HIRED GUN (Culvert City Crime Files) Read online

  HIRED GUN

  Culvert City Crime Files Volume one

  JAMES R. TUCK

  Another fine Crime Collection brought to you only by

  Blammo!

  ALSO BY JAMES R. TUCK

  The Deacon Chalk: Occult Bounty Hunter Series

  THAT THING AT THE ZOO

  BLOOD AND BULLETS

  SPIDER'S LULLABY

  BLOOD AND SILVER

  CIRCUS OF BLOOD

  BLOOD AND MAGICK

  SPECIAL FEATURES

  SILK AND SCALE (Winter 2013)

  As editor and contributor

  THUNDER ON THE BATTLEFIELD: Sword

  THUNDER ON THE BATTLEFIELD: Sorcery

  For information about appearances, news, and new

  releases as well as up-to-the-minute social media go to:

  WWW.JAMESRTUCK.COM

  Copyright 2013 James R. Tuck.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of James R. Tuck.

  Quotes may be used for review purposes only.

  Layout and Art Direction: James R. Tuck

  Cover photos Copyright 2013 James R. Tuck

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of James R. Tuck.

  Dedicated to The Missus

  She stole my heart.

  INTRODUCTION

  Loyals and True Believers,

  Thank you for taking the time and spending your hard earned money to read this collection of short crime stories. I appreciate it, I truly do.

  Most of you will know me from my Urban Fantasy books where I write about monsters, and ghoulies, and supernatural evil.

  This collection is just a bit different.

  There is nothing supernatural in this collection.

  Nope, none, not one drop.

  THIS is a series of short stories set in the town of Culvert City, a place where bad people do bad things to each other. A hard place, a tough place, it's Killtown USA, Fist City, Murderville America, whatever you want to call it. Culvert City doesn't have a “bad side” of town, every square inch of the place is nasty and as terminal as cancer.

  Crime bosses, crooked cops, hitmen, ladies of the night, thugs, petty thieves, junkies, dirty politicians . . . every bad seed of every rotten apple lives here.

  Good people who live here too.

  They're called victims.

  It's a quick, violent romp through the seedy underbelly, so jump in and revel in it because, at the end of the day, we all have a dark side.

  James R. Tuck

  THE HITLIST

  BIG TONY LIKES A SHOW Page 9

  RESPECT Page 18

  CANCERSTICK Page 22

  CAUGHT Page 32

  SECURITY CHECK Page 35

  TEACHABLE MOMENT Page 44

  BOOTS ON Page 48

  TREATMENT Page 59

  OUTRO Page 66

  BIG TONY LIKES A SHOW

  This is a short story written specifically for this collection. I tried something new to me, which is formatting the story like Charlie Huston does (if you aren't reading Charlie Huston's stuff then shame on you). No quotation marks, no indention on conversation, no speechtags.

  I really like it when he does it, but I think I'll leave it up to you to decide if I should keep using it or not.

  This story is the first one I wrote with the nameless hitman with three-and-a-half fingers on his right hand.

  There's a song by the Christian cock-rock band Bride that I really like called Hired Gun. It's on their Kinetic Faith album. You can find it on I-tunes or wherever you buy your music. It's about a hitman and contains the line: 'I hope you and Jesus have it all worked out.'

  It sparked my imagination like a bullet through the brainpan. So I wrote about that guy.

  BIG TONY LIKES A SHOW

  -Whatta ya have?

  The man twisted in his seat. The sharkskin suit he wore bunched at the shoulders and elbows, squeaking in protest. Hairs stood out like black wires on white knuckles that used the leather-wrapped steering wheel to pull himself around in the seat. His right eye squinted inside a fleshy pocket as he looked over at the man in the passenger seat.

  The passenger sat, hands folded in his lap. The seat belt cut across his lean chest without creasing the simple black suit he wore. He turned his head toward the driver, dark hair falling across dark eyes in a wave.

