Just a spot of fun I never finished and decided to tidy up last night. Simply a work of extremes
I think I finally managed to give the narrator some character which I think is a flaw to my stuff.
Heavy Lawrence Block influence that's pretty obvious for those in the know.
Pound of Flesh
She slumped on the toilet, cold and beautiful with a needle dangling from her dead vein. I'd seen plenty of fast lives and young deaths, but this was my first good lookin' corpse. I shook my head and heard the girls whispering behind me. Squaring my shoulders, I shielded them from the view and backed out of the bathroom. The girls were huddled together, waiting for the news. Typically I saw them at night with their pretty faces painted and their perfect bodies dressed in designer fashion. Now they were scrubbed fresh, wearing baggy T-shirts and boxer shorts. They'd have seemed almost innocent, if I hadn't known better.
"It ain't good," I answered before they could ask.
They hugged, cuddled and consoled. A couple of them started bawling. Looking away, I glanced around the apartment. It appeared expensive and chic just like the others. The Boys took good care of their Soho girls and the girls responded in kind. Kari broke away from the sob pack and embraced me, gazing up with those gorgeous hazel eyes.
"What do you want us to do?" She wiped a tear.
"Call the fuckin' cops."
Her face combined suspicion with disbelief.
"Just don't say no more than you have to. The Boys don't want no trouble, capisci?"
Not that The Boys had much to worry about. Half the detectives in the precinct supplemented their sex lives at our Soho high rise. Still, you never knew when you'd wind up with some hard on who still believed he was saving the world. I gave Kari another squeeze then herded the girls out of the apartment. Following them out, I shut the door and wiped the knob. I wasn't sweating my fingerprints, but I'd picked the lock and hoped the cops wouldn't notice. I took the elevator down and swaggered through the lobby.
"Good morning Mr. Rizzi," The doorman waved.
"I'm thirty two for chrissake! How many times I gotta tell ya? Call me Vic!"
Laughing, he opened the door. I peeled a sawbuck off my wad. The doorman nodded his thanks. Out the door and across the sidewalk, I found my Town Car waiting at the curb. The sun loomed high over Manhattan, hitting the window tint at just the right angle to catch my reflection. Black hair, scowling brows and an angular jaw made the face. An Italian suit, silk shirt and abundant gold made the man. I grinned at myself and got in the car.
Driving down Prince Street, I turned on Mulberry and headed for Little Italy. I thought about the Soho girls. They weren't the type of whores you expected to die from a spiked arm. I wondered how The Boys would react. Experience said they'd want their pound of flesh. That's when I'd get involved. That's when I always got involved. Reaching Mott street, I double parked in front of Louie's social club. From the outside it looked small and plain. A sign in the window read Members Only.
Inside sat the usual gang of pasta gutted, old pricks who'd been sitting there for years. Most had known me since I was a kid. Most had known my pop since they were kids together, long before lung cancer ate him inside out. Smoldering cigars and steaming espresso dominated the room. I nodded. The Boys nodded back.
"Where's the skipper?"
"Eatin' in the back," one of them answered.
"Alone?"
"Yeah."
I went down the bar, past the restrooms and stopped in a doorway. Louie No Socks sat, forking his way through baked ziti. His silver hair was coiffed and sprayed. Enormous eyebrows bounced over his deep set eyes and his bulldog jaw chewed in slow rhythmic motions.
No Socks looked up at me, "You need somethin' to eat?"
I shook my head. At my age, maintaining a cruiser weight physique meant watching what I ate.
"Still tryin' to keep your girlish figure?"
"You should take a hint," I patted his gut.
He pushed my hand away. I took a seat. Catching an odor, I glanced down past his fat belly and pricey slacks to where Louie's bare feet sweated in a pair of Italian loafers.
"You wanna coffee?"
I nodded, "Black."
"Hey Petey! Black coffee for Vic!"
The kid brought espresso in a tiny whitecup with a tiny white saucer. I took it. No Socks waved the kid away. Things got quiet.
"Overdose," I told him.
I sipped coffee. It burned my tongue. No Socks stabbed a ziti.
"Find out where she scored the stuff."
"No problem," I'd planned on doing that anyway.
