7-Remember Those Guys?

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.

6-No Greens For That Man

6

No Greens for that man.

There is a very cliché saying used in almost every action movie or cop drama out there. At some point in the movie, someone looks at one of the main characters and asks the man why he is a police officer, to which the man always responds with the same line…

‘All I ever wanted to be was a cop.’

At that point, the character would elaborate and reveal something personal or intimate about his life and his motivations.

Sgt. Timothy Grates, his friends called him Tim, was not a cliché.  He distinctly remembered a wonderful time in his life when he was 4 years old were he wanted to be a dinosaur.  After that, around 13, there was a point where he wanted to be Batman, and he thought it was totally legitimate to put on a costume and run around at night beating the shit out of people for the sake of humanity.

One day around 16 years old, Tim’s English teacher, Mr. Howell, sat him down and explained to him he was living in a fantasy world and that if he wanted to fight crime the closest he would get to being a superhero was to become a cop.  Tim smiled, seeing a dream he could finally attain.  With renewed purpose, he moved forward with his new goal.

Now, Tim hated Mr. Howell because this was nothing like being Batman.  Not even in the ballpark.

Not even the same sport.

So, with a serious disinterest in his current life, Sgt. Timothy Grates climbed the stairs to his fourth story, bug infested, shithole of an apartment which was his only reward after a double shift including, but not limited to:

1. Tasing a drunk driver;
2. Paperwork;
3.  Stopping a domestic dispute involving two coke heads and five children under the age of eight;
4. Paperwork;
5. Doing lines of cocaine in the men’s bathroom with the confiscated cocaine from the aforementioned domestic dispute;
6. More fucking paperwork;
7. Etc.

Tim pulled the keys from his pocket and had a hard time getting them into the lock through the smoke from the cigarette that hung from his mouth.  He missed the lock and the door cracked open with the touch of his hand.

Awesome.

Being a seasoned cop he should have drawn his firearm and proceeded into the apartment with caution, maybe even called for backup, but these would have been signs of a man who cared.

Tim hadn’t cared in years.

Tim shoved the door open, speaking loudly, “If you’re still here and you’re robbing the place you must have realized that I don’t have anything to steal.  If you’re here to kill me, just remember two to the chest, one to the head.  Stop a man cold and drop him dead.”

Tim ended his speech and flipped on the lights finding an interesting surprise.  “Hello Patty.”

Patty stood across the room, leaning against the wall of the barren rundown apartment which held nothing but a small TV, mini refrigerator and a mattress on the floor.  She looked up at the average sized Tim Grates.  Tim’s hair was brown with streaks of gray, earlier than his time being that he was only twenty-eight.  He was still in his uniform, which was unbuttoned, showing his white undershirt.  His eyes were blood shot and the smoke in his mouth was almost to the filter.  He looked, as usual, like hell.

“Grates.”  Patty responded.  She had always called him by his last name instead of his first.

Tim released some air and entered the apartment, shutting the door behind him.  “Want a beer?”

“When don’t I?” Patty responded in her unintelligible Irish English.

Tim walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out two cans of cheap beer.  He tossed one to Patty.  “So, what’s the Muppet want?  Unless, of course, this is a social call but I don’t think I’m your type.”

Patty popped the can top and then proceeded to drink the can in one go.  Tim watched, amazed.  No matter how many times he saw her drink, it always impressed him.  She finished ten seconds later after a series of gulps.  She then crushed the can in one hand and with a sigh of satisfaction, she returned her gaze to Tim.

“You’re not my type, I’m on the job.” She said.

Tim raised his eyebrow, “Who’s Bob?”

Patty gritted her teeth, “JOB!!! You horses ass!”

Tim decided not to make a comment about how whenever Patty said ass it came out like the stereotypical Irish ‘arse’.

“Alright, what do you need from me?”  Tim asked her, getting a bit more serious.

“I need you to look someone up in your data base.  Someone by the name of Margaret Oats.  Probably goes by the name Maggie.”  Patty spoke as she handed Tim a picture of a full figured woman with dark blood red hair and brown eyes.

Tim chuckled, “Alright, I’ll find some info on her, for the usual price.”

**** 

Control.

It’s something on which The Cook had always thrived.  Control and, of course, compliance.  Once the Cook put his gun in their faces, most marks turned to jelly, becoming slaves who were willing to do anything to not have him pull that trigger.  The fight left them.

How could he have been so stupid?

The Cook had made a miscalculation out of arrogance.  He had assumed that after betraying Mr. Tomec she would return to her house only for a second to grab some things, then be on the run.  He had not expected that she would already have found protection.

“Can’t say that I am a fan.” Creegan spoke and it snapped The Cook out of the daze he was in.

The stranger with the gun raised an eyebrow.  “What?”

“Salads,” Creegan explained, “you said that you hoped I liked salads before jamming that huge gun in my face.”

The hit man nodded, “So I did.”

Creegan continued, “And I’m saying, I can’t say that I am much of a fan of them.”