  -We don't have time for this, Foley. Big Tony wants us to get this done.

  -Fuck. Big. Tony. He ain't here and I need some lunch before we go giving some schmuck the business. 'Sides, we're in the drive-thru ain't we? Now whatta you want?

  The passenger leaned up, looking past Foley and out the window. The bright glare of the fast food sign bounced off the slick fabric swathed around Foley's heavy frame. Before he could answer the speaker crackled to life.

  -Welcome to Big Ass Burgers, home of the Double Pounder. What would you like to order today?

  Foley turned his head to the window, pulling on the wheel again.

  The passenger studied the back of Foley's head. The hair was thin back there, combed over, stuck in place with gel like a child's scribble marking out the bald spot.

  -Give us a minute willya?

  -Order when you're ready.

  Foley turned back, eyes looking around a thick nose that had been broken more than once. It didn't make him handsome, but it did add character to a face that otherwise belonged on a watch list.

  -So?

  -Alright. I'll take a Caeser salad.

  Foley's fingers rubbed the boulder on the bridge of his nose.

  -Fuck that. Pick something else.

  -What's wrong with a Caeser salad?

  -You ain't eating that in my car, gettin' your fuckin' croutons and shit on my upholstery with that greasy ass dressing. No. Fuck you. Get something you can hold in your hand and eat.

  -You know burgers drip grease right? What if that happens?

  -That happens you better drip that shit on your shirt, not on my baby here.

  Sausages attached to the hairy knuckles caressed across the supple leather covering the bench seat. The burgundy of it shone under the chubby fingers. Polished wood gleamed around a high end stereo, chrome knobs polished and slick. The interior was a rich contrast to the outside's heavy cream paint job. Long lines stretched, making the hood of the classic Caddy spread like the thighs of a prom queen tipsy on one too many wine coolers.

  The speaker crackled again.

  -Are you ready to order sir?

  Foley jerked himself around by the wheel. The bald spot flamed bright red under the scribbled hair.

  -Did I fucking order? I said to give me a minute.

  -Sir we can't have the drive through back up like this.

  Foley's face turned sour.

  -Listen kid, tell your manager that Foley is in the drive-thru and if I hear one more fuckin' noise through this speaker that ain't 'thank you for your order Mr. Foley' then I'm comin' inside. She don't want me to come inside before my scheduled stop.

  The speaker sat silent, not even a crackle of static. Foley's grin was smug, a child molester in charge of a daycare.

  -Now what was we sayin'? Oh yeah, order some real fuckin' food and keep it clean.

  The man sighed.

  -Then just give me a number one combo.

  -Do you even know what a number one combo is?

  -Does it matter?

  The passenger ran three and a half slender fingers through his hair. The fourth finger had been severed at the middle knuckle, the skin on the end of it a rough patch of scar
tissue that snagged individual strands of hair.

  -Look Foley, I just want to get this over with. I don't like dragging out a job for Big Tony and I don't like being out in public like this.

  Foley laughed, a harsh, mean, humorless bark. In the line of cars behind them someone honked.

  -Then you work for the wrong guy, pal. You're new to the Outfit so let Foley clue you in. Big Tony, he likes a show. Why do you think I drive this car? It ain't exactly, whadda ya call it?

  Chubby fingers waved in front of his face, trying to pull the right word from the air.

  -Inconspicuous?

  -Yeah, inconspicuous. Nah, Big Tony likes for the schmucks we gotta deal with to know exactly who sent them. He wants them to see it comin' a mile away. He likes the word to get around. 'Hey, don't mess with Big Tony, he'll make an example outta ya.'

  -The guy we're going to see? What did he do?

  Foley reached under his sharkskin jacket. The passenger tensed until the fat, hairy hand came out holding a handkerchief. Rayon pretending to be silk. Foley blew his nose with a ripping honk, wiped vigorously, then shoved the soiled hankie back into his pocket.

