by B Branin
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Upon learning that my client was as sane as they come, or at least, as sane as anyone who wanted to find their dead sister can be, I was at a loss. Having spent so many years gambling away what little money I could cheat people out of, you’d think I would have been a little smarter than putting my entire haul on one roll of the dice.
Nope.
My gamble had been that Fiona Ambrose was a raving lunatic. A shapely raving lunatic sure, but a lunatic none the less. Right about now I was wishing that I could go back to the office, pick up the phone and call her and tell my client to get back on her meds.
But I couldn’t. Well, I couldn’t call her up anyway. I was still heading back to my office though.
There was a bottle of whiskey in my desk that I had been saving for a special occasion, like when I won the lottery. I decided that having my first official paranormal investigation was just as special…only less satisfying, more confusing, and a whole lot more frustrating. So caught up in self pity and asking the powers at be why they had nothing better to do then pick on an honest conman like myself, I didn’t even bother hailing a cab. Instead, I walked the nine or so miles from Buggy’s apartment all the way back to my office and by the time I arrived the moon was nothing more than a sliver of sickle-shaped bone in a sea of inky blackness.
The office building where my illustrious business HQ resided was too small to hire a professional security guard outfit to watchdog the place after hours. Instead our security guards were “Independent Contractors” which basically means they answered an ad in the help wanted section. So we got stuck with a retired cop who needed the extra cash to pay for his medication and a young student who was too eager to jump at shadows.
As usual they both failed to do their job as I was greeted by two thugs the moment I stepped onto the parking lot. Apparently the fence and signs announcing the presence of security cameras weren’t enough to scare off these two imbeciles.
“Hey Broker!” Hissed a voice from the shadows, “Good to see ya.”
As I’ve admitted plenty of times, I am a coward. Cowards live longer! But in my defense, I am wise enough to know a genuine threat from street trash bravado. Since I didn’t see the flash of a knife or a glint of a gun as two skin-headed wannabes stepped into the poor illumination of the street lamps, I wasn’t too worried.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” I countered frostily, keeping my illusion of cool.
The two skinheads were just like all the other trailer trash junkies who came to the big city for easier meth and speed to score. Each was equally ugly and dressed in filthy jeans and white tank top shirts. Their sunken in and frantic eyes accompanied by nervous yet feral grins told me they were new to this kinda thuggery.
I knew who these two idiots worked for but that didn’t make me feel any better. Out of habit I slipped my right hand into my pocket and brushed my fingertips against the handle of my switchblade. I preferred flight to fight but the knife in my pocket was reassuring. Like a constant reminder that I always had a backup plan when a situation turned sour.
“I trust Zotkin is well?” I asked with a fake smile on my lips.
Using their boss’s name gave the skinheads a momentary pause which I picked up as insecurity. I puffed out my chest and tried to look as confident as possible, donning a harsh glare and a reckless, daring smile. The two idiots actually took this as a show of self-assurance, which needless to say, undermined their own confidence.
You see, over the years of conning and stealing I’ve bumped into some really rough characters. One of the worse characters I’ve been unlucky enough to have run into is Josef Zotkin who had the nasty habit of inconveniencing me at every possible opportunity.
Crime in the city of my current residence (name withheld for fear of a mass migration of paranormal enthusiasts) was fairly low, but that didn’t mean that crime didn’t invite itself over. Zotkin was an opportunist who, after choosing the wrong side in a turf war between rival Russian syndicates, fled here to lick his wounds. Though slack jawed and dull eyed, Zotkin wasn’t necessarily thick witted. He was the perfect blend of ham-fisted brute and cunning criminal racketeer. More of a glorified gang leader than a true mobster type, Zotkin kept a few illicit businesses running smooth as clockwork, including drug smuggling and running numbers. He seemed to have a never ending supply of street trash rejects to swell his ranks and wielded his authority like a pimp.