The Cook became crestfallen, “bullox, that is a pity.  Well it's not like I have much of a choice here.  Let me ask you this, have you ever had a really good salad?”

Creegan looked confused.  “Well no, because I don’t like salads.”

The hit man frowned.  “Come now, that’s a very broad generalization of a rather large genre of food.  What if the ingredients were all handmade?”

“This is really bothering you, isn’t it?”  Creegan asked.

The Cook shook his head.  “I’m just saying, I don’t think you have tried enough salads to really say that you don’t like them as a whole.”

“Well, maybe not.”  Creegan was starting to get frustrated.  “But that would be because I don’t like salads.  It tends to keep me from continually trying them until I find one that I like.  Now, if you’re going to shoot me, shoot me, but don’t question my food choices.”

The Cook sighed in defeat.  “Well if you insist.”

Creegan gritted his teeth as The Cook took aim.

The Cook had taken too long and lost control.  Before he could fire, Maggie leapt at him from behind, using both hands to push The Cook’s hand down.  The Cook squeezed the trigger and three, three round bursts, went into the floor.  The Cook cursed under his breath, pulled his arm away and delivered a quick and precise elbow to Maggie’s face. She staggered and went down, holding her nose.

The Cook turned and brought the gun back up but Creegan was on top of him now, catching the arm with both hands in order to control the gun.  The two men struggled, kicking over the coffee table and almost falling over the couch.  Slowly but steadily, the stronger, more powerful Creegan was turning the gun on its master.

The stranger wasn’t stupid, he had to cut his losses or be killed by his own gun.  He released the weapon and the gun dropped to the floor.  Creegan went for the gun and The Cook went for him.  A quick stomp to the top of Creegan's foot made him yelp in pain.  The smaller, quicker hit man teed off with a series of well placed palm strikes to Creegan’s abdomen and solar-plexis.   Creegan coughed and staggered.

The Cook spun, reaching for the gun now, having stunned Creegan.  Jim knew he had to move, and fast, or he would be dead.  Creegan fought through his lack of breath and the pain and lunged forward.  As The Cook brought the gun up, Creegan stepped past it, once again catching his arm and delivering and thunderous forearm to The Cooks hawk-like nose.  The Cook dropped the gun again and staggered backwards.  Creegan forgot about the gun and advanced on the hit man.

Creegan wrapped his hands around the back of The Cook’s head and brought his mid section down into Creegan’s rising knee.  The Cook gasped as he was rocked by the blow.  Creegan wasted no time bringing another wide forearm into the side of The Cook’s head.

The Cook reeled as Creegan followed the other arm with another forearm, but The Cook ducked the blow and came up with a brutal inside uppercut. The blow connected with Creegan’s jaw and sent shock waves through his head.  Creegan staggered and launched his leg out on the back peddle.

Creegan's forceful front kick caught The Cook in the chest.  The power behind Creegan’s desperate move sent The Cook off his feet, backward, crashing through the widow.  The hit man’s legs caught on the widow sill and sent him flipping backward into the night with a rain of glass.

Creegan fell backward to the ground, breathing hard and rubbing his jaw.  The damage caught up with him now and he took a second to just be in pain.  He felt his bruised ribs and his traumatized mid section, however, the guy was trained.  He had only hit Creegan three or four times and done serious damage, even though he was shorter and weaker than Creegan.

Maggie was standing now and moving toward the gun.  Creegan scrambled to his feet and caught her hand as she reached down for it. Her face was shocked at first, then she grinned at him.  Her lip was bleeding slightly from where the hit man struck her.

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” She asked playfully.

“Of course not,” Creegan answered.  “But that’s not why I stopped you.  That guy is a contract killer, which means that is a murder weapon.  You don’t want to put any physical evidence of yourself on it.”

“Mmm” Maggie smirked, “Sure…”

Creegan kept hold of her hand and moved toward the door.  “Time to go.   He may have had back-up.”

Maggie had a quick and small passing feeling of regret…

That salad did look good…

5-The Same Mistake

5

The Same Mistake.

Creegan stared at her as she moved across the waiting room towards him.  He could already remember her scent.  This led his brain into a premature fantasy.  He saw himself moving across the lobby and meeting Maggie halfway, his one arm slipping around her waist and pulling her tight.  His other gently moving through her hair.  He would stare into her wide, deep, brown eyes, and then kiss her deep and full until…

…Creegan suddenly shook his head as he remembered.

He remembered how she had deserted him in high school after his career ending injury.  He remembered the RTA incident, and how she had dragged him into that insanity and almost gotten him killed before, again, abandoning him in his time of need.

These memories led Creegan into a different fantasy.  He saw himself moving across the lobby and meeting Maggie halfway, his right arm slipping around her neck tightly, quickly followed by the left.  He would stare into her deep brown eyes and throttle the life out of her lying…

Creegan shook his head again as Maggie came to stop three feet away.  Her eyes pleading, she opened her mouth to speak but he got there first.

“No.”  With the one word, Creegan brushed past and started for the door.

Maggie frowned, “No? I haven’t even asked yet!”

