Reilly and his sleazos were due to make their move tonight. What was taking them so long to get started? Almost one a.m. already – three hours here in this fleabag. He was starting to itch. He could handle only so much TV without getting drowsy. Even without the lulling drone of some host interviewing some actor he'd never heard of, the heat was draining him.
Fresh air. Maybe that would help.
Jack got up, stretched, and stepped to the window. A clear almost Halloween night out there, with a big moon rising over the city. He gripped the handles and pulled. Nothing. The damn thing wouldn't budge. He was checking the edges of the sash when he heard the faint crack of a rifle. The bullet came through the glass two inches to the left of his head, peppering his face with tiny sharp fragments as it whistled past his ear.
Jack dropped to the floor. He waited. No more shots. Keeping his head below the level of the windowsill, he rose to a crouch, then leapt for the lamp on the end table at the far side of the bed, grabbed it, and rolled to the floor with it. Another shot spat through the glass and whistled through the room as his back thudded against the floor. He turned off the lamp.
The other lamp, the one next to the TV, was still on – sixty watts of help for the shooter. And whoever was shooting had to know Jack would be going for it next. He'd be ready.
On his belly, Jack slid along the industrial grade carpet toward the end of the bed until he had an angle where the bulb was visible under the shade. He pulled out his next to last shuriken and spun it toward the bulb. With an electric pop it flared blue white and left the room dark except for the flickering glow from the TV.
Immediately Jack popped his head above the bed and looked out the window. Through the spider webbed glass he caught sight of a bundled figure turning and darting away across the neighboring rooftop. Moonlight glinted off the long barrel of a high powered rifle, flashed off the lens of a telescopic sight, then he was gone.
A high pitched beep made him jump. The red light on the signal box was blinking like mad. Kuropolis wanted help. Which meant Reilly had struck.
"Swell."
*
Not a bad night, George Kuropolis thought, wiping down the counter in front of the slim young brunette as she seated herself. Not a great night, but still to have half a dozen customers at this hour was good. And better yet, Reilly and his creeps hadn't shown up.
Maybe they'd bother somebody else tonight.
"What'll it be?" he asked the brunette.
"Tea, please," she said with a smile. A nice smile. She was dressed nice and had decent jewelry on. Not exactly overdressed for the neighborhood, but better than the usual.
George wished he had more customers of her caliber. And he should have them. Why the hell not? Didn't the chrome inside and out sparkle? Couldn't you eat off the floor? Wasn't everything he served made right here on the premises?
"Sure. Want some pie?"
"No, thank you."
"It's good. Blueberry. Made it myself."
The smile again. "No, thanks. I'm on a diet."
"Sure," he mumbled as he turned away to get her some hot water. "Everyone's on a goddamn diet. Diets are gettin' hazardous to my health."
Just then the front door burst open and a white haired man in his mid twenties leaped in with a sawed off shotgun in his hands. He pointed it at the ceiling and let loose a round at the fixture over the cash register. The boom of the blast was deafening as glass showered everything.
Matt Reilly was here.
Four more of his gang crowded in behind him. George recognized them: Reece was the black with the white fringe leather jacket; Rafe had the blue Mohican, Tony had the white; and Cheeks was the baby faced skinhead.
"Awright!" Reilly said, grinning fiercely under his bent nose, mean little eyes, dark brows, and bleached crewcut. "It's ass kickin' time!"
George reached into his pocket and pressed the button on the beeper there, then raised his hands and backed up against the wall.
"Hey, Matt!" he called. "C'mon! What's the problem?"
"You know the problem, George!" Reilly said.
He tossed the shotgun to Reece and stepped around the counter. Smiling, he closed with George. The smile only heightened the sick knot of fear coiling in George's belly. He was so fixed on that empty smile that he didn't see the sucker punch coming. It caught him in the gut. He doubled over in agony. His last cup of coffee heaved but stayed down.
He groaned. "Christ!"
"You're late again, George!" Reilly said through his teeth. "I told you last time what would happen if you didn't stick to the schedule!"
George struggled to remember his lines.
"I can't pay two protections! I can't afford it!"
