Oh sure, it was possible a Statie could have been patrolling, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Although you might have guessed from looking at her body that Gina was born for sex, it became crystal clear the moment she got behind the wheel that she was born to drive. There was no way one lonely State Trooper would ever have had the juice to keep up with Gina, much less force her to the side of the road.
After her impressive debut behind the wheel, I made a show of reluctantly accepting her onto the team. I didn’t want to appear too eager, although, like I said, it wouldn’t have made any difference. I wasn’t the one making the decisions; my job description was to do what was necessary, to act as sort of a jack of all trades, and if that doesn’t sound clear enough to you, then you’ve never been part of a crew.
Next we pulled a job just to see how Gina would perform under pressure. This heist was something a little different for us, a little riskier than our typical job. Gary had been tipped off to an arms transaction taking place down on the waterfront, a little four a.m. guns-for-money deal, so we crashed the party. It was relatively small-time as these things go, and it was perfect for our purposes. We grabbed the cash, leaving the weapons behind. What the hell were we going to do with six crates of AK47’s?
Then we tied up the monkeys and dumped them next to an old warehouse like the suckers they were, and G2 got us out of there pretty as you please. It was smooth and simple and everything went off without a hitch.
After that it was like Gina had been with us forever, which made me happy in a way because I was now no longer the new kid in school. Every crew I’ve ever been a part of has a pecking order, and it’s usually based on seniority. That was the case here and I had gotten damned tired of having to do all the scut work just because I had only been around for six months.
***
After the stealing the cash from the gunrunners, we decided to cut out for a while, head down to the Florida Panhandle while Stupid Tommy finished his stretch. Gary had some connections down there and he figured we could run some profitable jobs while working on our tans during what was sure to be a long, cold winter in Boston. Plus, those arms dealers are some crazy motherfuckers, so everyone kind of agreed in an unspoken way that it might be a good idea to vacate for a while until things cooled down.
But before leaving, we decided to do one more job. It was a simple one with very little risk, and potentially very lucrative, a combination no self-respecting crew in the world could pass up. It was also a job G2 had come up with, which should have been another warning that something was maybe not quite right, but of course everyone was so dazzled by Gina’s smoking hot body and world-class driving skills that no one said a thing. New kid in town, and all that.
Gina Petralli worked a day job as personal assistant to some bigshot exec at Atlantic Insurance down in the financial district. The guy had it bad for her, not that you could really blame him. Everyone had it bad for Gina. Anyway, she had been fooling around with him for months and by now had him set up perfectly. He thought he was stringing her along, telling her he was going to leave his wife for her, treating her like a sap, and the whole time she was playing him like a fucking Stradivarius.
According to G2, the guy had installed a huge wall safe—get this—behind a painting in his bedroom. Again, I know what you’re thinking, because it was my first thought, too: that no one actually constructs a safe behind a picture in his house; it’s a total cliché, but Gina swore that’s what this guy had done. And she said this safe was filled with the best kinds of liquid assets: cash, jewelry, bearer bonds and the like. So naturally, we decided to relieve the guy of his treasure before hitting I-95 for Florida. Why wouldn’t we? I mean if we didn’t, it was only a matter of time before someone else did, right?
The night of the job, the rest of us waited while Gina worked. Her plan was simple. Go out to dinner, let Romeo wine and dine her like he always did before returning home to get sweaty, and then convince him to share the combination to his ridiculous safe and rob his ass blind. She would make sure the guy had plenty to drink and then, when he was good and worked up, she was going to strip him down and stick a gun in his ear. He would give up the combination and immediately afterward his valuables, and that would be that.
It seemed like a workable plan, and one which would not require any help from the rest of the crew, which explained why we were sitting around a piece of shit motel with our thumbs up our asses while G2 did all the heavy lifting. The only question was whether she actually had the stones to pull a piece on her boyfriend, and on that question opinions were split.
“Have you seen her eyes? There’s not a spark of life in them; they’re like shark’s eyes for chrissakes. She can do it; she’s one cold bitch.” Gary weighed in first on the subject, offering up his opinion with more than a little admiration in his voice. His words impressed me, since I had had the exact same thought about Gina’s eyes, but the wisdom of his insight was lessened by the fact he had his index finger buried to the first knuckle up his nose while he talked, rooting around like a plumber clearing a drain.
Bobby laughed. It sounded oily, if that was possible. “I wouldn’t know about her eyes,” he said. “I’ve never quite managed to make it all the way to her face when I’m looking at her. Man, the things I could do with that body. I’d make her squeal like a pig in heat.” He scratched his ass and then sniffed his finger.
Gary barked out a cruel laugh. It sounded like a car backfiring out on Industrial Drive. “You and Gina? Dream on, dumbass. The only way you could ever get your filthy paws on a chick like her is if she was dead. And even then you’d probably manage to scare her away.”
Bobby’s grin died on his face and his beady eyes narrowed as he stared unblinkingly at Gary. He spoke softly. “Watch your mouth, motherfucker. You talk big, but I don’t see you scoring with anyone like Gina, either. You’re lucky that fucking crack whore Deanna from the strip club lets you dip your wick in her, and she’s barely one step above a walking skeleton.”