“I’m cutting out the middle man.”  Creegan answered as he continued to the door without turning.

Maggie huffed and ran after him, passing him and standing between in his way of the door.

“Now hold on a damned second,” Maggie began.  Creegan stopped and she stared angrily at him.  “I just bailed you out of jail!  Isn’t that worth something?”

He took a deep breath and considered her question.  He then looked at her, “You’re right.   It is.”

Maggie smiled and nodded.  “That’s more like it.”

Creegan then took her hand and shook it, “I sincerely thank you for bailing me out of jail.”

He then shoved her out of the way and walked out the door.

Creegan’s resolve was a wall.  One made of brick.   He had to keep it up and focus on the fact that every time he got involved with Maggie, he got burned.  He had to try not to think of her full lips, the way she begged for a kiss to be deeper without using any words, the way that when she was on top of you she would….

He shook his head again.

Maggie stepped out the door and onto the sidewalk behind him, “TWENTY-THOUSAND DOLLARS!”

Maggie yelled the amount and Creegan suddenly found it impossible to keep walking. Something about the number made it physically impossible for him to move forward. Maggie stormed down the sidewalk and moved, yet again, in front of Creegan.

“Twenty thousand dollars.  I will pay you twenty thousand dollars.  Five grand now, fifteen when the job is done.”  She said this while staring at him in the eyes.

She looked sincere but, then again, she always had.  Every time she had promised Jim something.  Every time she had left him twisting in the wind.

“What do I have to do?”  Creegan asked, resenting himself as he did.

“Just keep me alive until the deal is done.”  She replied, hope rising in her voice.

When Creegan didn’t answer, Maggie pleaded.  “I know I have screwed you over in the past Jim, but I’m in some real trouble this time.  I need you Jim.”

Jim took a deep breath and grimaced, “When don’t you Mag’s?  When aren’t you in real trouble?”

Maggie smiled.  “Never seemed to bother you that much before…”  Her voice took on a sultry tone and she stepped into him, as if to kiss.

Creegan put his arms on her shoulders and shoved her back.  “No!  None of that shit. Keep your hands and mouth to yourself.”

Maggie frowned.  “Alright, fine.”  She pulled herself out of Creegan’s grip.  “So are you in, then?”

It’s a funny thing about people, they love to make the same mistake over again rather than find new ones to make.  “The five grand up front?”

Maggie smirked and nodded toward the station.  “How do you think I got you out?”

Jim nodded.  “Figures.  Alright.  You have a car?”

Maggie nodded.  “Yeah, I’m parked over here.  We’ll head to my place.  I have an apartment not too far away from here.”

Maggie turned and began to walk in the direction of the car and Creegan’s gaze helplessly dropped to her butt, the way it shifted within her tight jeans conjured up feelings…

“No!”  Creegan said it out loud as he shook his head and followed.

 ****

The Cook was always happier when he got a house to himself.  It made things so much easier.  When the mark was home, you were always taking a risk getting in and cooking.  So that it didn’t wake them up meant a level of quiet which The Cook felt hindered his abilities… at least his culinary abilities.

Today however he had gotten lucky that Margaret Oats had not been in her second floor mid-town apartment.  With a quick popping of the lock, he had entered and gone about his business of preparing Margaret’s favorite dish, a rather complicated salad, at least as far as salads go.

He had taken his time preparing the fresh lettuce and the organic vegetables to put into the dish before then taking out his premium cheese and beginning the process of turning the ingredients into, what would be, Margaret’s last dish.

It hadn’t been hard to find Margaret.  After The Cook had located that rather sad “Dear John” letter, he had cross-checked the unfortunate Hank’s expenses with the name Maggie.  Lo and behold, he had found this apartment which had been cosigned by the late Hank with a Miss Margaret Oats. The rest is history.

He smiled at the salad in front of him.  He had only but to add the final touch, an Italian dressing that he made from scratch at home before making the trip.  The Cook slowly drizzled the dressing onto the salad then sat back on one of the stools surrounding Margaret’s breakfast bar.

He pulled out his gun, a 93-r machine pistol, and placed it in front of himself on the counter.

His wait was short.  He heard the key hit the lock and some mumbling as she made pleasantries with a neighbor, then she entered and the door shut behind her.  For a split second, The Cook’s trained hearing seemed to pick up a second set of footsteps.  He discarded this thought it as nothing.

The Cook heard her walk toward the kitchen and he smiled, mentally preparing his speech.

The light flipped on and he raised the gun.  Maggie stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the evil looking pistol, her vision moving quickly from the small smiling man behind the gun to the gun itself.

“Hello, Ms. Oats.  May I call you Margaret?”  He asked with his usual pep.

Maggie raised an eyebrow, “Well, you have the gun.  I guess you can call me whatever you want.”

The Cook considered this, then responded in his heavy British accent.  “I’m going to take that as a yes, now please have a seat.”

Maggie slowly sat down, noticing the bowl in front of her. She became confused.  “Is that a salad?”

The stranger’s face lit up.  “Why, yes it is!  Your favorite type of salad, I believe.  Please have a taste.”

