The Dame Did It

by Joel Jenkins

  Before Killingsworth had finished speaking, Blackheart put three bullets into the windshield. Immediately, the Mercedes swerved to one side and plowed into the field, where it hit a rut, and went airborne even as it tilted crazily to one side. The Mercedes furrowed through the high grass and came to a jolting stop, upended on one side. The driver lay with a broken collarbone and shattered arm on the passenger door, while Bushy Hair—thrown into a similar position in the backseat—found that he was relatively intact except for a couple of bumps and bruises. Clutching his Ingram 11 he climbed halfway out the open window on the opposite side of the car and emptied the rest of his magazine at the receding form of the gigantic truck.

  Bullets rattled against the bumper and pocked the bed of the truck, while Blackheart emptied his pistol in the direction of the Mercedes. But the range was long and he failed to come anywhere close to hitting Bushy Hair. Killingsworth brought the truck to an abrupt stop, opened the driver’s door and climbed out and onto the blood-spattered step. Bushy Hair dropped the empty magazine out of his Ingram 11 and fumbled for a third, fully loaded magazine.

  Killingsworth leaned against the shattered stub of the driver’s rear view mirror and drew a careful bead on the distant bushy-haired machine-gunnist. She used both hands to support the pistol and squeezed the trigger twice. The first bullet struck the gunnist in the left shoulder and the second caught him through the gap between his second and third ribs, so that he dropped his Ingram and slumped over the upright door, choking on his own blood as it filled up his lungs.

  The blonde assassin climbed back into the truck and sent it rolling toward the skeleton of the grain silo.

  Blackheart climbed into the front seat. “That was quite a shot, Blondie—but why? By the time he reloaded we would have been long gone, and it’s not like he could have caught us with the Mercedes upended like that.”

  “It’s bad policy to leave your enemies alive,” said KIllingsworth.

  “What about Frampton and Gaines? You let them live.”

  “That’s because we had a—”

  “A deal?” interrupted Blackheart.

  “Gia warned me and asked me not to hurt Gaines.” Killingworth stopped in the shadow of the the silo. “If we didn’t have an explicit deal, it was at least professional courtesy. And next time we meet, they won’t necessarily be enemies.”

  “Maybe,” said Blackheart dubiously, “but I was lying on the bench in the backseat when a couple bullets hit Gaines’ machine gun. Frampton will have a hard time convincing her boyfriend that you weren’t trying to kill him.”

  Killingsworth cast a sidelong glance at her handsome companion. “Where are we going, Big Boy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we’ve got a deal. We split Frankie G’s cash fifty-fifty, remember? Where did you stash the money?”

  “Yeah, that could be a bit of a problem,” said Blackheart.

  Killingsworth smiled. “I get paid to resolve problems.”

  “Not every problem can be resolved with a bullet,” said Blackheart.

  “You’d be surprised,” replied Killingsworth.

  “The feds were following me and I didn’t have time to stash the money anywhere good, so I stuffed it in with a package of clothing that Charise asked me to send her.”

  “Charise? Is this the woman who cheated on you with your best friend?”

  “Yeah, that Charise,” admitted Blackheart.

  “And you agreed to send her clothes? Why didn’t you make a big pile and have a bonfire?”

  Blackheart shrugged his broad shoulders. “I felt bad about hitting her.”

  “You are a sucker, aren’t you, Big Boy? You remember the address?”

  “She’s staying at Finn’s place outside of Lexington.”

  “Finn is your best friend?”

  Blackheart cracked his knuckles, and the scars on his fist were visible. “Not anymore, he ain’t.”

  * * *

  They parked the truck with the shattered rear window at the rear of the lot, and thirteen thousand bought them a used Corvette from Honest Sam’s in Central City which, at nearly five thousand residents, boasted the largest population of any city in Muhlenberg County. Despite the claims of the peeling reader board over the used car lot, Sam was far from honest, and fenced stolen property, moved small quantities of illegal drugs and large quantities of black market liquor, and anyone who lived within the region knew that the prices on those cars were too high and that Sam was as crooked as a Kentucky back country road. What most of them didn’t know is how he managed to stay in business when the same cars stayed on the lot month after month.