Gary leapt to his feet, his rickety wooden chair crashing to the ancient, cracked and pitted linoleum floor behind him. He began walking slowly toward Bobby, who lay propped up against a pillow on one of the two ratty twin beds. Bobby’s eyes were slits as he watched Gary approach. He didn’t move a muscle.
I played hockey in high school and one of the few things I have left from those days is a beat-up old equipment bag that I take with me wherever I go. It’s falling apart at the seams and has seen better days—it’s a lot like me in that regard—but it’s mine and I always try to keep it close. Right now, it was on the floor at my feet looking like the world’s rattiest nylon and leather puppy dog.
I reached down and unzipped it, not taking my eyes off Gary and Bobby. Bobby’s mouth had twisted into an ugly sneer. He knew he had gotten under Gary’s skin with the comment about Deanna and seemed proud of himself. He was right though. Deanna did look like a walking skeleton. I figured the fact that a skank like her could earn a living stripping at The Little Devilz was a testament to just how scummy most guys are, especially when you add alcohol to the mix.
I rummaged around in my bag and found what I was looking for at the bottom, under a spare pair of jeans and my favorite Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. I immediately felt better. The Glock 21 radiated power and felt reassuring in my hands. I wondered whether the two squabbling idiots would notice me lift it onto the card table, but I needn’t have worried. They only had eyes for each other.
By now Gary had maneuvered himself right in front of Bobby, who still hadn’t moved on the bed. I thought that was a terrible move on Bobby’s part, strategically speaking. He didn’t want to show any fear, but he had also left himself at a huge disadvantage for when the trouble started, which was now inevitable. Stevie Wonder could see these two were going to get into it.
“At least I’m getting some, you fucking fairy.” Gary’s lips were pulled back from his teeth, showing off a set of yellow choppers that were eventually going to be a real windfal
l for some lucky dental hygienist. If he lived that long. “Instead of dreaming big with a chick like Gina, why don’t you just stick to the skin mags you keep under your bed in your mama’s house?”
I reached down again and retrieved the sound suppressor from my bag. It was long and cylindrical, sort of delicate-looking, in direct counterpoint to the massive solidity of the Glock. The buffoons on the other side of the room still paid no attention to me as I screwed the two items together. It only took a few seconds and I was done.
It had finally occurred to Bobby that he was going to be at a serious disadvantage once the Main Event started, which looked as though it would be kicking off any second now. I shook my head—And Tommy was the one they called stupid. Bobby tried to rectify the situation by easing up to a sitting position. The sneer had never left his face, although most of the confidence behind it seemed to have vanished.
Gary spit on him and then reached down and pulled a combat knife from his boot at the same time Bobby was snaking his hand under the pillow where, presumably, he had his own weapon stashed. Outside I could hear the distinctive throaty rumble of the Goat’s rebuilt V8 as Gina eased into the parking spot on the other side of the dirty plate-glass window. I couldn’t see her because the curtains were drawn, which was just as well, considering what was about to go down in here.
Gary displayed the knife for Bobby’s admiration, holding it inches in front of his face. I had to admit it was impressive. Six inch blade, serrated on the back edge, black matte carbon-fiber handle. The dim light glittered and danced off the silver. Bobby eased his hand out from behind the pillow, clutching his own knife. It was less impressive but equally deadly.
This was going to get ugly. Not to mention messy and noisy. The first two things—ugly and messy—I didn’t care about, but noise would be unacceptable. I wasn’t about to spend the next twenty years in the can because of these two clowns. I slapped the magazine into the gun’s handle and that got their attention. Two heads swiveled and turned with identical questioning expressions, as if only now realizing I was even in the room with them.
Gina’s key scratched at the doorknob as I fired twice, quickly. The suppressor did its job admirably. I knew it would. The sound of the two shots was barely louder than the scratching of key in lock. I put a bullet in Gary’s head and then one in Bobby’s before he had even had a chance to react. I’m not the best shot in the world but it was easy, despite the fact I was across the room; the fucking cheap-ass motel room couldn’t have been more than twelve feet wide.
Two bodies slumped simultaneously as the door swung wide and Gina pranced into the room. Gary dropped to the floor next to Bobby, who simply fell back onto his pillow like he had made a snap decision to take a nice, long nap. Gina’s eyes were sparkling as I disassembled my weapon and dropped the components back into my bag and I knew right away her heist had been successful.
The whole argument about whether Gina had what it took to pull a gun on the fat-cat insurance guy was patently ridiculous, and I had barely been able to suppress a laugh when the two now-dead losers were discussing the matter. The only question in my mind had been whether she would have the self-control not to ice him when she had the chance. Of course, I had known Gina Petralli a lot longer than they had.
You see, Gina and I were a couple. We’d been together since way back in high school, even longer than I had owned my ratty equipment bag, and that was saying something. She got the job at Atlantic Insurance on her own, just about the same time I was hooking up with the Two Stooges lying dead in the motel room. As soon as she told me how that stupid fat-cat was shooting his mouth off about his fancy safe and all of the valuable stuff inside it, we decided it would just be wrong to head down to Florida without liberating it.