Maggie’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened.  “You made me a salad?”

 The man nodded

“What kind of weird ass, mother fucker makes someone a salad before they kill them?” Maggie asked with disgust on her face.

The cook was taken aback.  This reaction was new and he didn’t know where to begin.

Maggie, however, didn’t know where to stop.  “So, you break into my apartment with that giant ass gun to kill me, but before that you have to make me a salad?  Is that how you get off or something?  Oh shit, you aren’t going to… like… touch yourself while I eat it, are you?”

The Cook was officially offended.  His face contorted into anger.  “I will have you know, Madam, I AM NOT limited to salads! I can-“

The toilet flushed.

Why did the toilet flush?

 The Cook scooped up his gun and had a moment of panic.  The second set of footsteps, he remembered.  Someone else was in the apartment.  “Don’t move.”

With his words to Maggie, The Cook stood, gun out in front of him, and moved into the living room.  Across the small room, on the other side of the couch, a door opened and out walked a man drying his hands with a towel.

Bloody hell.

The large man’s eyes came up and he froze as he caught his sight on the gun and then the man behind it.

“I do say chap,” The Cook began, “I do hope you like salad.”

4-Patty

4

Patty

Patty stood.  The bus had come to her stop and the clock was running.  She walked to the front.  Paying the toll, she exited the mass-transit vehicle.  Her feet hit the suburban sidewalk and kept stride, her camouflage cargo pants making a faint ‘zip’ noise in the quiet night air.  She reached into the pocket of her studded black leather jacket, feeling her hands around the brass knuckles to find the elastic hair-tie.  She drew her hands up as she walked and pulled her long, curly, red hair from her face and off of her neck into a high pony tail.  This revealed her nearly bone colored white face which was littered with piercings, two in the eyebrow on the right, one in the left, a stud in the nose and her ears where more metal then flesh.

Patricia Katelyn O’Shaughnessy was an Irish born national, here illegally in the country and she was here to hurt people.

Patty rounded the corner and could now hear the sounds of a loud and unruly house party in the distance.  She smiled as her business stride continued.  She was in the right place.  As she approached the house party, she went into a different pocket and pulled out a picture.

Patty examined the picture.  It was of a man in his late twenties, short brown hair with heavy bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in months.  Patty flipped the picture over, reading the words written on the back.

Matt George - $1500

Patty committed the name, face and amount to memory, then she placed the photo back in her pocket as she approached the house.  The house itself was a disaster.  Garbage littered the lawn, which included but was not restricted to plastic disposable cups, toilet paper, a frying pan, vomit, and unconscious people.  Patty did not stop.  Instead, she shook her head as she stepped over one of the victims of alcohol poisoning and made her way toward the front door.

The music was ridiculously loud.  Deafening even before she entered the house.  Patty had tempered herself to be used to situations like this.  It wasn’t the first and certainly would not be the last.

Patty moved through the rooms of the house systematically looking for the target.  Stopping in each one for only a split second as she visually swept the faces before moving on.  After finishing the kitchen, she moved to the stairs and then to the second floor.  She found the master bedroom first and would have startled the couple in the room, had they not been so into what they were doing.

She closed that door, ‘How did she get her leg that high?’  Patty briefly wondered and then moved on, opening the next door. This was the door that she needed to open.

On the other side of this door was what had, at one point before the party been a den. In the center of the room was a coffee table.  To each side, parallel to the table and to each other, were two sofas.  On the one sofa sat Matt George, shirt off, making out with two women, one to either side of him.  On the couch across was another man.  Short and angry looking, he had creepy beady little eyes that just stared at his friend across the table.

Patty stood there for a three second count before she was noticed. In that three seconds, she noticed the creepy guy had a pistol stuck into the front of his jeans.  It was as if to broadcast the fact that he was cool, simply because he had a gun.

Patty did not think he was cool.  Patty thought he was a moron for having a gun that close to his dick.

The creepy guy was the first to notice Patty.  He gave her the once over.  Patty was five-feet, seven inches and frumpy with large legs and a big butt.  The coat hid her arms, however.  Those were pure muscle.

“Well, you’re a little fat for me but I’ll throw you a fuck if you want,” the creepy guy said, before laughing.

The laughter got Matt’s attention.  He broke away from his tongue-fest to laugh loudly at the non-joke from his buddy.

Patty was not laughing.  She put a foot to the coffee table and aggressively shoved it across the room, sending it into the wall with such a force that it broke at the legs and crumbled to the floor.

Patty stepped in-between the couches and looked down at Matt, whose laughter had started to fade into confusion, “You owe Elmo Kincaid fifteen hundred dollars.”

Patty’s accent was a constant problem in the negotiations part of the business.  Lucky for Patty, she didn’t much care for that part.

Matt looked confused and stood.  Patty’s hands moved into her pockets as this happened.

“I what, the who?” Matt asked confused.

Patty sighed and very slowly said, “E L M O    K I N C A I D.”

Matt started to smile, “Kincaid?”

Patty nodded.