  -He did the big no-no. He got greedy, started seein' dollar signs, and took more than his cut. Started sharking business for himself.

  -Big Tony seems pretty protective of his business.

  -You're tellin' me pal. But it keeps us workin', y'know?

  The driver in the car behind them laid on his horn, the sharp sound cut inside the Caddy, vibrating the glass around them. Foley hung a meaty arm out the window. The passenger knew without seeing that Foley's hand was up in a middle-finger salute to the impatient driver behind them.

  -Hey Foley.

  -Yeah, wadda ya want . . . Hey! What are ya doin with that roscoe?

  A sleek pistol had materialized in the passenger's hand. Off the end of the barrel hung a tube of steel the size of a soda can. He held the gun casually, arm resting on his own hip. The small hole in the end of the fat silencer pointed directly at Foley's face.

  He spoke in a low voice.

  -When were you planning on telling Big Tony that he had expanded into shaking down fast food restaurants?

  Foley swallowed. Sweat broke and ran from under gelled hair, trickling down beside his ear and soaking into his collar.

  -I'll cut you in. It can be our secret, just you and me. Partners. There ain't no need for this to get around.

  -Didn't you hear Foley? Big Tony likes a show.

  The passenger leaned in, just an inch, voice a hair above a whisper.

  -I hope you and Jesus have it all worked out.

  Slender fingers twitched twice. Twin parabellum rounds punched under Foley's second chin making two tiny holes. The second they struck flesh they began to tumble like drunken gymnasts. Their trajectory launched them out the back of Foley's skull in a spatter of gore that arced out the open window of the Cadillac, painting the garish-lit fast food menu in a thick, chunky brain marinara.

  The passenger opened his door, dropped the still warm pistol on the still warm seat, and walked away without a backward glance.

  RESPECT

  I've had this little gem floating around for a minute. It's a snippet that never seemed to develop into anything more. A snapshot in crime so to speak.

  I used this in my interview with the truly amazing Chuck Wendig on his truly amazing blog www.terribleminds.com (which you should be reading if you are a writer or just like creative use of profanity).

  It got a good response so I've included it here for you.

  Plus I really dig it.

  RESPECT

  Leon stood up from the table, bank floor plans ruffling against the front of his jeans. He was the only one who moved, everyone else waiting to see his play. He pointed a finger.

  "Respect your elders, boy."

  The young man looked at him, steady eyes bloodshot, a sallow cast to the whites of them. He didn't stand.

  "My dad left before he even knew my whore of a momma was knocked up with me. Hell, he was gone before his drunk wore off."

  Long, brown fingers stubbed out the joint delicately; white smoke wisping from the side of his mouth as he leaned forward. "My whore of a momma didn't even have the courtesy to take me to my grandma before she split. Hell, she was gone before her drunk wore off too. My grandma had to take the crosstown bus for over three hours to get me from the hospital. I love my grandma. I would kill for my grandma. I say ma'am to her, dress nice when I'm over there, take her to church every Sunday and the Piccadilly afterward. I do respect MY elders."

  The Glock appeared, pointed at Leon's chest. A smile with no humor touched the young buck's narrow, pock-marked face.

  "The rest of y'all are just old."

  CANCERSTICK

  Damn I like this story.

  I really do.

  It stars the nameless hitman again. It's an idea I had in the car driving to work. I was thinking about cigarettes. I don't smoke . . .

  Well, that's a lie. I do enjoy a pipe or a cigar occasionally, once a month or so with a nice bourbon chaser. I don't like cigarettes though. No flavor for me, but I don't have a problem with them.

  I refer to them as cancersticks, which is odd since my dad was a big-time smoker. He smoked a pack-and-a-half-a-day until the day he died from lung cancer.

  No, I'm not kidding you.

  I wasn't thinking about him in particular, just cancersticks in general when inspiration struck and BAM! you have a story.

