by Joel Jenkins
“Diggs Sanderson,” said Blackheart. “He sent word to me in jail that he’d have me shivved if I didn’t tell him where the cash was at.”
“And you didn’t tell him?”
They heard a sound at the front door of the house and Killingsworth rolled on her back. From her position in the hall she could just barely see the door as it cracked open and a shadowy form complete with a cradled AK-47 machine pistol—a short-barreled rifle without the stock—entered the front room.
Up to this point Killingsworth had not fired a single shot, and this might have led to a false sense of security for the gunman entering the house. It was a short-lived sense of security, because Killingsworth put four bullets into the gunman’s chest cavity and sent him reeling onto the front porch, where he fell heavily, machine pistol clattering down the front steps.
There was a crash as someone forcibly entered through the rear entrance of Finn’s home. In a flash, Killingsworth was on her feet and bounded over Blackheart, who had propped himself with his broad back to one wall. She went low as she came around the corner into the vestibule of the rear entrance. A dour gunman with heavy lines on his face managed to get off one shot that parted Killingsworth’s hair, and then, at close range, she put two bullets into the gunman’s heart. Before he had finished falling, she was on top of him, one booted foot on his gun wrist, as she pried the pistol from his still-spasming hand.
She heard gunshots at the front of the house and then Blackheart came stumbling into the vestibule, bullets chewing up the wall after him. His borrowed pistol blazed in the darkness as he returned bullet for bullet, not hitting his assailant, but at least keeping him at bay for a few moments. All of a sudden Blackheart was pulling at the trigger and nothing was happening, his magazine emptied. “Another one came through the front door.”
Killingsworth was already fully aware of this and she brushed past Blackheart and caught sight of a shadow lurking behind a corner. She fired twice and one of the bullets struck the hiding gunman at the bridge of his nose, dropping him to the wood plankings.
Blackheart glanced at the dead gunman beneath his feet. “This is Elvin Elwood. He used to work for Frankie G.”
“He’s probably working for Diggs Sanderson now.” Killingworth slipped a fresh magazine into the butt of her pistol. “Or he was when I killed him.”
“You know, if Sanderson would have just asked me nice I would have told him where the cash was, but instead he sent a thug telling me one of his jailbirds was going to knife me in the liver. Maybe I was just being stubborn, but when he put it that way I didn’t feel like cooperating.” Blackheart looked out the open back door and saw two more figures approaching through the night.
Apparently, they saw him too because they opened up, their pistols erupting flame and lead, throwing up splinters from the decking of the back porch. Killingsworth grabbed Blackheart by the elbow and pulled him back into the house. “Change of plans, Big Boy. We’re going out the front door, after all.”
As she pushed Blackheart toward the hallway she turned and sent a couple of shots winging toward the muzzle flashes. Mostly, it was meant to discourage them, but she heard a curse as one of the bullets connected. Then she slid past Blackheart and led the way through the shambles of the front room, past the bullet-shredded couches and broken glass and out the front door. She used Finn’s brand new Porsche as cover—he wouldn’t be needing it any more—running low toward the rear of the car where the engine rested. A high-powered rifle could cut through the body of the car and she preferred to keep an engine block between her and any shooters.
Still, Killingsworth was running blind. She didn’t have time to do any reconnaissance on the street, because of the shooters that were closing in behind her. This worked both for and against her. Diggs Sanderson and his right hand man, known as Shovel McCormick, stood next to a BMW observing the assault on the house. Apparently, they weren’t expecting anyone to burst out the front door, and the moment that it took Diggs Sanderson to unholster his pistol was enough for Killingsworth to reach cover.
Blackheart, however, was a dozen paces behind her—.45 in one hand and gym bag full of cash in the other—and he made a larger target than Killingsworth. Sanderson snapped off a couple of shots, which missed connecting with Blackheart, but tore the gym bag out of his hand, so that when he crouched behind the Porsche, he was minus what was left of Frankie G’s drug money.
He looked ruefully at his empty left hand, and then back to the unkempt lawn where the bag lay. “I’ll go back for it. Keep me covered.”