“Kincaid sent you?”  The sarcasm was heavy in Matt’s voice and Patty forced herself not to smile.  Her favorite part was coming.

Patty nodded.

Matt started laughing and his creepy friend with the gun started laughing too.

Patty was still not laughing.

“Ok, look Lucky Charms, you go back to Kincaid and tell him he’s gonna have to do better than you if he wants to scare me into paying.”  Matt said this before he went back to laughing.

Patty smiled.

This was the part she liked.

Patty’s right hand came out of her pocket with the brass knuckles lining her fist and into a beautifully executed hook-punch.  The blow struck Matt on the cheek and the impact dislodged a tooth and simultaneously broke his lip open.

Matt’s head floated in mid air for a half second before falling backward.  His eyes rolled back in his head from the devastating punch.  Patty spun in the second that followed. Mr. Creepy had yet to understand what was going on and Patty still had the drop on him.

He reached for his gun but Patty stepped forward and on to gun in his crotch.  He wailed as the barrel smashed his genitals.  Patty then swung with the metal lined hands; a right cross, then a power left hook.  Mr. Creepy rolled into the fetal position onto the couch.

One of Matt’s women screamed bloody murder and exploded off the couch toward Patty’s back.  Patty twisted with an open hand and connected with a thunderous backhanded slap.  She staggered and fell onto all fours, blubbering like a baby.

Patty then fixed her hard vision on the remaining girl who stared back, wide-eyed.

“Well?”  Patty asked, her accent giving the word a hard edge.

The girl stood slowly, then scampered out of the room.

Patty picked the gun out of Mr. Creepy’s pants and disassembled it.  She then went through his and Matt’s pockets and wallets cleaning them out - cash, cards, and even driver’s licenses - making it impossible for them to get away from Elmo Kincaid now.

She then pocketed the goods and walked out of the room, down the stairs and out of the house.  Her stride continued.  Down the street, the music from the party began to fade behind her.  Patty turned a corner and came to a bus stop.  She breathed into her hands on the cold September night, then she rubbed her knuckles a little.

The bus arrived a moment later and she got on and sat down.

She sat on the bus and waited.  In the course of the trip, she hummed the song that played on the bus’s internal radio and eyed the other passengers.  She chuckled to herself when she went over the events in her head and remembered one of the women leaving.

The bus stopped and Patty stood.  She moved to the front of the bus, paying the fare and getting off.  She continued her stride as her foot hit the sidewalk pavement.  She moved up the street then crossed at a cross walk and headed into a parking lot.  Still in the suburbs, she moved to a black car that was parked at the far end and got in.

Inside sat an older man in his late forties; he still took good care of himself.  He wore a loose button up shirt and had a receding hairline, peppered with gray.  He was big and broad-shouldered and smiled at Patty when she got in the car.

He had a lover’s smile.

He had a killer’s smile.

Elmo Kincaid

“How’d it go?” he asked, in a low gruff voice.

“Just fine.  Got your haul right here,” Patty said, her accent thick, as she pulled the stash out and handed it to Kincaid.

 “You’re going to find that he still owes, but he ain’t going nowhere without his car,” she said as he counted and took inventory of Patty’s cache.

“Good.  Good.”  Elmo began, “This is good, but I have another job for you.  It’s important.”

 Patty’s eyebrow raised, “Already?  Just got done with this one.”

Elmo nodded.  “Someone took something of mine and it needs to be returned to me.  This is important.  Double your take.”

“That’s a lot of money.” Patty said with wide eyes.

“It’s nothing compared to what I lose if I don’t get it back.” Elmo said, a ring of desperation in his tone.

Patty thought a second.  “I’m in.”

Elmo nodded and smiled before handing her a package.  “Those are the targets.  The item is a thumb drive.  Small, portable computer device used for storage.”

Patty frowned, “I’m from Ireland, not Alabama.  I know what a thumb drive is.”

Elmo smiled, “Of course.”

Patty then opened the door and got out.

Elmo leaned back and took a deep breath.  He then took out his phone.  He dialed a number he never thought he would dial again.

The other side picked up, but no one spoke.

“Stone.  This is Kincaid.” He said into the dead air.

The other side spoke quietly and cautiously, “Thought you were done with us after what happened at the RTA incident?”

Elmo remembered the incident well and had never intended to work with them again.  They were insane.  “Desperate times, Stone.”

“What’s the job?”  Stone asked, all business.

“I’m putting a reward on an item.  If you get it back, you get paid big,” Elmo began then took a deep breath before the next part, “and its first come, first serve, Stone.  Whoever brings it to me will get the money.”

3-Omelets and An Evil Bitch

3

  Omelets and an evil Bitch.

The smell was heavenly.  Hank’s eyes slowly came open and he took in the beautiful morning.  He smiled and rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxer shorts.  He walked out of the bedroom and called down the stairs ahead of him.  “Damn that smells good, Maggie.”

He slowly plodded down the stairs scratching his head through the messy brown hair.  Hank had gotten laid the night before by Maggie, his partner in crime and a true professional in the sack.  Top that with the fact that within 48 hours, they were going to be very rich.  And now, the hot porn star in the bed last night was in the kitchen creating whatever it was that had birthed that God-like smell.

