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One way of the transgressor “What’s your goddamn name?” I stared at the huge man who wore the preacher’s collar. He’d been crippled by paid-for violence, dragged down stairs, and tossed on the marble floor. His arrogant face and body bruised by the brass knuckles that were at my side. He was a big man, much bigger than I. He looked like John Coffey, from Green Mile, in a $3,000 suit and gators.“Who are you? Why are you doing this? What’s your goddamn name?” I yawned, exhausted from traveling. I told him, “I don’t have a name.”“What do you mean you don’t have a name?” I had rented a hotel room near Oakland University. Oakland University was in Rochester, Michigan. Not Oakland, California. This Oakland wasn’t black. The winters in Michigan were not to be played with. I had on a serious coat, one big enough to shelter my weapons.From the hotel, I had traveled a few miles away, was creating terror at midnight in the Bloomfield Villas subdivision. On Oak Avenue in Birmingham, Michigan. A sw
Two the damned don’t cry She wore black. The hue of grief and mourning.The color of a new death.Tears ran from behind her dark shades. She’d taken them off right after she got into her seat, while the rest of the plane was trying to get settled. She sobbed as the plane took off, the expression on her face revealing her anxiety. College Park and the Dirty South faded behind us. Tissue to her face, she shook her head like it was too late to change her mind, wiped away so many tears. More appeared. The redness of her eyes was as strong as the heat of the sun.The woman dressed in Prada and Rolex was dying one tear at a time.The black dress she wore. Reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She didn’t remind me of Audrey Hepburn. Just the dress. It had class.I’d seen her crying at the gate, looking like she was about to have a breakdown, then as we boarded the British Airways aircraft with the rest of the world travelers. I hoped she wouldn’t bounce her leg and cry the entire
Three the man with the broken nose A man in a dark gray suit was coming down the aisle. Dressed like he was a high-end preacher. Yellow book in hand, like it was his Bible. He was halfway down the airbus before he stopped walking. Came to an abrupt stop.Midfifties I’d guess. Seasoned.Pretty unremarkable except for the huge Band-Aids over his broken nose. The Band-Aids were bloodied, large enough to obscure the top part of his face. He’d suffered a good blow.We paused.He regarded my injuries. I did the same with his.Yellow book in hand, he turned around and went back toward business class.I turned around, heading deeper into the poverty section of the plane.My mind photographed what I had seen. Injured man in suit. I doubted if those were Fortune 500 injuries. Light-skinned man. Could’ve been black or white. Bald. Gray suit and red shirt. The shirt was the $200 kind and the suit had to cost ten times that.I looked back again.Book in hand, he made his way back through the curtains that s
Four between tears and laughter The happy actress had jacked me for my window seat. My newspapers had been moved to the middle. Her stuffed backpack was crammed at her feet, the tray table down. Not only had she stolen my seat, she had her elbows spread out and she’d gotten too comfortable; most of the space and the shared armrest was now hers.Without complaining I took the middle seat.The girl slid her headset off. “I wasn’t finished talking about my boo.”“There’s more?”“We’ve been together for three years now. We met doing this play in L.A. A musical, actually. He was the lead. He was so good. I was the understudy for the female lead. She got sick. So I got to kiss him every night. I mean we kissed for real. Well, nobody told me I wasn’t supposed to tongue-kiss him. But I did. He was holding my butt and everything. You know, got into the part. We got a standing ovation. Actors have to get into the role, you know?”She laughed.Down the way, food ser vice for the second-class fliers had
Five you can’t escape forever Four summers ago. Amsterdam Centraal was hot and humid, packed with tourists, most loaded down with huge backpacks. Signs were everywhere warning neophytes to beware of pickpockets. Summertime. The season of tourists, when the thieves came out of hibernation.I had flown into Schiphol Airport, then caught the train into Amsterdam Centraal. Wearing worn jeans and a tank top, backpack and sandals on, I put on my shades and followed the crowd, took a number and waited my turn, then exchanged dollars for euros at the train station, tried to use some of the Dutch I remembered, told the old, stout attendant bedankt for her help, not sure if that was the right word, but she smiled and in stiff English told me that I was welcome in return.We smiled after butchering each other’s language.She looked at me with endearing eyes, no idea of what was going on inside me.I’d come here on business. Business from me always put grief in the hearts of others.My whole life had b
Six big bad wolf Sledgehammer aka Sledge. Überrapper of the year.He hated being called Hammer. Said he was better than that old-school rapper. Did a record and spent a million on a hard-core video with him screaming about how he hated being called Hammer. A sledgehammer was what John Henry used, not a small, pathetic hammer.I had a package on him before we met. That meeting was just a few days ago.His birth name was Ronald Chin. Asian with a black man’s disposition. He’d grown up in Harlem on Eighth Ave. and changed his name. Now his legal name was Sledgehammer Jackson.Married for six years. Two kids from that marriage. One kid out of wedlock. Child support current. Taxes paid. Had bought his parents a brand-new house. Gave to charities. Went to church off and on, but based on his tax write-off, he sent his tithes on time.People claimed that he paid Karrine Steffans a grip to not mention him in her book.Others claimed he was mentioned by the name Papa.Had to know who I was dealing with