  Sam, however, recognized the sort of customer that he shouldn’t cheat, so when Killingworth and Blackheart made him a generous offer, he sold them one of the few cars on his lot which was actually in good running condition.

  He handed Killingsworth the key to the Corvette, but called after them as they both climbed into the low seats. “What about your truck?”

  Killingsworth shrugged. “We’re just borrowing it, Sam. If someone were to have certain contacts and were it to somehow disappear, no one would be the wiser.”

  Sam rubbed his bony hands together. He knew of just the chop shop that would be happy to disassemble the Ford into untraceable parts and pay him a hefty fee for the opportunity. “Say no more, Mr. and Mrs. Johansen. I assure you, I will be most discreet.” He turned back to his office to count his money, again, and make a couple of phone calls—some discreet and others not so discreet.

  The Corvette spun back onto the 9001, heading East toward Lexington. Normally, it was a three hour drive to Lexington but, with careful monitoring of the radar detector, they made it in two. They had spent a fair amount of time exchanging their wheels and it was near midnight when they reached Finn Macintyre’s place in the suburbs. Finn was a small time hustler who pulled cons on old ladies, emptying their savings and robbing them of their social security checks, but his ill-gotten gains slipped like water through his fingers—spent on booze, drugs, and fast women. His lawn was overgrown, and empty bottles of bourbon adorned the rail of his front porch. A shiny red Porsche sat in the driveway as Blackheart and Killingsworth approached the door.

  “That’s new,” said Blackheart. “Or at least he picked it up since I’ve been in the pen.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling that your girl and your best friend may have already spent Frankie G’s drug money. They’ve had plenty of time.”

  “I told you,” growled Blackie. “He ain’t my best friend anymore.” He lifted his fist to knock on the door, but Killingsworth caught it.

  “Allow me,” she said. She produced a lockpick gun from her handbag and in a few seconds the locked front door was locked no longer and they eased into the front room, which was decorated in modern style with angular coffee tables, end tables, and boxy leather couches. A small mirror rested upon the table, a dusting of white powder, a furled hundred dollar bill, and a razor blade lying on top. There was, however, no sign of any occupants.

  “Looks like they’ve been celebrating,” said Killingsworth.

  The headlights of a car swept the house, momentarily brightening the dim interior, and Killingsworth stepped to the blinds, pulling two slats apart and peering through them. “We’ve got a car parked on the other side of the street.”

  Blackheart cursed. “Is it the police? I should have known better than to pay a visit to my ex-girlfriend. They’ve probably been staking out her place since I escaped the transport truck.”

  “Why were you being transported?” asked Killingsworth.

  Blackheart shrugged. “Something about me being too dangerous to mix with the general population and that I should be transported to Eddyville with the other hard core criminals. I don’t get it, though, I’m strictly small time compared to the guys they’ve got in the Kentucky Pen. I’m not a rapist and I never killed anyone… until today, but I don’t see as I had much choice.”

  “It takes a little g
etting used to.” Killingsworth still peered through the blinds, hoping to find a clue which would tell her the identity of the newly-arrived vehicle’s occupants.

  “Is it even possible to get used to it?” asked Blackheart.

  “I’ve killed a lot of people, Big Boy. It becomes almost second nature.”

  “How do you deal with it?”

  “Lots of cigarettes, booze, and m—” She cut herself short, lest she admit too much and quash any chances that she might have with Blackheart after their job was done.

  Blackheart checked the kitchen, but it didn’t look as though it had been used for anything but providing drinking glasses from the cupboards. “Cigarettes? I haven’t seen you smoke a single stick since you pulled me out of the back of that transport wagon.”

  “I go cold turkey when I’m on a job.”

  “Don’t you go into withdrawals?”

  “I should, but I don’t seem to. Maybe it’s the adrenaline.” Killingsworth started down the hallway, pistol in hand. The first door on the left was ajar and opened into a bathroom. The next door opened up into a small office with a cluttered desk containing a computer, phone, and a plethora of scattered papers. Killingworth pushed open the last door on the right, revealing the master bedroom and Finn and Charise, who lay exhausted, and deep in slumber, after their evening of drug-fueled passion.