Hank was a happy man.  Of course, he was totally wrong about almost everything, but for the following twelve seconds that it took him to move from the bedroom down the stairs and into the kitchen, he was a happy man.

Hank turned the corner to his kitchen and his face dropped.  Standing in front of him was not the naked woman of his dreams, but instead, a man; a man standing about 5 feet, ten inches, with neat, clean, short hair and the angled nose of a British born.  He had been wearing a business suit, but the coat was removed, folded and placed over a chair.  The sleeves of his white under shirt folded up to make the task at hand easier.

He was the one cooking.

Hank frowned and began to yell. “Who the fuck are-“

Hank stopped talking as the man snapped out his right hand to the handle of a gun and raised it to point at Hank’s head.  The gun looked like a Berretta 9mm that had been bit by a radioactive machine gun and gained its powers.

Needless to say, Hank was no longer a happy man.

The cook smiled suddenly, a very wide and inviting smile.  He then spoke, his British accent making him sound even more mannerly then he was trying to be, “Ah, Mr. Tomec.  Can I call you Hank?”

Hank stared down the barrel of the gun and slowly nodded.

“Wonderful!”  The Cook was excited by this.  “Now, please have a seat.”

Hank slowly moved to the breakfast table and sat down, watching the man and his gun. After he sat down, the Englishman put the gun back on the counter and retightened the black leather driving gloves which he wore on both hands.

“Now,” the Cook began to speak as he went back to finishing his project, “I would assume, that given the current situation, coupled with the actions you took yesterday, that with your powers of deduction you have figured out what I do for a living?”

Hank was quiet at first, not sure if he should answer the small man with the gun and the spatula, “You're… you’re a hit man.”

“Well done.,” the cook complemented, smiling.  “Now that I am sure you understand that, I am going to tell you a story.  This story will be followed by a question, after which you and I will reassess and decide the best way to proceed with our business.  Understand?”

Hank nodded.

“Good,” the cook said, as he moved to a different pan and began to flip pancakes. “I am, without a doubt, a very good hit man, as to say I kill other people.  And I do it very well.  I am aware that is a rather cliché opening to this story but bear with me.  It does become much more interesting.  You see, when I began my career I was in the military.  After that, Her Majesty’s secret service, and when I was with these organizations, I had no problem killing because I was a patriot.  Still am, in fact.  God save the queen and all that.”

The cook chuckled and Hank stared in confused awe at the man in front of him.

“Yes, well,” the cook continued as he returned to his first pan of hash browns.  “In any case, things happened and I found myself no longer in the good graces of the Monarch Supreme, with nothing left but these skills of a rather appalling, violent nature.  So, suffice to say, I had a crisis of self, much to my dismay.  I had a hard time killing someone without the beautiful justification of patriotism.  Do you understand?”

Hank considered if he should answer or not.  “You didn’t like killing people for no reason.”

The cook made a sound of happy amusement.  “Well, there it is, isn’t it?  That’s what I love about you, Americans, you just trim everything down to brass tacks.  No lousing it up or beating around the bush, so to say.  Such a direct use of the language we have created.”

The cook looked up at the cupboards then back to Hank, “Plates?”

Hank pointed at a cupboard and the cook pulled out a plate.  With practiced skill and speed he prepared the plate with hash browns and an omelet and two silver-dollar pancakes.  He then turned and brought the plate in one hand and the gun in the other to the table and placed the food in front of Hank.  Even given the situation, Hank could only think about how amazing the food smelled.

“Please,” said the cook as he handed Hank a fork and motioned toward the plate with his hand.

Hank took the fork and stared, unsure of what he should do.

The cook sighed.  “I brought the gun for a reason, Hank, and beside, poisons would change the favor index.”

Hank slowly put the fork into the omelet and broke a piece away, his eyes never leaving the cook who just stared back smiling anxiously.  He then speared the segment and slowly lifted it to his mouth.

The food was amazing.  Hank had never tasted anything like it.  His face curled uncontrollably into a smile.

“Pretty good, eh?” the cook said.  Hank could only nod as he dove in.  Each flavor better than the last, the pancakes were fluffy and light with a hint of cinnamon that dragged him to continue.  The hash browns were perfectly crisp and not over cooked.  The omelet was cooked to perfection and the inside filling had been pre-sautéed.

The cook just watched with a smile as Hank ate until he was about half way through the meal.  “To continue, in any case, I had to find some way to ease my troubled state of mind over the killing and finally, I came upon it.”

Hank nodded as he shoveled the delicious food into his mouth.

“So I decided to cook for them.” The cook finished as he sat there smiling waiting for it to sink in.

Hank’s eating suddenly slowed.  He looked up into the ace of the harbinger of his doom as he swallowed.  He put the fork down, his appetite suddenly gone.  The cook continued to smile, warm and inviting.