Gina said the way the guy talked, there had to be at least sixty grand worth of loot inside that safe, and that we would be idiots to share that kind of score with Gary and Bobby. The plan had never been to kill them, though. I was just going to cuff them to their beds and then ease off in the GTO with Gina to parts unknown, but once they started acting like a couple of rutting bulls, I couldn’t let them ruin everything by making a lot of unnecessary noise and bringing the cops down here.
Gina glanced at the two dead guys without a word. Gary had said she was a cold bitch; he had no fucking idea. She was hopped up on adrenaline and practically floated around the room without her feet touching the floor. “It was even better than we had hoped!” she said excitedly. “I bet there’s more than sixty thousand dollars worth of stuff! I stowed it in the trunk of the car.”
She looked again at the two former members of our crew, smiling slightly at the matching holes in their foreheads. “Why’d ya kill them?” she asked, more curious than repulsed.
“They were idiots. Besides, what the hell do we need them for?”
Gina thought about it for a second and nodded her approval. Then she bent down over each one in turn, rifling trough their wallets and taking their cash, then sliding each man’s watch off his wrist. She really was one cold bitch. She saw me watching her and said, “What? They won’t be needing this stuff anymore.”
I couldn’t argue with her logic, but at the same time I could feel things beginning to slip away. The longer we stayed here the more likely we were to get caught in a cheap motel room with two rapidly cooling bodies. “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” I finally said.
Gina smiled as I climbed over the bodies. “Yeah, it’s time to scoot.”
I reached for the handle of the dented and rusted door and froze as I felt the barrel of Gina’s gun caress my right cheek. It was a tiny thing, a Walther P22, a girlie gun, but it could scramble your brains impressively, especially if fired while pressed against your skull. “What’s this?” I asked.
I could hear the amusement in G2’s voice as she answered. “I think you put it best just a minute ago. What the hell do I need you for?”
Due Consideration
One day a few years ago, shortly after she got her driver’s license, my daughter was driving home from her best friend’s house and nearly got T-boned by a passing car at a dangerous intersection not far from our home. After I made sure she was okay and mentioned once or twice—or maybe a dozen times—that it’s a good idea to look both ways three or four times before accelerating through that particular intersection, I began to think about what my reaction might have been if she had not been fortunate enough to escape with just a scare. “Due Consideration” was the result, and appeared in the March/April 2009 issue of Crime and Suspense.
I think I should make something very clear right up front: I’m not in any way trying to justify what I’ve done. It was wrong in the eyes of the law and no doubt also in the eyes of God, who after all sent His only son to remind us to turn the other cheek when slapped. And it’s not like I acted rashly, either. I have made it my habit in life to think things through and take action only after giving due consideration to the consequences of my decisions.
The legal ramifications I’m not especially concerned about; the authorities can do whatever they want to me, I’ve got nothing in particular to live for anyway now that Katie’s gone. I must admit, though, the whole God issue has me a bit worried. Suffering eternal agony burning in the flames of Hell doesn’t sound at all like how I want to spend my afterlife, but I’ll do it if I have to, and not utter one word of complaint.
Not one word.
***
My Katie was in many ways nothing more or less than the typical teenager. She was smart and pretty, with beautiful laughing eyes and a quick wit to match. She never went through those horrible awkward years that I remember so well from when I was growing up, a fact made more miraculous thanks to the way her mother simply up and left us one night while Katie and I were both fast asleep.
She was four at the time. I was clueless. We were both devastated. Joanna got up in the middle of the night, packed all her clothes and personal items in a big duffel bag, tossed the bag into the trunk of our car, and
motored on out of town, stopping just long enough at the bank to clean out our meager savings account before moving on to whatever new adventures awaited her in whatever new place she ended up.
The woman I had married so long ago and had thought I knew so well made off with pretty much everything—or that was my assumption at the time—but in the long run I came to realize that the only thing I had ever had worth holding on to was that beautiful little girl, so fortunate to look like her mother and even more fortunate that she didn’t think like her.
Despite the circumstances of our abandonment, or perhaps because of them, Katie and I grew as close as is possible for a father and daughter making their way alone in the world. I stayed up all night at her bedside when she was sick with chicken pox. I drove her to every soccer practice and game, every math club meeting, attended every dance recital and school play and parent-teacher conference and was glad to do it.
While guys I worked with were playing golf and hanging out at the local sports bar watching football and ogling waitresses half their age, I was cooking and cleaning and doing laundry and going over multiplication tables and talking to my Katie, always talking. I was blessed to be able to watch my baby grow up into a beautiful, confident young woman anxious and ready to take on the world.
Then I bought her a car.
It was nothing much really, just a boxy little three year old two-door sedan with a dented left front fender that got good gas mileage and sported a neon yellow paint job all her friends were jealous of, but by her reaction you would have thought I had bought her a fire engine red Ferrari. Katie immediately fell in love with the thing, using it to buzz around town, hanging out with her friends and driving back and forth to school.
Postcards from the Apocalypse Page 7
