BOURBON & BLOOD
By Garrard Hayes
Bourbon & Blood
By Garrard Hayes
Copyright 2013 Garrard Hayes
All rights reserved.
Book design by Cigarjuice Press
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
For my wife Sandy. You’re an amazing, beautiful and strong woman. You've made our home a special place filled with pride, happiness and laughter. Thank you for supporting my dreams and for listening to my endless blathering about books, movies and TV. I love you with all of my heart.
I wish to personally thank the following people for their help in creating this book: My parents for always believing in me, My son Max for running the plot through his little brain during our Sunday morning swims, My beautiful daughter Devan, anything is possible if you put in the effort, Cheryl Hackert Chatterton for being my first reader, Sherry, David & Isabelle Vaders, Jason Broad, Paul Colby, Joe Calviello, Peter Mello and Jonathan Giannetti for their encouragement and Francine LaSala my editor for her mentoring and professional insight.
Table of Contents
BOURBON & BLOOD
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
I parked the Lincoln on 71st and walked up Broadway, then turned right onto 72nd Street. My boots pounding the gray pavement, the cement sidewalks sparkled with flecks of minerals that reflected off the streetlights, adding to the sensation that this night would be magical.
The busy city streets buzzed with energy, with couples. Watching them interact, holding on to each other, I longed to gaze upon her beautiful face, touch her silky hair, feel her soft lips pressed against mine, breathe in the scent of her perfume.
When I arrived at her building she buzzed me right in without checking to make sure it was me. This was a tough city, where anything could happen at any time, and I made a note to myself to tell her to be more cautious.
I ran up the stairs to her apartment and knocked on the door. I heard heavy footsteps approach, but no one opened the door. After a few seconds I tried the doorknob. Surprised that it wasn’t locked, I swung it opened and stepped in.
Just then, I felt something hit me hard in the back of head. A white flash of pain exploded in my brain, blinding me, and then darkness engulfed me in a deep black river of unconsciousness.
At some point later, I came to, slowly opening my eyes as a throbbing pain shot through my head. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel movement, like I was somehow now in the back of a van or truck. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to channel my pain into anger. As I struggled to lift myself up, another sharp pain exploded at the back of my head and I dropped back to the floor as the vehicle raced to an unknown destination, each bump causing me great agony.
I realized why I couldn’t see. My head was covered in what felt like a burlap sack, reeking of sour vomit. I tried to move my arms, but they were pinned behind my back.
Another jolt of pain shot through the base of my skull. I blinked the pain away, but it was only temporary; it came right back and intensified until all I could feel was nausea. Then I blacked out in a swirl of gray and black shadows.
I became conscious again just as the vehicle screeched to a sudden halt. Two sets of strong hands roughly carried me out of the van, dragging my tied feet along the pavement for what felt like two hundred feet or more. They dropped me on the ground, and I grunted loudly from the impact. It knocked the wind out of me, and replaced the oxygen in my lungs with a dirty musty odor that made me cough. Then I blacked out again.
Coming to this time, I found myself strapped to a chair, my arms and legs immobilized, but at least now I could breathe freely without the stench of the sour-smelling bag that had covered my face. I tried to see where I was but all was dark except for one light bulb hanging over my seat. The back of my eyeballs throbbed with pain, while the ache in my skull made me nauseated again. I couldn’t see beyond the lighted area of my confinement.
Having no focus or sense of time, it could’ve been a few minutes or a few hours later when I heard the sound of heavy heels, thumping louder as they got closer. A door opened behind me then slammed shut, the sound echoing through the room and right through my aching head. The source of the footsteps walked around the edge of the darkness. I couldn't make out a face, just a deep male voice that growled, “You have a sweet, beautiful girlfriend. Don’t you think it would be a shame if something happened to her?”
CHAPTER ONE
I never really liked drinking bourbon, but it does take the edge off. Drugs have never been my thing. I've smoked my share of weed and snorted mounds of coke, but drugs didn't make me feel any better in the end. Weed made me feel stupid, like my brain was slowly being sucked out through my ears. Coke made me neurotic, like a caged squirrel. The other bad thing about coke was, the only thing I wanted to do while partying was more coke. So bourbon was my drug of choice, though the down side to the drinking was that it left me angry and depressed. The only thing that made embracing my drinking problem any better was waking up to strong coffee the next morning.
I stubbed out my cigarette in a full ashtray and reached for a partially filled glass of Knob Creek on the coffee table. Taking a big swig, I immediately got the burn on my tongue. My chest heated up as the bourbon slowly slid down to my stomach. The bottle now empty, and my mood improved, I floated into a numb sleep.
At some point later, my eyes opened. My jaw was hanging wide open and my mouth was dry. Groggy, I got up off the couch, trying to shake off the sleep. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I saw it was already time to go meet my cousin Jimmy, who was waiting for me at the local dive bar, no doubt chomping at the bit to tell me the latest about his “work.”