“Not going to happen,” said Killingsworth. “Sanderson’s shooters will be coming through the house any moment and then you’ll be pinned between guns on both sides.”
Shovel McCormick reached into the trunk of the BMW and grabbed an AR-15 rifle, which used a smaller, less penetrating round than the Russian AK-47, but had both more range and accuracy than its counterpart. Killingsworth snapped off a pair of shots around the bumper of the Porsche and both rounds punched through the lifted lid of the BMW’s trunk. One of these shots glanced off the AR-15, and McCormick went scrambling for cover behind the trunk of the Mercedes next to the BMW.
Diggs Sanderson called out. “Is that you back there, Blackheart? You are certainly a troublemaker. I had you marked for a shiv the moment you got to State Pen, but somehow you managed to escape. You are famous, now. Your face is on every TV in Kentucky and cops are looking for you in at least eight different states.”
“Why have me killed before you could find out where the cash was?” shouted Blackheart.
“To make a point,” drawled Sanderson, “and I heard that Hardwick was planning to spring you. I thought it wouldn’t happen until after you got to the pen. My mistake. I thought you’d slipped through my fingers until I got a call from Honest Sam, and when I heard rumors about Finn and his woman spending cash all over town I put two and two together.”
“The cops will be here any minute,” said Blackheart. “The money’s in the bag. Take it and split.”
Sanderson laughed. “The police are at least seven minutes away, Blackheart. I can fire a lot of bullets in seven minutes.”
At that moment, the engine of the Porsche fired and it squealed away from Blackheart. In the matter of a second or two it accelerated over the curb and slammed into Sanderson, pinning him between the BMW and the front end of the Porsche. Sanderson was only able to fire one bullet before the Porsche crushed his body.
Killingsworth unhooked her seatbelt and rolled out of the Porsche, just as Shovel McCormick was coming from behind the trunk of the Mercedes so he could began firing into the Porsche. She put three bullets into the chest of Shovel McCormick before he could pull the trigger. McCormick crumpled and Killingsworth tore the rifle from his hands. She turned and saw that instead of heading for cover, like she had directed him, Blackheart was making a grab for the gym bag of money. Beyond his broad frame, she could see two shooters emerging from the front door of the house. One of them was wounded, clutching his gun arm as he raised it up to fire at Blackheart, but the other drew an easy bead on the fugitive who was now caught in the open.
Killingworth stayed in a crouch, bringing the butt of the AR-15 to her shoulder, and sighting down the barrel. “On the ground, Big Boy!”
Blackheart heard her and hit the turf, rolling. Then Killingworth opened up with the AR-15. The magazine of the rifle held thirty rounds and it only took three to drop the pair of gunmen, but she kept up the barrage until she was sure that they were dead. Then she wiped down the gun with a handkerchief and pressed it into McCormick’s still warm hands.
The scent of burning rubber rose from the whining engine of the Porsche, mingling with the odor of gunpowder and death, which Killingworth always found a heady mixture. She climbed behind the wheel of her Corvette, while Blackheart tossed the money behind the seat, and then leaped into the driver’s seat.
She gunned the Corvette out of the circular drive and onto the road, leaving the smashed automo
biles and dead bodies in the distance. “Did you get hit, Big Boy?”
Blackheart shook his head and managed a feeble smile. “Thanks to you, Blondie, I’m still in one piece.”
“So, we’ve got a half million between the two of us. A deal’s a deal, right?”
“I believe you promised me a drink,” said Blackheart.
“That I did,” said Killingsworth. “Where would you like to share that drink? I’ve got a friend, who’s a genius with passports. We could go to Monaco, Hong Kong, or if you prefer something quieter there’s a half dozen South American countries that might do the trick.”
Blackheart pressed his lips together as he considered this. “Make it somewhere local, and when we’re done dump me off at the police station so I can finish my sentence. I’m not cut out for this life. I thought maybe I was, but I’m done being a two-bit drug and money courier and I’m done with all the rest.”
Killingsworth bit her lower lip. “We could have been good together, Big Boy.”