The cook continued, once he had regained Hank’s full attention.  “When I am researching the job, I also research their favorite meals and eating habits.  I only got the order yesterday for you, so needless to say, I was worried.  I am glad you enjoyed it, though.  Well this concludes the first part of our business, now on to the second and most important.”

The cook took a deep breath, tightened his gloves, and picked up his gun.  He pointed it to Hank’s forehead.  Hank’s face went white with fear.

“Where is the thumb drive?”

Hank stammered, “Up-stairs in the bedroom.  In a shoe box in the ventilation shaft.”

The cook dropped the gun and smiled.  “Well that is wonderful, I have to say Hank, not always do I have such cooperative marks.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?”  Hank asked, starting to relax.

The cook raised his eyebrow.  “Silly boy.  You really think they paid me to cook for you?”

A look of realization came over Hank’s face.  The cook then raised the gun and pumped two - three round bursts into his chest and head.  The cook then lowered the gun to his side and reached out to feel for Hank’s pulse.  Nothing.

The cook turned and moved with efficiency and purpose up the stairs to the bedroom then to the ventilation cover.  He popped it off and removed the shoebox.  The cook opened the box and frowned at what he saw.

No thumb drive.  Instead, a Post-it note, stuck to the bottom of the box.

“Hank -  Sorry.  Last night was fun –Maggie.”

The cook frowned and dropped the box before pulling out a cell phone and pressing a single number.

A voice picked up on the other end.  “Do you have the cupcake?”

The cook rolled his eyes at the code words, how silly.  As if anyone was listening.

“No, the egg is scrambled but the cupcake is on the run.  However, I have a lead.”

The voice did not sound happy.  “This is priority number one.  You have 24 hours to bake the cupcake.”

The cook could take no more, “Really, bake the cupcake?  Like anyone out there who would be listening can’t figure out that we are talking about murder?”

The voice on the other end became aggressive.  “You have 24 hours or we send cleaners.  Is that clear enough?”

The cook frowned, “Consider it done.”

2-Jim Creegan

2

 Jim Creegan

 The door opened at the far side on the non-descript police interrogation room.  This excited Jim because he had been sitting alone in the room for what felt like hours, waiting to have the police come in and get the next part over with.  The condemnation part.

The cop was young and in full uniform.  This wasn’t a detective-thing, so he was here to get Jim’s statement before throwing him back into the holding cell where Jim would much rather be.

“Do you know why you are here Mr. Creegan?”  The officer asked in a low, squeaky voice that sounded nearly pre-pubescent.

Jim’s blue eyes rolled and his defined jaw worked. ‘What a dumb fucking question’ Jim thought to himself.  “Yeah.”

The officer raised his eyebrow.  “Well, I ask because these are relatively heavy charge, and you waved your right to an attorney.”  The officer continued.

“Look,” Creegan’s voice was heavy handed and stern, “I know what I did.  I don’t think it was wrong.  As far as an attorney goes, I have been in this situation before and there ain’t a whole lot an attorney can do for me.  So, turn on the recorder and I’ll give my statement and get out of this room.”

The officer shrugged then turned on the recorder.  “Please state your full name and occupation.”

Jim began eagerly, “Jim Creegan.  Bouncer.”

“Alright Mr. Creegan, please take us through the events of Monday January 12^th,  at ‘The Bent Elbow’ bar?”

****

10:15 pm Monday January 12^th at the Bent Elbow…

The bar was sparsely occupied.  Only three or four table’s worth of people.  Paul was bar tending and Lisa was alone on the floor. 

This was Jim’s third job in the course of four months and he couldn’t be happier.  Jim had been having a hard time since he had lost his long-standing job at a freezer warehouse.  Although, in all honesty, he hated that job too.  In high school, he had been a damn good half back.  A tackle gone wrong had made his knee Swiss cheese.  Jim now walked with a slight limp and, needless to say, could no longer play football.

Out of high school, he had gotten a job at the same warehouse driving a tow motor and moving 50 pound cases of beef around for the better part of his life.  He was 26 now and after the frozen juice guy had made the wrong comment, and Jim had summarily broken his nose, he had been fired.  His father had disowned him and it had gone downhill from there.

Jim was oddly happy, though.  He had found a job that he loved and was starting to pull himself out of finical debt.  The owner of the bar, Mike Miller, had even given him a loan to keep his apartment up until he could get on his feet.

“COME ON!  You know we are gonna tip well!”  Jim’s smile faded as he paused from clearing bottles from a table and looked to see a table of four men in the corner table.  They were badgering Lisa for the third time tonight.

The lead jack ass was grabbing at her ass and laughing.  She looked very unhappy with the situation.  The four were dressed in jeans and camouflage and were all in their late twenties or early thirties.  Jim figured they were coming back from a hunting trip of some kind.

Yet again, the man grabbed at her and this time the cute, young, brown-haired college girl dropped her tray.  Beer bottles went crashing to the floor.  This seemed to make them all laugh even harder.

Creegan put the bottles back down and flexed his jaw.  He stood six-foot, four-inches and had a lot of mass that used to be muscle in his younger days but had lost definition, as he had stopped working out so much.  His ‘Staff’ t-shirt was a size too small, and although he looked oddly shaped he still looked like a force with which to be reckoned.