  Smoke 'em if you got 'em.

  CANCERSTICK

  The recorder shut off with a soft click.

  The dark haired man sat back, looking at the other man in the room, the one tied to the wooden chair on the other side of the table. "Well, that was like lancing a boil. I bet you feel a hundred pounds lighter, like you went to Confession."

  The man in the chair raised his head. He was good looking. Strong jaw, zoom whitened teeth, blue eyes bright enough to be called piercing, and a thick head of blonde hair with just the right amount of curl to be dashing. He could've been a movie star. Well, movie might be pushing it. He could have been on television.

  For acting that is.

  Now he was slumped over, TV star features a wreck, skin red and puffy from crying, lip swollen on one side, splitting on the peak of the fat part. The piercing eye above it drooped, blushing purple around the socket.

  The man with the recorder picked it up, slipped it inside his jacket. "Do you still consider yourself Catholic, Senator?"

  The man in the chair shifted. "I do."

  Like he had another choice. No one gets out of the Church alive. Born a Catholic, you die a Catholic.

  Even if you don't believe in God, you always believe in the Church.

  "So you could go to real Confession after this, like with a priest and everything, and be all squeaky clean for the pearly gates?"

  The Senator sat up, licked blood off his lip. "It doesn't work like that."

  "Hey, don't get all offended. It doesn't matter to me either way. I'm a Buddhist."

  "You're a Buddhist?"

  "Well, I'm screwing this girl and she's a Buddhist, so that makes me a Buddhist to keep her happy."

  "Most Buddhists don't kidnap people and assault them."

  "Don't throw stones, Senator." He slid off the edge of the table and stood up, right hand slipping into his pocket. The pinky was missing, severed after the middle knuckle. It was all the Senator could see. His observation was confirmed as the hand came out holding a straight razor. A flick of the wrist flashed it open, the edge running with a deadly gleam.

  The man stepped closer.

  "Wait, wait, wait. You said you weren't going to kill me." The Senator leaned away sharply, jerking the chair he was in. "You said that if I told you everything you'd let me live! You said!"

  The pinkyless hand flashed downward.

  The Senator's hands came free as the zip ties around his wrists sliced apart.

  The man flicked his wrist again and s
lipped the straight razor away with a smile. He sat back down, this time in the chair opposite the Senator.

  "Ah c'mon now. I was just screwin' with ya."

  The Senator rubbed his wrists. Soft finger pads feeling every angry red groove where the harsh plastic ties had cut in. "I thought after what I told you . . ."

  The dark haired man waved away his words. "Those weren't my kids you molested. I got paid to make you talk on tape and that's what I did." He produced a pack of cigarettes in a plain white and brown box, no label on them. He shook one out and held it up in a pinkyless hand. "You want one? I know it's been a rough evening for you."

  The Senator reached out, taking the cigarette with a shaking hand.

  The dark haired man pulled out a tiny silver pistol. He pointed it at the Senator's TV star face.

  The Senator's heart froze.

  A tiny flame came out of the barrel with a pull of the trigger.

  "Gotcha again.” The man chuckled. “Man, you are too easy."

  The cigarette was the sweetest thing the Senator had ever tasted.

  "You know, back in the day you never saw a politician sucking on a cancerstick."

  The Senator blew out a long stream of gray smoke. It spooled out of his mouth carrying a stream of tension with it. "Once the President came out as a smoker it was okay."

  The dark haired man tapped the lighter against the tabletop. It was a light, casual movement, no rhythm to it. "You know, it's funny to me that you don't know anything about the parents of the kids you messed around with."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, take little Billy Chamblis, you don't know his dad Bill Sr. at all."

  A sharp exhale of smoke. "I don't know Billy Chamblis."

  "He was the kid at the prep school in Texas that you spoke at. The one you had the private 'mentoring' session with."

  The Senator said nothing, holding his words and a lungful of sweet, sticky smoke.