I waited for the cops and coroners to clear out before returning to the Soho high rise. I'd spent many a night in the place. It was a perk. Most of the girls came to New York with higher aspirations. Models and actresses were common, along with an occasional ballerina. After a year or two of waiting tables the girls found themselves disillusioned and desperately in need of money. That's when The Boys stepped in, hooking them up with trendy apartments and new careers. Soon they were pulling down two to six grand a night, just for making some guy's dreams come true. Personally I never paid, but if I had, it would've been worth it.
I rode the elevator up to the top floor. Finding the right apartment, I rang the bell. Leeza answered, holding a cocktail in one hand and a menthol in the other. Straightened black hair was pulled back from her face, revealing exotic creole features. Wearing a silk robe, she looked great for her age. As the oldest and most experienced of the bunch, she'd taken on a motherly role. I figured losing one of the girls must've hit her pretty hard.
"How ya' doin'?"
Leeza sipped her drink and shrugged.
"How'd it go with the cops?"
"I didn't talk to them. Sounds like the detective is one of our regulars."
I breathed relief. "You know how many of the girls are usin'?"
Leeza shook her head, "They keep it hush hush."
That was understandable. Track marks tended to make a John nervous.
"Who'd she pal around with?"
"Brit mostly," Leeza hit her cigarette. "Brit and Kari. The three of them are tight... at least they were."
That was all I needed. I told Leeza to hang in there then walked down the hall to Kari's door.
I knocked. She answered and let me in. We took a seat on her couch. The apartment was nice. Some overpriced interior designer had charged her thousands to give the place a "southwestern" feel. She claimed it reminded her of home. Originally from Arizona, Kari came to Manhattan to make it as a fashion model, only to find she was an inch too short. Personally I thought she was one of the best looking women on the planet, but what the fuck did I know?
"You doin' okay?"
She shook her head and laid back, putting her feet in my lap. A black jogging suit hugged her long tight body. Chestnut hair framed her sculpted face, alluring lips and enticing eyes. I massaged her feet.
"You talk to the cops?"
She sighed, "They were cool. Didn't ask too many questions."
"How long had she been usin'?"
"I dunno. Not very long," Kari smiled. "You don't even know her name?"
"Naw! I seen here around now and then, but that's it."
"Good. I like telling myself I'm the only one your with."
"It's true," I lied.
"Yeah right."
My hands roamed up her leg, "She the only one doin' the stuff?"
"How would I know?" Kari avoided my eyes.
Evasiveness suggested there were others.
"Where they gettin' it from?"
"Who knows? We're in New York, remember?"
"Don't fuck around."
"I'm not!"
"Bullshit! You got some idea. This girl was your friend. You owe her."
Kari smirked, "I owe her?"
"Fuckin' A! Lemme make things right."
"Nobody forced her, Vic. She was a big girl."
I massaged Kari's thigh, working my way up and inside. "Gimme a place to start," my hand cupped her crotch.
Kari opened her eyes. "Or what?"
I grabbed the waist of her pants and pulled her sweats down. There were no panties. Her pussy was shaved clean. My dick extended down my leg.
"Okay! I give!" Kari smiled, "She'd been hanging out with a couple Russian guys lately, at least I think they're Russian."
"You know their names?"
"Yuri and Vlad, Ivan-o-kov or something like that. They're brothers."
I didn't recognize the names. That meant they were small time.
"You know where they live?"
"I don't know where it is exactly. Brooklyn, I think."
Kari tilted her hips, pushing her prickly lips into my palm. I pushed back. My fingers slipped inside her.
"You know where they hang out?"
She shivered, "The only time I ever met them was on the Westside. They were playing cards."
"The joint on 48th?"
Kari nodded, panting.
"You party with them?"
She flashed a vixen grin and kept humping my hand. It stung a little, knowing she fucked other guys, but hearing it was good for me. That kept me outta love. I stood up, took off my jacket and started unbuttoning my shirt. Kari pulled her pants off and unzipped her top. I loved her tits. Tossing my shirt on the ground, I undid my belt. She went into the bedroom to get a condom, shaking her ass as she walked. I loved her ass. By the time she got back I was naked, but Kari hadn't removed her top. I started to do it for her. She stopped me.
"You cold?"
"Sorta."
