Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  HELL CHOSE ME

  Angel Luis Colón

  PRAISE FOR HELL CHOSE ME

  “Angel Luis Colón’s knack for writing colorful, compromised hooligans for whom you can’t help but root has garnered him a loyal following, and his debut novel, Hell Chose Me, more than delivers on the promise of his short fiction. Equal parts profound and profane, Hell Chose Me is a damned good read—a vividly imagined pulp nightmare best read through splayed fingers.” —Chris Holm, Anthony Award-winning author of The Killing Kind

  “Fueled by revenge and unapologetically bloody, Hell Chose Me contains all the violent, morally conflicted elements you hope to see in a classic hitman tale. However, this is not your parents’ noir. Angel Luis Colón levels up in his first full-length novel with superb writing and a voice that seizes you from page one. A dark, dirty, gritty delight.” —Jennifer Hillier, author of Jar of Hearts

  “Buckle up, Buttercup. Angel Luis Colón delivers a gut punch that stays with you.” —Shaun Harris, author of The Hemingway Thief

  “Colón’s voice pulled me along like a tidal wave.” —Sara J. Henry, author of A Cold and Lonely Place and Learning to Swim

  Copyright © 2019 by Angel Luis Colón

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Edited by Chris Rhatigan

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Hell Chose Me

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Preview from The One That Got Away by Joe Clifford

  Preview from The Lucky Clover by Nick Heeb

  Preview from All the Way Down by Eric Beetner

  To that little pig—

  I’m sorry you went out like that.

  First Shot, Last Call—Now

  1

  Charlie Ryan’s head cracks against the bar top with a satisfying thud and snaps back up like a rubber ball—blood gushing from the shiny new gash on the bridge of his nose. He crumples to his knees. Sends the barstool his fat ass was resting on not moments ago flying back with a thud against the wall. A dartboard shakes loose and crashes down—darts, chalk, and all. A neon Coors sign vibrates on the nails holding it up—threatens to join the board on the floor.

  We’re at Jimmy’s Bar and Grill in the Bronx—all bar and no grill. A day-drinker’s paradise. Low light. Three televisions showcasing horse races. The smell of smoke and week-old beer. There’s a jukebox in the corner that’s seen better days. No surprise this is the place Charlie hangs his hat. He’s one of those sad cases you think only exist in TV or a movie. Had a good job and a family. Never made many waves. One day he falls in love with the horses and the next—well—the next day there’s divorce, bitterness, alcoholism, and a little over eighty large owed to some interesting people.

  Me? I work for those interesting people.

  I pull my .22 from the inside pocket of my suit jacket. Realize I hadn’t brought my suppressor—that’s what I get for getting caught up with this asshole’s personal life when I did my research. I snatch a handful of his salt-and-pepper hair and yank hard, so he can look at me in the eye. “You screwed up, Charlie.” The space between us gets hot. I twist the fabric of his button-down shirt harder and the top button pops off.

  “Please…” He’s a mess. The teary eyes and snotty nose are going full force. “I got an inside track and everything, man. I can make good, I can…” He gulps. “I have a little girl.”

  The kid defense—always the motherfuckers who walk out on their kids. They love pulling that card. Probably the first time he’s really given the poor thing any real thought in years. I’ve got me a glorified sperm donor here.

  “And you chose the ponies over her a long time ago.” I give him a gentle pat to the temple with the barrel of my gun. “Tell you what: you tell me how old that little girl is—to the very fucking day—and maybe I’ll have a talk with Paulie.”

  I already know the answer—researched everything. Charlie Ryan, forty-two years old, divorced for three years now. Ex-wife: Rebecca—thirty-nine years old. Daughter: Kira—nine years, three months, eight days old. Good girl. Maintains a B average and goes to ballet twice a week. Thankfully, she’s looks like her mother. Thinking about her gets that white-hot rage in my belly going. These gigs should never be this personal, but deadbeats like Charlie bring out the worst in me. Any other schlub, it’d have been quick. Tag them in an alley or a parking lot after sunset. This asshole, no, he gets a chance to reflect on his sins.

  “I know more about you than you know, Charlie.” I shove the gun against his temple hard. He struggles a little, but the four beers he had before I made my move have caught up with him. He’s a little sloppy. “I know that you’ve got a Master’s in Engineering, about the scar from the emergency appendectomy you had. Shit, I even know about the alleged sexual assault in college that was ‘sealed’ when they couldn’t prove you did it. I know the girl ended up taking a leap from the George Washington years back. You remember that one?”

  “I’m sorry, please. I can fix this.” He tries to pull away from me and I reacquaint his face with the bar. “Billy!” He calls to the bartender who’s been suspiciously missing. Good luck. Billy’s too busy counting out a wad of cash I handed him this morning before he opened the bar.

  I pull Charlie to his feet. “Let’s make a deal. You tell me how old your little girl is, and I’ll walk right out of here. You love her like you say you do then this is cake.” I shouldn’t be messing around like this. There should be a bullet in his head and I should be miles from here by now.