How I got on Zotkin’s shit list was simple: I outsmarted him. Awhile back some barroom rumors had been floating around about how some new muscle in town had a dozen or so stolen cars waiting in a pier-side warehouse. Some slick chop-shop outfit from the east was supposed to swoop in, buy the cars, and leave town with the parts worth stripping. My intuition had told me this was more than just rumor, so I asked the right questions and found the right warehouse. I then tipped off the police, who promptly arrived and impounded all of the cars the day before the chop shop crew arrived.
Zotkin, the negotiator between the car thieves and chop-shop owner, was out of a pretty penny and earned enough death threats from both parties to fill a small book.
Being the charming and clever man I am, I happened to get the ear of the chop shop crew’s leader before he left town. I explained to him that I could use my contacts at the police department (or rather, those boys in blue I knew had a gambling addiction) to get them inside the impound lot and strip the cars.
Money exchanged hands, the stolen cars were rendered useless before they saw a police auction and I was a couple grand richer. Of course I inherited Zotkin’s wrath which was a major pain in the ass from time to time. He, and everyone with half a brain, suspected me of this underhanded double-cross but he was reluctant to take too drastic of action against me.
That was one of the perks of having so many criminal contacts; no one would try to kill me outright because they were afraid my death would cause more trouble than it was worth. That didn’t stop a bunch of idiot gangbangers from messing with me in order to please Zotkin. I’ve had cars stolen, my office and apartment broken into and several beatings which Zotkin’s crew took credit for. Though spineless, I wasn’t going to take all this crap without dishing out more damage to Zotkin’s wallet and reputation.
As my uncle used to say, “If you get bit, you bite right back or else you’ll be eaten alive.”
So that in a nutshell, is my relationship with Zotkin and his gang which apparently included these two skinheads.
“You don’t need to be worryin’ about the boss. You should be more worried ‘fer yourself!” Growled one of the skinheads advancing with all of the menace an inbred junkie could muster.
“Well, about that…” I began, before turning and running towards the building.
Now these two hicks were about ten years younger than me and thanks to their diet which undoubtedly consisted of canned corn, macaroni, and meth, they were a lot lighter than me. Outrunning them wasn’t an option and I knew it, but I’ve spent enough of my life in the wrong places to pick up a few dirty tricks.
Just like the one I was about to show these two idiots.
Like most dull-witted morons the two gave chase, figuring I was running for my life. So they pulled out all the stops and ran at full speed, one on either side of me. I kept up the ruse, pretending to flee until they were close enough to brush their fingers against my jacket. Then I abruptly stopped, planting my lead foot and crouching low. As I stopped, I threw my elbows out at either side so they were right at groin level.
The effect, as usual, was fantastic.
Each of my elbows slammed home, reducing what little manhood these two rejects had into packages of pain. They both collapsed, clutching at their wounded…ahem…pride in unison. Despite my cowardice, I wasn’t about to have two skinheads out for my blood and decided to take further action. Standing up, I walked over to the nearest thug who had just got to his knees. He was still hunched over which gave me the perfect opportunity to kick his face as if it were a foo
tball waiting to be punted.
So I did.
The skinhead’s nose shattered and his head snapped back savagely. He made a coughing and choking noise, telling me he had inhaled some of the blood that his broken nose spewed. For good measure, I kicked him in the balls again since his hands were now cradling his face.
One down and one to go.
The second thug was scrambling to get up but it was apparent he was still in a world of hurt. I wasn’t about to let him get to his feet so I rush forward and delivered another kick, targeting his ribs. He let out a wheezing groan and fell on one side which I capitalized on by delivering a hard stomp to his unprotected head.
After I was sure that the two hicks weren’t in any condition to continue chasing me, I bid them a good day. If that false bravado didn’t discourage them from hunting me down, Zotkin’s punishment for failure certainly would. Severe beatings were Zotkin’s way of separating the wannabe street trash from his grade “A” cronies. These two would be lucky if the gang-boss didn’t send them both to the emergency room for wasting his time.
Of course if I had known what this paranormal investigation was about to introduce me too, I would have begged the two skinheads to put a bullet between my eyes then and there.
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