Using her mouth, she rolled the condom on then bent over the couch. I banged away. But between the fuckin' rubber and visions of a dead girl on the toilet, there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell I'd get off. Kari didn't seem to have any trouble. It was tough to tell. She faked it for a living. Once she wound down, I squeezed her ass, convulsed a few times and hoped I was convincing.
After that I knew it was time to get focused. Back at my loft I showered and changed into my work clothes- black slacks, T-shirt, leather blazer and sturdy shoes. A 9mm Beretta hung in the shoulder holster under my armpit. I slipped two sets of brass knuckles into my blazer's side pockets. Back on the streets, I steered my Lincoln toward Hell's Kitchen. The joint on 48th was an illegal gambling den run by Russian Jews. I'd been there once, waiting in the car while my buddy collected a vig. Pulling up to the curb, I looked it over. The outside seemed nasty and I figured the inside wouldn't be much better.
I was right. The front door led to a cracked linoleum hallway that stretched back to a second door. I expected it to be locked. It wasn't. Inside the smoke hung thicker than fog. The light was dull and the dingy decor made me thankful for shadows. A pair of trashy cocktail waitresses lingered at the bar. Transparent skin and bad teeth spoke to their ethnicity. In the center of the room sat a round table. It was covered with poker chips, face cards and surrounded by four gamblers.
Typically these underground dives contained at least one jag off who knew my reputation. Scanning the players, I spotted a skinny degenerate named Sol. A self-conscious smile spilt his scruffy lips and he nodded recognition. I was about to nod back, when I spotted the bouncer closing in behind me. Standing several inches above my six foot frame, he was steroid pumped and covered in prison ink. Gritted teeth said he wasn't in the mood for conversation. I'd taken him by surprise, passing through a door he'd no doubt forgotten to lock. Now he was embarrassed and planning to take it out on my ass. I considered pulling my piece, but decided against it. Anybody could pull a gun. What I needed was respect.
My hands dove into my pockets. Slipping my fingers through brass loops, I clenched my fists and turned on him. The bouncer reached for me. My hands flashed- two left jabs and a brutal right hook. The bouncer's breaking jaw echoed through the room. He swayed and staggered, but kept his feet. I used the prick for a punching bag, pumping my fists like pistons. Gashes opened around his eyes and nose. The bouncer took a knee. I drilled him full force. The brass knuckle split his forehead from eyebrow to hairline. He flopped backward. I landed two more shots before he hit the ground. Standing over him, I kicked his face to ensure he was out. A gun cocked behind me. I spun around, blood dripping from my hands. The fat bearded guy beside Sol was pointing a magnum in my direction.
"You got two seconds to lower that fuckin' thing before I pound it up your ass!"
The bearded guy grinned, "Such confidence!"
His accent was thick. I started toward him. Sol intervened.
"He's made guy, Eddie!"
I stopped long enough for Eddie to think it over. His grin switched to a filthy smile. Eddie laid his gun on the table. I kicked the fuckin' table over. Cards, chips and gamblers scattered. Eddie looked surprised. I punched him in the mouth. He toppled over. I pulled my Beretta and waved it around the room. Nobody wanted to get involved. Looking down I spotted Sol, crunched under the up-ended table.
"Hey!"
Sol's head poked out.
"The Ivanokov brothers, they here?"
Sol shook his head.
"Who knows where they are?"
Sol jerked his head toward Eddie, who was busy spitting teeth. The filthy smile was now replaced by gaping holes and oozing blood. Bending down, I jabbed my nine into his cheekbone. He gurgled insults.
"Shut up! With that fuckin' smile, I just did you a favor."
Eddie kept gurgling. I stomped on his balls. He squealed.
"Yuri and Vlad Ivanokov. I want an address."
Eddie rambled off a street and a number. I told one of the trashy waitresses to write it down. She did. I pushed my gun hard against Eddie's face, pinning his head to the floor.
"If it's wrong I'm coming back, capisci?"
Eddie nodded. I stomped his balls again, snatched my address and split.
Back in the Town Car, I headed south to Little Italy and double parked in front of Louie's. The Boys were gathered at the bar, watching the fights. No Socks sat at the far end, sipping a Budweiser and eating a sandwich. Hitting the restroom, I washed off the blood and took a piss. Back at the bar I joined No Socks. The bartender came over.