  His wet eyes go blank and I feel his body tremble. “Oh God…” He makes a face like he’s swallowing a mouthful of sand. “Oh, fuck me, I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  I shake my head. “If it’s any consolation, Charlie, I ain’t doing this entirely because you’re a shit father, though, not for nothing, that would be enough for me.” The .22 gets pressed behind his right ear. “Nah, this is all down to appearances. Can’t have the men you borrowed from looking like softies.” I squeeze the trigger; the force of the bullet rattles Charlie like a toy. I release my grip on him and gravity does the rest. Fish my phone out of my pocket and take a few pictures. I send the photos to the dummy email my handler provided me as proof of contract completion, then erase them. Gotta love the modern world.

  The gun goes back into the jacket and I make my way back to my stool. I polish off the Bushmills I nursed for nearly a half hour before and snatch a towel from behind the bar. Wipe down where I sat along with my glass. Inspect my clothes for any errant blood and gore. No stains—double win. I use the towel to push the door open and walk into the sunlight. I get that sense like I’m forgetting something, like someone’s behind me, and I turn around, but Charlie’s still laid out on the floor. I shake that chill out of me and get to moving.

  Outside, not a soul has stopped. The six train runs above me on elevated rails, the sound drowning everything out. In the park across the street there are no kids playing, a few bums
sleeping on the benches while the pigeons feast on clumps of day-old bread an old woman offers them. This far up the six line is mostly working class, but in the Bronx, the dirt always seeps in. I keep an eye out for any cruisers, but a neighborhood like this tends to get ignored this early in the morning. Walk over to a Jeep Cherokee and see Billy the bartender peek over at me while he gnaws on the fingernails of his right hand from behind the driver’s side window. I tap at the glass and he rolls down the window.

  “All set?” he stutters. Jerks his head around to spit out a piece of fingernail.

  I take a second to keep an eye out for any bystanders and to ignore how gross this guy is. “Keep the story straight and you’re good to go.” I slip Billy an extra hundred on top of the roll he I slipped him before.

  Billy the bartender nods. “Great, well, uh…” He offers a hand—same one he’d been going at like a hamster.

  I shake my head. “That ain’t how this works. Take the money and make good on what needs to be made good.” I raise a finger. “The way things are, I could pay you a visit next, got me?” It’s a lie, but he needs the fear of God in him. If Billy didn’t have a sterling reputation for being tight lipped, he and Charlie would have matching head wounds. Besides, I need someone to feed the cops some bullshit robbery story.

  “Absolutely.” He looks toward the bar. “Then tell you-know-who I say hi.”

  I turn to walk away. “Yeah, sure.” Don’t stick around to continue the conversation.

  Three blocks south and two east until I get to my ratty old Taurus. That familiar feeling picking up. I get it every time I finish a job. Wouldn’t call it panic, maybe more like dread. Like the shoe’s about to drop. I’ve had some people in the business tell me that this is natural—we can get over the guilt, but hell, we still don’t want to get caught. There’s no getting over the fear of a cop around the corner. I’m not sure I prescribe to that. Not with what happens after my jobs. Not with what comes next.

  I lean over and stare into my car. It’s dirty. Make a mental note to clean it up, like I did last week and the week before. I pop the trunk and toss my jacket and the bar towel in. I slip into the driver’s seat, ignite the engine, and take a long breath. It’s cold in the car—as if I’ve left the AC running the entire time. Close my eyes for a five count and open them. I hate this part.

  Charlie’s seated on the passenger side of the car—or at least something like Charlie. The entry and exit wounds from the bullet that scrambled his brain are gummy and pink. The gash I gave him is still fresh and bleeding. The blood collects at the tip of his nose and balloons before falling. The drops fall toward Charlie’s lap, but dissipate before they make contact. There’s no color in his face. He’s staring at me with a rage I’ve seen before. The same kind of look I’d give a man who’d popped me in the head. I can see the muscles in his face and neck tighten.

  “That bit about it not being personal?” I get a cigarette lit and offer it to Charlie with a smirk. “I lied. It was kind of personal.”

  This comes with every kill. Guilt, I could live with, but no, they need to hitch a ride. Stick by my side for a while. They don’t last long, though. Maybe a week at most, but it’s enough to make a guy wonder a few things. For one, am I nuts, like in a medical textbook kind of way? The second question, why I even do this, I’ve already got the answer to.

  Charlie loses his form a moment—his jaw stretching as he howls. He snaps back into reality and the look in his eyes is murder—tries to reach out and grab me, but the hand goes through my shoulder. That part always makes me wonder: if they can’t touch me, how in the hell are they sitting in my car?

  Charlie runs his ethereal hands through his ethereal hair.

  “Please…” His voice is strained. Creaks like a chair leg about to snap.

  He loses his form again. Bits of him float away like smoke only to converge and reform the next moment. This is what they do—repeat what they told me before. Except it’s all static and broken up, like an old radio with a broken tuner.

  “I have a little girl,” Charlie says it with the same desperation as before.

  That riles me. Makes me wish I could pop him again.

