7
Remember Those Guys?
Stone never looked forward to this part. He stood outside the door to Rockwell’s apartment, taking a deep breath. In the long time he had known and been partnered with Rockwell, his apartment had always been a random grab bag of things you didn’t need to (much less want to) see. None the less, they had a job, and a big one at that, so the necessary evil had to be faced.
Stone reached for the door. Hopefully, Rockwell didn’t try to shoot him this time.
The apartment was a small, one-room efficiency. It was no bigger than two or three hundred square feet with a large TV mounted on the wall and a mattress on top of box spring on the floor. Stone grimaced at the scene. Three women, probably hookers, lay strew in the nude in various places around the room. They were Cleveland hookers, so they did not look good. Rockwell was laying face down on the bed. He had nothing on but a Hawaiian print button up shirt, unbuttoned, and a pair of socks. In his right hand he clutched the big revolver. The scene was peppered with beer cans and bottles.
Stone took a deep breath, summoning all his considerable patience for the task at hand. He moved in, kneeling over Rockwell before saying, “Wake up.”
Rockwell woke and spun, bringing the gun up instinctually. Stone was ready for the reaction and caught him at the wrist. “That will be enough of that.”
Rockwell squinted as reality found its way into his alcohol saturated brain. “Stone?”
Stone nodded. “Yep.”
Rockwell exhaled and relaxed his gun hand, “How many fucking times have I told you not to come in here after one of my benders? I could have shot you!”
Stone sighed, “You’re always on a bender, so my timing is a moot point.”
Rockwell considered this, “Okay, you have a point.”
Rockwell pulled himself to his feet, staggering back and forth for a second. He then regained his composure and stumbled to a cooler in the corner of the apartment. Gun still in hand, Rockwell kicked open the cooler and pulled a Milwaukee’s Best from the ice water inside. He popped the tab with his trigger finger while still holding the gun. Rockwell then began to drink.
“So, what’s up?” Rockwell turned, still almost naked, using the gun to punctuate his sentences.
“Well, put some fucking pants on to start.” Stone said standing, “Then get rid of the women.”
Rockwell smiled and shook his head, “Oh come on Stone. I don’t have anything you haven’t seen before.”
Stone worked his teeth. “Just put some pants on.
Rockwell finished his beer and slowly, but steadily, got around to putting pants on before unceremoniously sending the hookers on their way.
“We have a job. Big one.” Stone said as they left.
Rockwell shrugged, “How big?”
“Elmo Kincaid.” Stone responded with a serious look.
Rockwell was shocked, “The Muppet? Well what the fuck? I thought he wasn’t going to work with us again after the RTA thing.”
“That’s what I asked him,” Stone started. “He said desperate times call for desperate measures. I think he’s up shit creek, and needs all the hands he can get.”
Rockwell nodded with this assessment then scratched himself, leading Stone to believe his whoring had taken its toll. “So what’s he want us to do?”
“Get a thumb drive back.” Stone smiled at the next part, “From Maggie Oats.”
Rockwell’s face twisted for a second as if his brain was attempting to recall something. Suddenly, it came to him. “Wait, the same Maggie Oats from…?”
Stone nodded.
Rockwell celebrated, “So we get back into the Muppet’s good graces and we get to cap the bitch responsible for the RTA incident!”
Stone raised an eyebrow. “So we are putting all the blame on her?”
Rockwell’s face pinched, “What the hell’s that mean?”
“So we can’t blame you and Bess at all?” Stone asked.
Rockwell became angry, “Fuck off! They started it! You leave Bess out of this!”
“No, you leave Bess out of this. You hear me?” Stone was dead serious.
Rockwell raised his hands in defeat and Stone smiled with his victory. “Alright, well let’s get on the road then. Who knows where she is.”
Rockwell scuffed. “Ten to one says that idiot Creegan took her in again.”
Stone gave him shocked look. “Creegan, from the neighborhood? Come on, you think he’d really give her the chance to burn him again? Last time was pretty bad.”
Rockwell responded immediately. “Oh yeah, he is her puppy dog, whether he knows it or not.
****
The Cook watched as the big man staggered. He so, did love to bring down big men like this one. The Cook's superior training would be the victor in this battle, and at the end of the day, he would get an opening and strike a killing blow on the woman’s bodyguard. The Cook was already planning his next move.
The kick hit him.