Blackheart leaned back in his seat. “I know, Blondie, but I’m not a cold-blooded killer. You’ve got more nerve than I do, and even though he had it coming, my conscience is eating me up about that driver I shot back in the field.”
“You didn’t kill him,” said Killingsworth.
“I didn’t?”
“Nah, I saw him climbing out of the car in the rear view mirror. Doesn’t look like you even hit ’em. Probably just scared him half to death—and that made him run off the road.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Killingworth’s ice blue eyes rested upon Blackheart’s handsome visage. “I wanted to see if you had what it takes.”
“What it takes to do what?” asked Blackheart, wind blowing in his hair.
“To be a killer… like me.”
“I guess I just can’t hack it.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Big Boy. Not everyone has what it takes.”
“You keep the money,” said Blackheart. “It would look like I engineered my own escape if I showed up at the police station with a quarter million dollars.”
“No way,” said Killingsworth. “We have a deal. I’ve got contacts with a casino in Jersey. When you finish your sentence you go there and they’ll arrange for you to win that quarter million dollars gambling. Well, you’ll have to pay them a thirty percent fee for laundering the money—so you’ll win 175,000 dollars. Of course, Uncle Sam will nick you for another thirty percent in taxes, so you’ll be looking at about 120 grand when all is said and done. Not much, but it will give you some seed money.”
The sound of sirens split the night and Killingworth slowed the Corvette to a respectable speed. Flashing blue and red lights splashed the streets and surrounding trees as a pair of police cars sped past.
“Just dump me at the nearest police station,” said Blackheart.
“I’m not letting you off the hook so easy, Big Boy. First things first. You still owe me that drink.”
—
1 Some of these events are related in “The Hard Luck Killers,” in the story collection The Gantlet Brothers Greatest Hits
THE DAMSEL OF DISASTER
by
Christofer Nigro
— :: —
The newly constructed infrastructure of Buffalo, New York gleamed in the unobstructed sunlight of a deceptively bright summer afternoon circa 1933. Like all thriving big apples caught in the heyday of the Great Depression, its streets were filled with desperate, unemployed people who were every bit as depressed as the economy. But despite the atmosphere of despair, such an environment was nevertheless ripe with opportunities to exploit the situation of the common man by those few with the correct combination of enterprising spirit and sheer ruthlessness. Moreover, not all of these rare but feared individuals were actually men.
Cruising through downtown Buffalo past the beige spire of City Hall was a sleek, black expensively modified 1932 Ford V-8 Cabriolet. The driver was a chauffeur who doubled as a body guard, nicknamed “Fido” by his employer. Sitting next to him in the passenger side was a shorter but equally heavily-built man dressed in the same immaculate double-breasted suit with matching fedora known as “Killer” Frank Pinaro. Squeezed into the back seat were three individuals, two of whom were of immense importance in this city; one of which was spoken of in nothing more than nervous whispers, if at all. In fact, if any activity he was known or even rumored to be involved in was mentioned aloud amongst the Italian immigrants inhabiting Buffalo’s West Side, that foolishly outspoken person was quickly silenced via everyone else present making a horribly boisterous throat-clearing sound.
This man in question was no less a personage than Don Gino “The World’s Greatest” Provenzo. Beside him to the left in the specially enlarged back seat was his daughter, a plump but attractive dark-haired dame named Gia. To his left was another body guard of partially Irish descent with a thick shock of sandy blonde hair to show it; he was Ira O’Hara, but often called simply “Ira O” by his boss and colleagues in the family to de-emphasize his lack of full-blooded Italian pedigree. Don Provenzo was the head of one of the two major Buffalo Mafia families making a killing—in more ways than one—during the opportunities presented by the Prohibition. A tough gentleman who was large in size with a smallish head, bald pate surrounded by graying frocks of hair, punctuated with show business good looks, he was being sequestered to a neutral location outside the city limits to discuss matters of business with the don of the rival Gambino clan.