  “Get a grip, Charlie. You’re dead—a ghost. Man up.” I put the car into drive and we’re off—another notch in my belt and another passenger along for the ride.

  2

  It’s a fifteen-minute drive to the Rainbow Academy Daycare Center in the Parkchester section of the Bronx. Charlie’s still going on with all the shit he said before I plugged him. Nothing new, nothing I don’t already know. As he jabbers on, he keeps breaking apart and reforming. The last bits to reappear are always the wounds. First the bullet hole, then the gash over his nose. As soon as they’re back, they bleed fresh and gum back up in moments.

  At least the neighborhood’s alive. There are two maintenance workers for the condominiums power washing the sidewalk to the right of my car. I spot another two fellas smoking cigarettes three cars up. They’re too well dressed to be loitering. Guess Paulie’s in need of a little more protection lately. Across the street, I spot an undercover vehicle five cars back. That one’s a decoy. The real undercover cops are in a van marked “Panetta’s Bakery.” Par for the course. I used to see this all the time overseas, and the cops in America are infinitely worse at hiding than the ones in the UK and Ireland. Paulie’s a known commodity in the organized crime scene. One good lawyer, though, and a thousand vice cops mean shit. If I were a smarter man, I’d ask Paulie for a reference—maybe the rates to retain one of them. Wait—scratch that. If I were a man with a glimmer of extra cash, I’d ask Paulie about retaining a lawyer. Problem is my money’s spent as fast as it comes.

  “I don’t know…” There’s a little emotion when Charlie says it—like he’s mustering the nut to be mad at me. “Little girl…” It’s strange. He can emote, that much I see, but he’s stuck with a limited script. He follows me as I get out of the car and feed the meter. If this were real, if Charlie were stuck as some broken record while chained to me, how pointless would life be? We all suffer, fight, and scratch for our last moments in any existence to be an echo. To watch the schmuck responsible for our end go about his boring, useless day.

  That’s some depressing shit.

  I eye Charlie. He’s giving me a hell of a staring at—knives and all that. “Get in line,” I tell him. I check my watch. It’s near one o’clock. Need to make this quick. I’ve got a hospital visit to make.

  Behind me, two Spanish ladies push long carriages filled with toddlers down the block and toward a playground. It’s the first day this year over sixty-five degrees—perfect for the little ones to play. I smile and wave back at the kids as they wave to me. Watch them go by and try to recognize any of the cartoon characters on their shirts. One kid’s got a Bugs Bunny T-shirt on. Decide he’s the only one of the group with cool parents. I light a cigarette and inhale—close my eyes. Get my game face on. Abandon the smoke after three more puffs. It goes sailing into the concentrated water stream coming from the power washer a few feet ahead. One of the maintenance guys scowls at me.

  Charlie gets in my face. There should be noises coming out of him. I keep moving and he passes through me. He goes slack-jawed and stutters: “Fuck…” He bucks forward—the same way he did when I pulled the trigger before—and snaps back into focus as if nothing happened. His wounds knit back together and tear apart fresh. The amount this bastard’s bled, he’d have filled a bathtub by now.

  I hold my smile and ignore him. “First relevant thing you’ve said since I shot you.”

  There’s a cheap doorbell by the entrance to the daycare. Jab my index finger against it three times and wave to the women manning the front desk. There’s a high-pitched buzz and I pull the door open. The inside of the place smells like baby wipes and lemon-scented floor cleaner. It’s not enough, though. The undertone of used diapers and stale baby formula catches me off-guard. There’s a mural behind the reception desk with b
ackwards letters and cartoon characters climbing all over them. It spells out rainbow daycare. The reception desk is littered with flyers detailing all sorts of reading, sports, and family activities for kids ages two and up.

  “Good morning, ladies.” I wave. “Is Mr. Gigante in?”

  The younger one, the one goes by Gina—I think—smiles back and nods. “He’s in his office.” She’s pretty. In another life, I’d try to charm my way into her pants. I take care not to admire her for too long. I don’t want to come off as creepy—don’t care how secure Paulie feels about this place or any of his employees—I’d rather they not commit me to memory for any negative reasons.

  I ignore the older lady. She frowns like an old hound—keeps her eyes half closed and pointed down at the slate gray finish of the reception desk. I can tell she’s got me figured out and wants nothing to do with a guy like me. Paulie isn’t exactly secretive about his status. It’s the details that get left out.

  “Is it cool to go in?”

  Gina—I think—answers, “Yeah, the kids are all eating lunch, so he should be free.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I walk past them and down a hall with multiple decorated doors flanking me at each side. I hear a hodge-podge of nursery rhymes surrounding me. There are squeals of happiness and grumpiness, depending on which room I pass. At the end of the hall is a half-open wooden door with a small, square window. Above the frame is a huge sheet of yellow poster paper with a dozen little hand prints spelling out “We love Mr. Paulie”—fucking adorable.

  Paulie’s bald head pokes out from the right side of the doorframe. “Bryan, come in.” He’s serious—always serious—also, impeccably dressed for a man in a daycare center. The suit on him is worth more than everything in my closet. That’s a conservative assessment.