  Killingsworth didn’t waste any time. She strode across the room, grabbed Finn’s head by a handful of his curly brown hair and shoved her pistol in his face. It was a rude awakening to say the least.

  “Where’s the money that came in the package?” she demanded.

  Finn’s eyes popped open and his bleary gaze was replaced with fear and he began to struggle. Killingworth jammed the pistol into his right eye and yanked hard on his hair. “Stop fighting, or I’ll put a bullet through your brain—and then through the tramp’s brain.”

  “What, what do you want?”

  “I want the money that Joe Blackheart mailed to Charise.”

  Charise stifled a scream and made a dash from the room, the sheet that draped her body tearing loose from the bed and coming with her, but the folds of the linen tripped her up and she stumbled into Blackheart. He wrapped his thick arms around her torso and held tightly while she kicked, flailed and cursed a string of words that would make a sailor blush.

  “Classy woman you’ve got there, Big Boy. What did you ever see in her?”

  The sheets began to slip down from Charise’s shoulder, revealing just a fraction of her fully formed decolletage. “Never mind,” said Killingsworth. “I get it. Now someone speak up before I lose my patience. I want to know where the 650 grand is, and I want to know fast, because it might be easier to kill you both and just look for it ourselves.”

  “Watch the eye!” begged Finn. “That just healed up.”

  “If you don’t cooperate I’m going to give you more than a shattered eye socket,” warned Killingsworth.

  Finn focused with his left eye, looking past the blonde assassin that was shoving a pistol into his other eye, and seeing Blackheart holding the struggling Charise. “Joe! I thought that you were in jail. I’m your best friend, why are you doing this?”

  Blackheart gave Charise a jerk that momentarily squeezed the breath from her body and silenced her. “When I beat you down you begged me to forgive you for sleeping with my girl, and you promised me you’d never lay a finger on her again. How long did you keep that promise, Finn?”

  “You were in jail, Joe! Charise was lonely and I felt bad for her—”

  “I’m sick of this sob story,” said Killingsworth. “I’ll off him for free. Just give the word.”

  “Give him ten seconds to tell us where the money is. If he doesn’t spill, then you have my permission to pull the trigger.”

  “We didn’t even know about the money until three days ago!” protested Finn. “Charise needed a bra and remembered that you had sent her some of her clothes. She dug out the package and we found the money inside. We were going to keep it safe for you—until you got out of the pen. Honest!”

  “Who paid for that Porsche out front?” asked Blackheart.

  Charise recovered some of her breath and she managed to gasp out a reply. “I didn’t think you’d mind if I used a little bit of it to support myself until you got out and we could get married.”

  “Married?” exclaimed Blackheart. “What about Finn?”

  “What about him?” said Charise. “I was lonely. I just needed someone to keep me company until I could be with my true love again.”

  Killingworth rolled her eyes. “I hope you’re not buying any of this, Big Boy.”

  Blackheart hesitated. “No.”

  “Good,” said Killingsworth, and she put her finger on the trigger of her Colt. “Now, Finn, I want you to tell me where the rest of the money is.”

  For a moment his left eye wandered to a painting of a lion in the jungle veldt which hung crooked on the wall. “We put it in a safe deposit box. Come back tomorrow and I’ll get you the key.”

  “You and Charise must think we’re pretty stupid.” Now, Killingsworth spoke to Blackheart. “Big Boy, put the tramp on the bed next to Finn and take a look behind the painting.”

  Blackheart carried Charise over to the bed and dropped her next to his former best friend, and she tucked her knees to her chest, gathering the sheet around her as if it were some protective shield.

  “Please don’t kill me, Joe,” pleaded Charise. “I know you still love me. We can still be together.”

  Blackheart ignored her supplications and moved aside the painting, revealing a ragged hole which had been punched into the wall. He reached into the hole and began to remove bundle after bundle of cash.