"Seven and seven," I ordered.
The bartender nodded. I gazed up at the TV. One fighter was bloody as hell. The ref stopped the bout. The Boys moaned in unison and began bitching about what a candy ass sport boxing had become. They claimed it was tougher in the old days. They said that about everything. The bartender handed over my drink. I slipped him a sawbuck. He knew better than to offer change.
"I found the fucks."
"Already?" No socks acted neither surprised nor impressed.
"Yuri and Vlad Ivanokov."
"Ruskies?"
I nodded then swigged my drink, "Brothers! They live over in Brighton Beach."
No Socks ran their names through his mental Rolodex, "I ain't never heard of them two."
"Me neither," I confessed. "You want I should hit 'em?"
No Socks considered his options.
"Lemme check 'em out first. Make sure they ain't with nobody."
I nodded, knowing that's the way it was gonna be.
The next morning I awoke to a ringing phone. It was No Socks. He told me to meet him at the restaurant in two hours. We were sitting down with the Ivanokov brothers. I knew better than to ask why. I dressed in a new suit- black silk, three button, Italian cut. A wide-collar shirt, thick gold necklace and onyx pinky ring completed my attire. Slipping the Beretta into my shoulder holster, I left for the restaurant.
It was a small place on Mulberry, run by No Socks brother-in-law. I parked in the back alley and entered through the kitchen door. No Socks waited in the backroom with a couple of The Boys. Greeting everybody, I went out front and waited for the Ruskies. They showed up late, driving a used Benz. Vlad was tall and lanky with chiseled cheeks and tight lips. Yuri was short and scrawny with a sparse goatee and a stray eye. Both wore fake Versaci, plated gold and shitty cologne. I let them in and led them back. No Socks shook their hands, made introductions then asked them to sit. Tension dominated the room as we ate lasagna with red wine. After that came Tiramisu for desert. The restaurant served the best in the city. Over black coffee, No Socks let the Ivanakov brothers in on the price of Sicilian hospitality.
"Under no fuckin' circumstances! Will either of you fuckin' fellas! Distribute any fuckin' narcotics! To any of our fuckin' girls!"
They took the news pretty well. No Socks continued.
"In order to compensate us for our loss, you fuckin' fellas will be cuttin' The Boys here in on twenty fuckin' percent of your monthly profits. Not your net. Your fuckin' gross!"
Yuri flipped out, waving his arms and cursing in Russian. Snatching an ashtray off the table, I moved to brain the prick, but brother Vlad reined him in. No Socks restated his demands then explained that their alternative was a ride in the trunk of my Town Car. After a brief discussion the Ivanokovs agreed to all terms. I led them out and watched them walk to their car. Yuri bitched. Vlad ignored. Hoping in the used Benz, the brothers squealed away. No Socks figured that'd be the end of it. I thought different.
It took less than a week for me to be right. The Soho girls called. We had another body on our hands. I headed over, took the elevator up and found the girls huddled outside Kari's door. I cursed myself for missing the clues. She hadn't been cold. She'd been covering her tracks. Now she was gone, face down on the carpet with a potted cactus toppled beside her. I didn't turn her over. One good lookin' corpse had been enough. Instinct said this one wasn't an accident. Instinct said this one was a message.
When I passed the message on to No Socks he got pissed. He wanted the fuckers dead. I was happy to oblige. Twilight faded to darkness as I crossed the East River. A heavy cross wind swayed the bridge beneath my car. Gloomy clouds threatened to storm at any minute. Off the bridge, I caught the Brooklyn Queens Expressway and followed it South. Connecting to Shore Parkway, I wrapped around Brooklyn's Southwest tip and headed East to Brighton Beach. Exiting the parkway, I found Neptune Ave. and spotted the building. It was a crumbling, six story dump. I parked a couple blocks away then walked over. Inside the building, I slipped on a pair of leather gloves to match my blazer and took the stairs up. Silence filled the halls. Here and there television noise made its way into through heavy wooden doors.