****

“So, you approached the table.  Did you identify yourself?”  The Officer interrupted Creegan’s retelling.

Creegan just sat there.

“Did you ask the table to leave quietly?”  The officer’s questions continued.

Creegan continued to stare at him.

“Did you let this table know who you were and that they should leave in any way?”  The officer built to his perceived climax.

Jim suddenly could no longer suppress a grin.  He leaned forward…

“There is no doubt in my mind, officer, they knew who I am.”

****

10:17 pm Monday January 12^th at the Bent Elbow

Jim was suddenly behind the lead man like a shadow or a specter called forth for vengeance against these four idiots.  Jim brought his elbow downward in a perfectly fluid motion, connecting with the outside of the man’s right collar bone.  A wet crack followed and Jim quickly followed up with a fore arm to the side of the man’s head.  Jim then wrapped his arm and neck from behind and dragged him out of his chair, before twisting and hurling him through the air and into a table and series of chairs with a crash.

Jim turned back to the three remaining twits.

They stared back, their alcohol soaked brains unable to catch up with the events that were transpiring around them.

One of them mouthed the words, “What the fuck?” to his friends.

Then, the moment was over and they were all in motion.  The man to the right of the table got to his feet first, attacking with a wild and wide Haymaker, which Jim countered with a block while his over hand, curled into a fist, struck the inside of his elbow.

The pop that sounded was telltale dislocation.

The man’s scream was cut off mid way as Jim stabbed his elbow into the man’s nose in the half-second that followed his first blow.

The man’s screams turned to whimpers and he fell to his knees, blood pouring out of his nose.

Jim quickly kicked the table sending it into the man who had been sitting back to the wall.  The table struck his groin and with an expulsion of air, he bent over.  Jim snatched his hair and slammed his face into the table.

The man to the left of the table was still just sitting there, staring at Jim as he dismantled his friends.

He just shook his head again and mouthed the words, “What the Fuck?”

Jim snatched the mug of beer out of his hands and then brought it down over the back of the man’s head.  It shattered and beer flew everywhere.

Jim turned back to the man he had struck in the nose, ready to counter another attack but no attack would come.

He was still on his knees holding his nose.  Weeping.

****

“Weeping?”  The officer asked.

“Yeah, weeping.  You know, crying.  With tears and sputtering and everything,” Jim answered sarcastically.

“So, you are saying you hit this guy so hard he started crying?”  the officer asked in disbelief.

Jim shrugged.  “I really didn’t hit him that hard.”

The officer shook his head, “Okay, please continue.”

****

10:19 pm Monday January 12^th at the Bent Elbow

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”  The scream was high pitched and cracked, like the scream of a nerd who is picked on so much that he finally attacks.

Suddenly, Jim was struck in the back of the head by a fist.  The man sitting to the Left had finally figured out what was going on.  Jim staggered forward.  Surprised by the blow, he stumbled over a table and some chairs while trying to turn to face his attacker.  The twit stepped in and threw a terribly awful punch to Jim’s gut.  He  brought his hand back to punch again-

-Jim stepped in and swung his head forward, the thick bone in his fore head striking the top of the man’s nose, crushing it instantly.  The man staggered and fell, hitting the floor.  Out like a light.

****

“Then, I dragged them out the door one by one and left them in the street.”  Jim finished.

They had, of course, then called the police from the road and Jim had been taken into custody.  The officer nodded and clicked off the recording.

“Alright, that’s all I need.  Someone will take you back shortly.”

This happened.

Jim found himself back in the holding cell.  The night’s events hit him now, and he was truly depressed.  Another failure.  Jim’s whole life had been a failure, just one after another.  His football career, Maggie, his father, the warehouse and all of the jobs after that.  And now, the Bent Elbow, for which he would probably get sued.  Not to mention, Jim would surely get fired.

“Well shit.”  Jim said to the wall before lying down on the bench and resting his eyes.

****

“Creegan.”  The officer’s loud voice brought Jim back.  “Creegan, you have made bail.”

Creegan sat up and then stood.  “Are you sure about that?”

The police officer took a deep breath.  “No, I’m not sure, I just make a hobby out of randomly letting criminals out of the jail so that we can chase them back down later.  It’s a little game I play called ‘terrible cop.’”

Creegan nodded at the sarcasm, “I feel like you planned that speech.”

The officer smiled, “Funny you should think so, ‘cause that’s my other hobby.  I make up long winded sarcastic speeches, just  in case the guys I’m letting out ask stupid questions like, ‘Are you sure you want to let me go?’”

Creegan stared at the officer for a second, “I should just stop asking questions.”

The officer’s eyebrows bobbed, “I got a million of these.”

Creegan surrendered to the officer’s superior wit and followed him out through the processing area.  They gave him a speech about when he would have to return to court and then, they set him free.

She stood in the waiting room, dark, blood-red hair to shoulder length, dark brown eyes and a full figure.

Maggie…