Jimmy does all the talking, and I do all the listening. We've always been like brothers and he's the closest thing to a friend I've ever had. Jimmy worked for a group of Irish thugs who took advantage of poor people on Manhattan's West Side. He wanted me to work with him, but I didn't want to hang out with his criminal associates.
I staggered out of my rundown one-bedroom apartment, closed the heavy metal door, and locked the three deadbolts. The stench of garbage and eye-burning curry in the hallway were both reminders that I needed a career, money, and better accommodations than this dump on 39th and Tenth. The problem was, I hadn’t been able to get any kind of respectable work for over a year. Being i
n the Army for five years, you build up a nice stash of cash and there really isn’t anything to eat up your pay. You can’t buy a car, go out to fancy restaurants, or spend money on a pretty girlfriend. So I had some pay left, but it was running low. I needed to get some work soon.
I probably should’ve reenlisted in the Army but my tour in Afghanistan left me depressed and filled with horrific memories that stuck in my mind and invaded my dreams. Sickening images of war, children’s faces streaked with blood and tears, the vacant eyes of the dead. I tried to forget, but most days the memories hovered over me like a cloud of sadness.
The vital things I gained from the experience were training in gunnery and explosives. Marksmanship and long range targeting became easier after days and weeks on the shooting range. We practiced speed shooting on small moving metal targets at all distances. I had also excelled at hand-to-hand combat using mixed martial arts. We were taught Combatives, which is a military form of Brazilian jujitsu for submissions and fighting in close quarters. I could be on my back losing a fight, pinned to the ground and sweep an opponent’s leg, spin around, get their back and choke them out or break a limb. Aikido and Judo were also used for different situations, in which multiple attackers or an individual attacker’s own force and body weight could be used against them. This was my favorite technique for disabling or throwing an adversary where lethal force was essential. Some were extremely effective in closed quarters, where a few precious seconds made the difference between life and death.
In one of my more successful sorties, I led a platoon of brave men into a war zone. We killed several enemy guards, rescued four of our captured soldiers, and returned them to the base. A medal would’ve been nice, but I was just as happy to make it out and bring our men home alive. I had managed to work my way up from Private to Sergeant after a series of these successful missions.
I finished my tour and returned to my old Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood. No parade, no commendation, and not much family left.
My parents died in a tragic car crash when I was eleven and my aunts, my mom’s sisters, raised me in an apartment they shared on 37th and Ninth. I was already old enough to have my own personality by then, but they did their best to keep me out of trouble and teach me to be a good person. I still try to remember my parents, but the trauma of losing them has blocked most of my earlier memories.
Staying out of trouble wasn’t easy though, especially because Jimmy and me lived in the same house. He was about my age and was always getting caught for stealing or punished for talking back. The one good thing, we were as tight as brothers, always looking out for each other, during good times and bad.
Jimmy never left the area and probably never would. He was tall, thin, and had a ruddy complexion from drinking. His hair was long, dark, and greasy, and always seemed to be hanging in his face. His fingers were stained from nicotine, a side effect of chain-smoking. His nostrils were usually red and irritated due to his cocaine addiction.
Since we were kids Jimmy has always been entertaining, full of big stories, and always able to find amusement in other people's misery. I didn't have to say much when I was with him. Just sat, sipped bourbon, and listened. Some of his crazy stories were funny, but most were tragic.
Jimmy most liked to ramble on about his adventures collecting rent and loan money for his boss, and last night, when I’d met him at Healy's Pub, was no exception. Once Jimmy had a few drinks, he was primed to sing praise for his employer. Frank Sullivan was the big boss of a growing criminal organization, and a rising star in New York City’s crime underbelly. Sullivan owned a few apartment buildings and made big money lending to unlucky immigrants. That’s where Jimmy came into the picture.
Jimmy always had cash, an amazing feat with all his snorting and drinking, but he was well paid. He bugged me relentlessly to work with him, but making money off people down on their luck didn’t appeal to me.
He pulled out a money roll and waved it a few inches from my face. "Look at this, Bill. All I have to do is go uptown, knock on doors, and collect rent. Oh, and sometimes I get interest."
He went on to tell me how he handled a stubborn borrower by smashing the guy’s hand in a kitchen drawer. News in that building spread from the laundry room to the elevators to the front stoop. Since then, folks paid quickly, not wanting to have their fingers broken.
We went outside to have a smoke and get some air. Jimmy smokes harder than anyone I’d ever seen. He sucks on his cigarette with such passion you can see his skull and cheekbones with each drag.
He lit up, then blew the smoke over my head. “It's so easy,” he said. “Come on, brother. You gotta join me on the next run." He paused to suck down his cigarette in what seemed like one drag. "When they can't make rent, they end up borrowing money and never finish paying."