"You can't afford not to afford it! And you don't have to pay two. Just pay me!"
"Sure! That's what the other guy says when he wants his! And where are you then?"
"Don't worry about the other guy! I'm taking care of him tonight! But you!" Reilly rammed George back against the wall. "I'm gonna hafta make a example outta you, George! People saw what happened to Wolansky when he turned pigeon. Now they're gonna see what happens to a shit who don't pay!"
Just then came a scream from off to George's right. He looked and saw Reece covering the five male customers in booths two and four, making them empty their pockets onto one of the tables. Further down the counter, Cheeks was waving a big knife with a mean looking curved blade at the girl who'd wanted the tea.
"The ring, babe," he was saying. "Let's have it."
"It's my engagement ring!" she said.
"You wanna look nice at your wedding, you better give it quick."
He reached for it and she slapped his hand away.
"No!"
Cheeks straightened up and slipped the knife into a sheath tucked into the small of his back.
"Ooooh, you shouldna done that, bitch," said Reece in oily tones.
George wished he were a twenty five year old with a Schwartzenegger build instead of a wheezy fifty with pencil arms. He'd wipe the floor with these creeps.
"Stop him," he said to Reilly. "Please. I'll pay you."
"Couldn't stop him now if I wanted to," Reilly said, grinning. "Cheeks likes it when they play rough."
In a single smooth motion, the skinhead's hand snaked out, grabbed the front of the woman's blouse, and ripped. The whole front came away. Her breasts were visible through a semi transparent bra. She screamed and swatted at him. Cheeks shrugged off the blow and grappled with her, dragging her to the floor.
One of the men in the booth near Reece leapt to his feet and started toward the pair, yelling, "Hey! Whatta y'think you're doin'?"
Reece slammed the shotgun barrel across his face. Blood spurted from the guy's forehead as he dropped back into his seat.
"Tony!" Reilly said to the Mohican standing by the cash register. "Where's Rafe?"
"Inna back."
George suddenly felt his scalp turn to fire as Reilly grabbed him by the hair and shoved him toward Tony.
"Take George in the back. You and Rafe give him some memory lessons so he won't be late again."
George felt his sphincters loosening. Where was Jack?
"I'll pay! I told you I'll pay!"
"It's not the same, George," Reilly said with a slow shake of his head. "If I gotta come here and kick ass every month just to get what's mine, well, I got better things to do, y'know?"
As George watched, Reilly hit the "NO SALE" button on the cash register and started digging into the bills.
Thick, pincer like fingers closed on the back of George's neck as he was propelled into the rear of the diner. He saw Rafe off to the side, playing with the electric meat grinder where George mixed his homemade sausage.
"Rafe!" said Tony. "Matt wants us to teach Mr. Greasyspoon some manners!"
Rafe didn't look up. He had a raw chicken leg in his hand. He shoved it into the top of the meat grinder. The sickening crunch of bone and cartilage being pulverized rose over the whir of the mo
tor, then ground chicken leg began to extrude through the grate at the bottom.
"Hey, Tone!" Rafe said, looking up and grinning. "I got a great idea!"
*
Jack pounded along the second floor hallway. He double timed down the flight of stairs to the lobby, sprinted across the carpet tiles that spelled out "The Lucky Hotel" in bright yellow on dark blue, and pushed through the smudged glass doors of the entrance. One of the letters on the neon sign above the door was out. The ucky Hotel flashed fitfully in hot red.
Jack leaped down the three front steps and hit the pavement running. Half a block to the left, then another left down an alley, leaping puddles and dodging garbage cans until he came to the rear of the Highwater Diner. He had his key ready and shoved it into the deadbolt on the delivery door. He paused there long enough to draw his .45 automatic, a Colt Mark IV, and to stretch the knitted cap down over his face. It then became a Halloween decorated ski mask, and he was looking out through a bright orange jack o lantern. He pulled the door open and slipped into the storage area at the rear of the kitchen.
Up ahead he heard the sound of a scuffle, and George's terrified voice crying, "No, don't! Please don't!"