The blow itself was superficial and done out of desperation to try to create separation. This is where size plays into things. The Cook could have recovered from the attack but, given the force behind it, and The Cook’s smaller stature, the blow threw him from his feet. He collided with the window and heard the shatter. He grabbed for anything, but caught only the material from the drapes.
The Cook’s legs caught the bottom sill and sent him spinning through the air. The drapes tore loose and came down with him. He had a brief second to curse his height and weight handicap before colliding with the hood of a parked car.
It had only been a two story fall, but it had rocked The Cook to his core. The car hadn’t helped. He slowly pulled himself to his feet and had a brief instant of panic when he couldn’t see. Realizing that the drape he had dragged out with him had somehow wrapped itself around his head, he pulled it off and felt his person for damage. He had some cuts on his face from the glass and his left shoulder where he had connected with the car hurt like hell.
In front of The Cook, stood a wide eyed, middle aged woman who was staring at him. She had keys in her hand and was halfway to the door. The Cook took a deep breath and became sad inside with what he was going to have to do.
“You okay?” The woman finally asked as The Cook limped toward her.
The Cook, swiftly hand-chopped her neck, caving in the poor woman’s wind pipe. She made a gurgling noise as she tried to scream. The Cook then wrapped her head with his hands, stepping seamlessly behind her.
“Terribly sorry about this love.” With that, he snapped her neck with a jerk and softly lowered her to the ground.
As he did, he tried to think of what she would have liked her last meal to have been and he became very angry. He had never failed this bad. He briefly considered heading back in for round two, but his gun was up there now and they would have it. He was also worse for wear and with the gun shots and commotion, cops could be on the way.
He took the keys out of her hand, unlocked the Subaru station wagon, started it and drove off.
He took out his cell phone and dialed the only number he had stored. On the first ring, the familiar voice answered. “Do you have the cupcake?”
The Cook’s teeth gritted and he realized he had just had enough of the codenames and silliness.
“Oh for the love of the Queen, you realize we kill people? I mean we are without a doubt some of the most frightening men on the planet and we are talking about cupcakes? No one’s listening, and if they were we would just kill them!” The Cook realized he was screaming and stopped himself.
The voice on the other end hesitated, then spoke. Agitated. “Your twenty-four hours have expired.”
The line went dead.
****
There was a certain beauty to busses. It was in the fact that no matter what you looked like, as long as you had the money to get on, you could get a ride. It was a don’t ask don’t tell policy that Jim Creegan had come to respect and love as he became older.
Creegan and Maggie were the only two people on the bus. It was between noon and three, so everyone was at work. Creegan was staring angrily at Maggie and she was trying to avoid his gaze.
“Were we going now?” Maggie asked, breaking the silence.
“My place. Hopefully the other highly trained, heavily armed, food obsessed assassins won’t know about it.” His response oozed with sarcasm.
Maggie frowned. “Hey, fuck you. That’s the job, remember? Bodyguard. As in, to guard my body? If it was easy I wouldn’t pay you what I’m paying you.”
Creegan scoffed, “Yeah! Pay me? Like last time?”
Maggie looked away at the comment. “Still harboring a grudge?”
“When I busted up my knee and the scholarship went away in school, you vanished. And then there was that whole RTA ordeal. Remember that? You walking away with all the money and me barely walking away, at all… with nothing.” His voice was full of scorn, harvested in a past of broken promises and desertion.
“What do you want, Creegan? An apology?” She asked, starting to feel cornered.
“No,” He started still angry. “I want to get paid for once. I want money this time babe. Not you, just money.”
Maggie raised her eyebrow, “Sure… I believe it when I see it Jim. You lead with your heart.”
Creegan didn’t like where this was going and changed the subject. “What are they after? What did you do?”
“Oh no, that is defiantly none of your business. I pay you for muscle, not for questions.” She responded defensively. “You pay me to keep you alive. That might be easier if …” Creegan began but she cut him off.
“No! I said no, and I meant it.” Maggie's response was clear. Jim wouldn’t get any more out of her on the subject.
They sat in silence the rest of the way to Creegan’s house. Maggie had some planning to do. Obviously, her first prospect did not work and had gotten her in deeper than she thought. She would have to take a different route, but everything was still possible.
She just knew she had to make a play soon, or she would be out of plays.
No comments:
Post a Comment