  “That has got to be the laziest job of stashing money I’ve ever encountered, Finn,” said Killingworth. “You have got to be one of the poorest excuses for a criminal that I have ever seen.”

  Blackheart counted the bundles and dropped each of them into Finn’s gym bag. “We’ve got 420 grand.”

  “Where’s the other 230 thousand?” Killingsworth emphasized the question by jabbing the snout of the pistol a little deeper into Finn’s right eye.

  “We… we spent it,” said Finn, and he held out a key that he retrieved from the bedstand. “Here, take the keys to the Porsche! That’s where all the money went.”

  Killingsworth snatched away the keys. “You spent 230 thousand on one Porsche? My, are you a big spender. I could almost believe you’re that stupid, but I think you’re holding out on us. Tell us where the rest is and I promise that I won’t shoot you.”

  Charise’s eyes were wild with fear. “What about me?”

  “One of you has got to die,” said Killingsworth. “If you want to be the one to live tell us where the rest of the money is.”

  Finn and Charise both spoke as quickly as their tongues would allow, the location of the remaining money spilling out in frenzied jumbles.

  “Do the honors,” said Killingsworth, and Blackheart pulled loose the slender dagger that the blonde assassin had lent him earlier. He approached the bed and used the point to rip open the foot of the mattress where it had been crudely stitched together. Here, he found 83 thousand and some odd change and he announced the amount to Killingsworth as soon as he had estimated it.

  “I still think they’re holding out on us,” said Killingsworth, “but we’ve got a car outside watching the house. I think we’d better be moving on.”

  “Don’t kill me!” begged Charise. “It was Finn’s idea to spend the money. I wanted to save all of it for you, Joey baby. You know I love only you.”

  “The story’s changing,” said Killingsworth. She withdrew the pistol from Finn’s eye socket and plucked up a pillow from the bed. “Time to tie up loose ends and blow this joint. Charise talked first, so she gets to live.” Killingsworth shoved the snout of the .45 into the pillow and pressed it against Finn’s head and was about to pull the trigger when the pop of a semi-automatic rifle echoed
through the night, immediately followed by shattering glass and spurting blood as Finn spun to the ground, peppered by rounds even as he dropped.

  Killingsworth threw herself to the floor as a bullet tugged at the sleeve of her jacket. The mattress gouted feathers as bullets plowed through, and plaster dust flew as bullets cut through the window and then the wall on the other side of the room.

  Blackheart dropped Charise, fell to his knees and crawled toward his former best friend, reaching out toward him. “Finn!”

  Finn turned his head toward Blackheart, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Joe. It’s all my fault. I told Charise to testify against you and to be quiet about the part where she came at you with the fire poker. I wanted her… and I thought that if I could get you out of the way, I might have a chance at keeping her.” Finn’s eyes rolled back in his head and he ceased breathing.

  The barrage of bullets ceased for just a moment and finally Charise let out a long dreadful shriek and bolted for the door of the bedroom, bed sheet trailing behind. A half dozen spots on the cream-colored sheet blossomed crimson as the barrage began anew, and the force of the bullets pitched Charise against the wall.

  Both Blackheart and Killingsworth were flat on their bellies, crawling for the door and past Charise who sat slumped against the wall, her dead eyes glassy and staring. Bullets cut through the walls overhead, showering them with plaster and splinters.

  “Who’s shooting at us?” asked Blackheart.

  Killingsworth had no answers. “Who knows about the money?”

  Blackheart pulled himself down the hallway and Finn’s signed and framed photographs of last year’s playmates grew bullet holes and were thrown from the walls. The very foundation of the house seemed to shake and tremble as the assault continued. “Finn and Charise went on a spending spree the last three days. Probably a few people noticed and someone put two and two together.”

  “That sounds about right.” Killingsworth didn’t bother firing back. They were at the center of the house and she couldn’t see who was shooting at them or where he was. The bullets of the rifle that was being fired at them had a lot more penetration than her pistols. “Probably some of Frankie G’s men caught wind of it. Who picked up the pieces after Keel and I took him out?”