He rounded the corner of the meat locker and found Tony and Rafe – he'd know those Mohicans anywhere – from Reilly's gang forcing George's hand into a meat grinder and George struggling like all hell to keep it out. But he was losing the battle. His fingers would soon be sausage meat.
Jack was just reaching for the slide on his automatic when he spotted a meat-tenderizing hammer on a nearby counter. He picked it up and hefted it. Heavy – a good three pounds, most of it in the steel head. Pocketing the pistol, he stepped over to the trio and began a sidearm swing toward Tony's skull.
"Tony! Trick or treat!"
Tony looked up just in time to stop the full weight of the waffle-faced hammer head with the center of his face. It made a noise like smoonch! as it buried itself in his nose. He was halfway to the floor before Rafe even noticed.
"Tone?"
Jack didn't wait for him to look up. He used the hammer to crunch a wide part in the center of Rafe's blue Mohican. Rafe joined Tony on the floor.
"God, am I glad to see you!" George said, gasping and fondling his fingers as if to reassure himself that they were all there. "What took you so long?"
"Can't've been more than two minutes," Jack said, slipping the handle of the hammer through his belt and pulling the automatic again.
"Seemed like a year!"
"The rest of them out front?"
"Just three – Reilly, the skinhead, and Reece."
Jack paused. "Where's the rest of them?"
"Don't know."
Jack thought he knew. The other three had probably been on that rooftop trying to plug him in his hotel room. But how had they found him? He hadn't even told George about staying at the Lucky.
One way to find out...
"Okay. You lock the back door and stay here. I'll take care of the rest."
"There's a girl out there–" George said.
Jack nodded. "I'm on my way."
He turned and almost bumped into Reilly coming through the swinging doors from the front. He was counting the fistful of cash in his hands.
"How we doin' back–?" Reilly said and then froze when the muzzle of Jack's automatic jammed up under his chin.
"Happy Halloween," Jack said.
"Shit! You again!"
"Right, Matt, old boy. Me again. And I see you've made my collection for me. How thoughtful. You can shove it in my left pocket."
Reilly's face was white with rage as he glanced over to where Tony writhed on the floor next to the unconscious Rafe.
"You're a dead man, pal. Worse than dead!"
Jack smiled through the ski mask and increased the pressure of the barrel on Reilly's throat.
"Just do as you're told."
"What's with you and these masks, anyway?" he said as he stuffed the money into Jack's pocket. "You that ugly? Or do you think you're Spiderman or something?"
"No, I'm Pumpkinman. And this way I know you but you don't know me. You see, Matt, I've been keeping close tabs on you. I know all your haunts. I stand in plain view and watch you. I've watched you play pool at Gus's. I've walked up behind you in a crowd and bumped you as I passed. I could have slipped an ice pick between your ribs a dozen times by now. But don't try to spot me. You won't. While you're trying to hard to look like Billy Idol, I'm trying even harder to look like nobody."
"You are nobody, man!" His voice was as tough as ever, but a haunted look had crept into his eyes.
Jack laughed. "Surprised to see me?"
"Not really," Reilly said, recovering. "I figured you'd show up."
"Yeah? What's the matter? No faith in your hit squad?"
"Hit squad?" There was genuine bafflement in his eyes. "What the fuck you talkin' about?"
Jack sensed that Reilly wasn't faking it. He was as baffled as Jack.
He let his mind wander an instant. If not Reilly's bunch, then who?
No time for that now. Especially with the muffled screams coming from the front. He turned Reilly around and shoved him back through the swinging doors to the front of the diner. Once there, he bellied Reilly up against the counter and put the .45 to his temple. He saw Reece covering half a dozen customers with a sawed off shotgun. But where was that psycho, Cheeks?
"Okay, turkeys!" Jack yelled. "Fun's over! Drop the hardware!"
Reece spun and faced them. His eyes widened and he raised the scattergun in their direction. Jack felt Reilly cringe back against him.
"Go ahead," Jack said, placing himself almost completely behind Reilly. "You can't make him any uglier."
"Don't, man!" Reilly said in a low voice.
Reece didn't move. He didn't seem to know what to do. So Jack told him.
"Put the piece on the counter or I'll blow his head off."