“I think you should’a brought more men, Boss,” Fido opined in a dull New York accent. “I don’t trust Vito Gambino as far as I could throw him. Ever since he got outta the Big House and ‘took over’ from Lenny, he’s been makin’ inroads into your turf. ‘Specially when you consider the losses that happened last year when the New Orleans branch of his family went to war with the Ponti’s.”
“Your opinions are noted,” Don Provenzo stated with glum confidence. “But I’m a man of my word, and I didn’t get where I am today by breaking it with impunity. Vito and I both agreed: Three trigger men each for security, and no more. He could bring his latest moll, and I would bring the little girl here, both for good faith. And that little diner in West Seneca is neutral territory, so—”
“I ain’t a little girl no more, Papa,” Gia interceded in a highly frustrated tone. “Or, haven’t you noticed this lately?” she said as she made a point to pump out her chest so as to emphasis the shape of her prominent bosom.
“For God’s sakes, you mind your manners, little girl!” the Don shouted in anger. “There will be no conduct like that from you around me, I didn’t raise you that way!” He then turned to the admiring eyes of Ira, with a glare evoking the fury of a triggered Tommy gun. “And what the holy hell do you think you’re looking at, you filthy little bug?”
“I wasn’t looking at nothing, Boss,” Ira answered with a nervous and rushed tone. “I just turned to the sound of Gia’s voice, that’s all.”
“Like hell you did!” Gino exclaimed, extending his chunky index finger into the shaking gunman’s face. “You keep your eyes off of my little girl along with your filthy thoughts, or the next overcoat I buy for you will be Chicago-style, got it?”
Ira gulped anxiously, struggling to maintain his usual cool composure. “I… I hear you, Boss.”
“Oh, lay off, Papa!” Gia groaned. “Ya wanna know how you raised me? To be a little girl forever! Well guess what? I’m 23 now, so nature has officially spoiled your upbringing!”
“When you’re in my presence, girl, you will conduct yourself according to the good Christian values I—”
Gino found his spiel abruptly cut off as a seemingly drunken youngish heavyset woman wearing tattered clothing of unusual design stumbled in front of the car. Fido swerved the vehicle just in time, and the tires screeched with an ear-splitting cacophony as it barely missed the errant jaywalker.
“Watch it, you fuckin’ creampuff!” the ragged woman yelled as the car s
wung around her.
“God damned homeless trash!” Gino hollered. “My driver just missed doing you a big favor, as well as a big favor to every respectable person in the city! People may want to eat in that park, you know!”
Before carrying out her intention to throw a string of further expletives at the Don, the young woman’s eyes suddenly sprung open with astonished recognition. “Oh my God, you’re… you’re Gino Provenzo! You’re my… distant relative! You can help me!”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Gino lamented. “Now she’s gonna ask me for some kind of charitable contribution to her worthless life by claiming to be related to me. Fido, drive on, we don’t have time for this shit!”
“Gotcha, Boss,” Fido acknowledged, hitting the accelerator and driving away. “But I wonder how she knew who ya was? She recognized ya.”
“Hardly surprising, considering how my face has been plastered in all the local news rags since this Gambino crap got started,” the Don noted with frustration. “She probably pulled some papers from the trash can to use as her blanket last night, or to wipe her ass or something, when she saw my picture…”
Gia suddenly snickered audibly. Ira noticeably bit his lower lip and suppressed any reaction.
“What?” Gino asked.
“Just got a kick outta the symbolism there, Papa,” she replied with a snigger.
Gino glowered. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothin’, nothin’,” she said with another snigger. “Hey, Fido, don’t these new-fangled autos have built-in radios? Papa told me they did when he bought this beauty a few days ago.”
“Yes they do, Miss Gia,” Fido responded. “Want me to turn it on for you and see what’s playin’?”
“Yes, please be a dear and do that,” she affirmed.
Fido switched on the radio, and the tune of Guy Lombardo’s rendition of “The Land Round-Up” provided a pleasant symphony to Gia’s ears. She relaxed against the comfortable back seat of the car and listened in peaceful relaxation, unaware of what The Fates had in store for her once her party’s destination was reached. If she had, she would have made an effort to enjoy the tranquility she now felt as much as possible.
