what do you want to drink?” he said, laughing at my selection.
“Dr. Pepper.”
“No ice,” the waitress said, her smile growing a bit.
I had to grin. “No ice,” I repeated, and gave her a little wink. It’s okay to flirt in front of a Brit ain’t it? Ah, who gives a fuck if it ain’t.
“And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have a brandy please. And how much do I owe you, my dear?” Of course he would.
Her smile turned a little fake, I guess she didn’t like being called “my dear” any more then Jimmy like being called “dear boy.”
“Drinks are free to table players, sir.”
“Well, thank you. Then this is for you.” He handed her a tip. Her smile turned a bit more realistic; at least he’s a good tipper.
She hurried back with the drinks. “One brandy, and one Dr. Pepper, no ice.” She smiled at me as she handed me the glass.
“Thanks,” I said, returning the smile. “It’s the thought that counts right?” I raised my glass to the Brit.
“Yes, I suppose that is true.” He sounded sad, I’d cry later. “But you must let me repay you somehow. Let me buy you breakfast?” That had better be one expensive-ass breakfas
t, but I didn’t say anything out loud; cards were back on the table. This time he kept his trap shut, surprisingly a few hands went by without him talking. “Why a soda?”
I should have known the silence was just too good to last.
“I never drink when I’m working.” I took a sip.
After a second of thinking, he said, “This isn’t your job.” It wasn’t a question.
I looked up at him. “I’ve made fifty thousand dollars in just over four hours. I’d say that is a damn fine salary.” Focused back to my cards, I said, “This is my job.”
“Once upon a time perhaps.” He pushed his chips toward Jimmy. I again turned my eyes toward him. He picked up his high value chips, less to carry. “Once upon a time perhaps, but you and I know better, Mr. Black.” That got my head turned, hell I was almost standing. “Seven a.m. The Café at The Paris?” He picked up his long ago discarded jacket from the seat next to him and tossed Jimmy a fifty-dollar chip. I watched as he walked out the door. He never turned back toward me. I suddenly didn’t like this! I’d never introduced myself. How, the fuck, did he know any of my names? How the fuck did this British pecker know my real fucking name?! I was suddenly very pissed off!
Jimmy snapped me back to reality. “Another hand, sir?”
“Yeah.” I pushed another grand on to the table as I settled back down onto my stool.
“You going?”
“Huh?” My mind was still running over what had just happened.
“Are you gonna meet him for breakfast?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
He laughed, and said, “Nether would I. Not even for free food.”
It was my turn for a laugh. I guess that I wasn’t the only one annoyed by him that night. However, annoying questions, bad playing, and breakfast weren’t on my mind.
“Sir?” Jimmy asked. I’d spaced off again. It was my call, an eleven to his six. I doubled and won.
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 250