"No way," Reece said.
"Don't try me, pal. I'll do it just for fun."
Jack hoped Reece didn't think he was bluffing, because he wasn't. He'd already been shot at twice tonight and he was in a foul mood.
"Do what he says, man," Reilly told him.
"No way!" Reece said. "I'll get outta here, but no way I'm givin' that suckuh my piece!"
Jack wasn't going to allow that. As soon as Reece got outside he'd start peppering the big windows with shot. He was about to move Reilly out from behind the counter to block the aisle when one of the customers Reece had been covering stood up behind him and grabbed the pump handle of the scattergun. A second man leapt to his side to help. One round blasted into the ceiling, and then the gun was useless – with all those hands on it, Reece couldn't pump another round into the chamber. Two more customers jumped up and overpowered him. The shotgun came free as a fifth man with a deep cut in his forehead shoved Reece back onto the seat of the booth and began pounding at his face. More fists began to fly. These were very angry men.
Jack guided Reilly toward the group. He saw two pairs of legs – male and female, struggling on the floor around the far end of the counter. He shoved Reilly toward the cluster of male customers.
"Here's another one for you. Have fun. Just don't do anything to them they wouldn't do to you."
Two of the men smiled and slammed Reilly down face first on the booth's table. They began pummeling his kidneys as Jack hurried down to where Cheeks was doing his dirty work.
He looked over the edge of the counter and saw that the skinhead held the woman's arms pinned between them with his left hand and had his right thrust up under her bra, twisting her nipple, oblivious to everything else. Her right eye was bruised and swollen. She was crying and writhing under him, even snapping at him with her teeth. A real fighter. She must have put up quite a struggle. Cheeks's face was bleeding from several scratches.
Jack was tempted to put a slug into the base of Cheeks's spine so he'd not only never walk again, he'd never get it up again, either. But Cheeks's knife was in the
way, and besides, the bullet might pass right through him and into the woman. So he pocketed the .45, grabbed Cheeks's right ear, and ripped upward.
Cheeks came off the floor with a howl. Jack lifted him by the ear and stretched his upper body across the counter. He could barely speak. He really wanted to hurt this son of a bitch.
"Naughty, naughty!" he managed to say. "Didn't you ever go to Catholic school? Didn't the nuns tell you that bad things would happen to you if you ever did that to a girl?"
He stretched the guy's right hand out on the counter, palm down.
"Like you might get warts?"
He pulled the meat hammer from his belt and raised it over his head.
"Or worse?"
He put everything he had into the shot. Bones crunched like breadsticks. Cheeks screamed and slipped off the counter. He rolled on the floor, moaning and crying, cradling his injured hand like a mother with a newborn baby.
"Never hassle a paying customer," Jack said. "George can't pay his protection without them."
He grabbed Reece's scattergun and pulled him and Reilly free from the customers. Both were battered and bloody. He shoved them toward the front door.
"I told you clowns about trying to cut in on my turf! How many times we have to do this dance?"
Reilly whirled on him, rage in his eyes. He probably would have leapt at Jack's throat if not for the shotgun.
"We was here first, asshole!"
"Maybe. But I'm here now, so scrape up your two wimps from the back room and get them out of here."
He oversaw the pair as they dragged Rafe and Tony out the front door. Cheeks was on his feet by then. Jack waved him forward.
"C'mon, loverboy. Party's over."
"He's got my ring!" the brunette cried from the far end of the counter. She held her torn dress up over her breasts. There was blood at the corner of her mouth. "My engagement ring."
"Really?" Jack said. "That ought to be worth something! Let's see it."
Cheeks glared at Jack and reached into his back pocket with his good hand.
"You wanna see it?" he said. Suddenly he was swinging a big Gurkha kukri knife through the air, slashing at Jack's eyes. "Here! Get a close look!"
Jack blocked the curved blade with the short barrel of the sawed off, then grabbed Cheeks's wrist and twisted. As Cheeks instinctively brought his broken hand up, Jack dropped the shotgun. He grabbed the injured hand and squeezed. Cheeks screamed and went to his knees.
The Barrens & Others Page 11