On the fifth floor I located the Russian's place and went through the lock in under fifteen seconds. I pulled my piece, attached a silencer and entered the apartment. Shitty cologne stung my nose. The place was dark. Nothing moved. Wind rattled the windows. Locking the door behind me, I flipped on the light. The apartment was unbelievably trashed. I took a tour, making sure they weren't home. The first room was a small kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I found two eggs, three Heinekens and helped myself to a beer. A short counter separated the kitchen from a living area, which contained a secondhand couch, a reclining chair and an enormous entertainment center. Off to my right, across the living room, were a bathroom and a bedroom. Inside the bathroom I found about a quarter pound of heroine and a box of hypodermics. Heading into the bedroom, I found it fairly clean with framed photos adorning the walls. I crossed back through the living room, my feet thumping on the wood floor.
The second bedroom was cluttered with porn clippings covering the walls. A candle burned on the night stand. Its flame danced in the breeze that blew in through an open window. Looking out, I found that the window exited onto a rickety fire escape. I drained my beer then tossed the bottle out and listened as it shattered in the black alley below. Returning to the living room, I spun the reclining chair around so it faced the front door. Then I killed the lights, took a seat and waited.
Sometime around two in the morning a key hit the lock, the knob turned and the door opened. Dim light filtered in from the hall. Vlad entered, jingling keys in his hand. Raising my Beretta, I sighted in. He glanced back out the door then locked it behind him. Where was his brother? Vlad fumbled through the dark until he found the switch and lit the room. Next he entered the kitchen and swayed in front of the fridge. Taking out a beer, he scavenged for a bottle opener.
"Welcome home dickhead."
Vlad twirled- eyes popping, jaw dropping. I was about to say something else when Yuri banged on the door.
"Open the door asshole! I forgot my fucking key!"
Before Vlad could speak I pulled the trigger. A hollow point hissed across the room, shattering the bottle in his hand. Hot lead and green glass ripped into his groin. Dropping behind the counter, the Russian screamed. I leapt out of the recliner. Yuri stopped pounding. Reaching the counter, I leaned over. Vlad clutched his gut and kicked in pain. Sighting in, I shot him twice through the heart. The front door smashed open and Yuri dashed into the room with a blazing revolver in hand. I dropped behind the counter. Bullets cracked overhead. Yuri ran past me. I raised the Beretta and pulled of a wild shot. My hollow point slammed into the wall, filling the air with plaster and demolishing the light switch.
Darkness swallowed the room. I heard Yuri scrambling toward his bedroom. Orange flame flashed. My bullets splintered the frame as Yuri dove through his bedroom door. Rolling onto my stomach, I slithered over the floor and stopped just outside the doorway. Seconds passed in silence. I pulled myself into a crouch. Voices gathered in the hall. My escape was blocked! I remembered the open window.
Dashing into the bedroom, I found the candle extinguished and Yuri gone. I climbed out the window and onto the fire escape. A bullet sparked off the handrail and shattered the pane above my head. Glass shards rained over me. Squinting down through the iron mesh landing, I spotted Yuri descending two floors below and started after him. He reached the ground when I was halfway down from the second floor. Stepping out into the alley, Yuri took aim and fired. Bullets whined past as I leapt down the stairs and tumbled onto the final landing.
The shooting stopped. Below me, I heard the Russian clicking his revolver through empty chambers. I grinned. Yuri cursed and sprinted down the alley toward the street. Off the fire escape, I hit the alley at a full speed. By the time he reached the sidewalk, I was gaining. Over the sidewalk, Yuri darted into the street. I hit the sidewalk, planted my feet and blasted two hollow points into his back. Impact twisted the fucker around and he toppled onto the asphalt. Sensing the kill, I closed in. Yuri lie on his back in an expanding puddle of blood. Sucking sounds slurped from his chest. Looming over him, I leveled my Beretta and emptied my clip into his face. Blood, flesh and bone blended together as Yuri's head melted into the street. I traced the sign of the cross from my forehead, down across my chest, then back again and culminated the gesture by scrapping my hand off the underside of my chin.
I should've felt better, but I didn't. Sirens swarmed in the distance. Unscrewing my silencer, I stuck it in my pocket and slipped the Beretta back in its holster. A breeze kicked up. I leaned into the gust and started down the street. Icy air kissed my bones. I thought about Kari and wondered where she was? I told her I'd made things right. But it was bullshit. Things weren't right. They never had been. I knew they never would be. And the wind wailed around me as I disappeared into the night.