Jimmy pulled out another cig, and lit it with the burning filter of the last. Smoke came blasting out of his nostrils, and kind of reminded me of an angry bull from an old cartoon.
"It's fucking brilliant!" he said.
Criminals who liked to prey on the poor and needy. This was far more depressing than my own situation.
"You don’t see anything wrong with all this?" I asked Jimmy.
He took a long drag of his cig, blew smoke to the side, and gave me a playful smile.
“Are you kidding, brother?” he replied, and chuckled. He lit up yet another cig from the filter embers of his previous one. He finished that one and we headed back inside.
Healy's was not the kind of place I’d look to find my next love interest, but I was ready for one. She’d be a beauty with eyes clear and bright, an attractive face with sharp features, silky hair, and a body to die for. She would be smart, kind, and witty. Except the kind of girl I wanted would probably be out with the girls at some swanky nightspot looking to meet an upwardly mobile young executive. She wouldn’t be looking for someone like me. I had no job, no money, no prospects, and continued to hang out at Healy’s with its dark, unfriendly atmosphere and toothless hardcore drinkers.
When I got back home I flipped on the TV, but at that time of night they show mostly crap--late night infomercials and news. I made one round through the channels and found an old episode of Star Trek. Captain Kirk, such a big ham with his over acting and shoulder rolls. I kept it on, feeling my eyes become heavy. After a while I blinked awake to find I missed the end of the episode. I shut off the TV and crawled into bed. Sleep engulfed me immediately, like a thick blanket.
CHAPTER TWO
Sunrise lit up my room and I dragged myself out of bed. I grabbed a book from the bed table and headed into the kitchen. I made some coffee and sat on the couch to read.
I read a lot of books. It’s better than TV and movies. Mostly, I like crime fiction and horror. I was on the last chapter of Falling Glass by Adrian McKinty. In it, an Irish tough guy hired by a corrupt businessman helps a woman in trouble and tries to unravel some ghosts from the past. I dreamed of taking a trip to Ireland as I read, and visiting a small town. Of seeing the countryside and hiking through green fields, hilly and peaceful.
Once I finished, the book and the coffee, I moved off the couch and got ready to go out. I put on my black jeans, a white button-down shirt, and black steel-toe boots. I decided to get out and take a walk, see the city up close. I loved walking among the buildings, hearing the street sounds, and watching the city girls, especially in the summer. I was hoping the walk might just inspire me to have a drink somewhere other than Healy's. Maybe some place where I could meet a nice girl.
Outside, the stifling heat hit me hard. Humid, thick, and oppressive. A warm breeze blew softly from the west, briefly bringing relief from the sweltering summer heat. Clouds, dark and dreary, were moving fast across the sky. I hoped it would clear up quickly as getting soaked on my stroll would only have added to my misery.
I started walking towards Bryant Park, the sounds of cars, taxi horns, and people talking filling my ears. I caught small bits of conversations as I passed groups of p
eople, like flipping through TV channels and only hearing a piece of each show. I quickened my pace. The movement and rhythm felt good and cleared my head. As I passed the subway entrance on 41st Street, the stench of urine hit me and I let out a breath and a grunt of disgust.
I stopped at the park, thinking I might be able to strike up a chat with a beautiful girl on her lunch break, but it was kind of empty. Still too early for the business lunch crowd.
I took a seat on a bench, facing the back of the New York Public Library. A beautiful building, even from behind. I lit up a cig, leaned back, and relaxed.
The staff at the Bryant Park Grill buzzed around preparing for the lunch crowd, setting tables and fortifying their stations. Just then, I noticed three businesswomen walking in my direction. Drinks in hand, chatting and laughing as they came my way, I thought they might be fun to talk to.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said with a smile as they passed me. “Sure is a beautiful day.”
One smiled back, but said nothing, then looked away, embarrassed as they walked on.
I turned to see a waitress at the grill watching me, a smirk on her face. She was absolutely gorgeous, with blond-streaked hair pulled back into a ponytail and beautiful green eyes. It was like I got hit with a bolt of lightning. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She reminded me a little of that actress in The Rum Diary with Johnny Depp.
She put her hands on her hips and squinted at me. “No luck, huh stud?”
I smiled and adverted my eyes to my boots, a little embarrassed. I looked up. “Just trying to make friends.”
She continued putting her station together, then glanced back to me. “That’s not a very New York thing to do.”
I recognized a southern accent, sweet and real sassy. “Are you from around here?” I asked.
She stopped her work and edged closer to me. “No sir. Born and raised in Lumberton, Texas.” She said it with pride, like it was something special to her.
Bourbon & Blood: A Crime Fiction Novel (Bill Conlin Thriller) Page 1