Seven strangers in a strange land Gatwick Airport sparkled with European flair. Marble and glass, everything contemporary from the rooter to the tooter.With my fake passport, I had made it through customs, no alarms sounding.When I took my jet-lagged stroll by the last of the police officers, I took a deep breath.Lola was excited, eyes wide. “This is an airport? This joint looks like both the Grove and the Beverly Center in Los Angeles. Look at all these places to shop. They have so many stores in here…off the chains…this is like walking down Rodeo Drive.”Mrs. Jones was quiet and unimpressed, the opposite of Lola.Lola went on, “Caffè Nero. They have a friggin’ Burberry store up in here. Chez Gerard, what ever that is. HMV. Lacoste. Nike. Nine West. Starbucks. WHSmith. This is awesome.”Local time was eight thirty in the morning, my body still on eastern time, my every cell crying for a warm bed and few more hours of sleep. We’d been on the ground just long enough to battle our way throu
Eight body heat We hustled by the nine-to-five crew. We found the long line for the hackney carriages, what they called the black cabs. Ugly, bulky cabs that looked like they were from the seventeenth century. I gave Lola enough British currency to get to the theater district, then, even though we were all pretty much heading in the same direction, offered my cab to Mrs. Jones. Desire danced. She hesitated, didn’t answer, just stood in the cold, still silent. Mrs. Jones was ready to get away from Lola. Lola was ready to get away from us so she could get to the man of her dreams. And I wanted Mrs. Jones to myself.I told her, “I can show you my hotel room. Then you can decide.”There was a moment of indecision, a few breaths of contemplation.Mrs. Jones climbed inside my cab. She sat facing forward, legs closed.I pulled down a seat, sat across from her, facing backward, looking at her as we traveled.I put my hand on her knee. My eyes searched hers for either rejection or approval.There was
Nine wag The man with the broken nose found Tower Hill. Trains had been delayed due to ser vice. He had been lost most of the morning.He was still lost in Savage Gardens; one of the landmarks he had been given, a hotel called Novotel, was down the street. He couldn’t find 1 Pepys Street. He walked the block, passed by Fenchurch Street Station, The English Club, Cheshire Cheese, Ladbrokes betting shop.He made a frustrated sound, double-checked his instructions, then went back to Tower Hill tube station and started over. He was in EC3. EC3 was the postal code. And that postal code was posted on the corner of almost every building. Once again he passed the first landmark, looked up, and saw the blue heritage plaque on the wall of the flat where the Reverend P. T. B. “Tubby” Clayton had lived. Again he passed the Wine Library. And St. Olave’s Church.He didn’t want to ask for directions. Not this close to his destination.He didn’t need to be remembered.Again he circled the block, passed by
Ten woman on the run Myhotel. Third floor. Hotel rooms in Europe were diminutive, but my suite was decent, big enough for a king-size bed, a desk, and a small contemporary sofa that was against the wall between the two windows. The sofa was one step away from the bed. The windows were two steps away from the bed, double windows starting three feet above the floor and extending to the ten-foot ceiling. The dark curtains were thick enough to make a red dress for Scarlett O’Hara; both of those curtains pulled back, still open, the gray skies and London’s Victorian architecture peeping, a thousand windows facing this room, two thousand eyes acting as spies in the house of love.Above the desk, a Sony flat-screen television was anchored to the wall, it now being on a music station, Corinne Bailey Rae singing, her voice wonderful any time of the day.Mrs. Jones sat on the bed. Crossing, uncrossing her legs. Hands smoothing out the already perfect bedspread. Her eyes going to the dresser, to th
Eleven deadly is the female Mrs. Jones had become an exotic vampire. I smiled; what she was doing was so damn erotic. She grinned at me in return, now feeling safe with what she was doing in front of me. When she was done, she closed her eyes.I said, “Lola Mack made you come.”She shook her head in disbelief, gave me a shallow chuckle, her eyes getting tighter.“I couldn’t look at Lola when we got off the plane. Hated her happy ass. Tried to avoid her after customs. Thought she would get her damn luggage and run to her boyfriend’s hotel.”I chuckled. “She looked happy when she got in that taxi.”“That’s how a woman smiles when she’s horny and knows it’s about to get handled.”“You have the same smile now.”She licked her fingers. “I know.”I lay down on her, that river becoming our glue, and we kissed. We moved from deep kisses to softer kisses as we cooled down, like two athletes at the end of a workout. She moved away from me, got her own pillow, put her back to me. I put my arm around her.
Twelve this gun for hire Mrs. Jones had bedded a contract killer and walked away. I went back to the window.The skies were darker, the rain coming down with the same silky cadence, a tempo that was steady but not urgent. Down on the cobblestone walkway it was about four degrees Celsius, which translated to about forty Fahrenheit. To my right, an Asian man wearing a bright yellow raincoat was out on the corner holding up a big sign that advertised his Chinese buffet was the best in the area, marching back and forth in the rain as Europeans and Africans hustled up and down Tottenham Court Road, umbrellas held high, most dressed in dark colors, casual and cosmopolitan, this metropolitan section of the world that housed Protestants, Catholics, and followers of Islam, looking like a mixture of Seattle, Ritten house Square in Philly, all of that with blended architecture, the historic and outdated along with the contemporary and chic.I waited. It was cold out there, freezing by L.A. standard
Thirteen the woman in white His broken nose ached. He was sitting at a bistro table, Starbucks Coffee at Tower Bridge Piazza.The area around Shad Thames and Horsleydown Lane looked like the old country.He was only a few yards away from where he had dropped the WAG.He had done as he was ordered. The WAG’s estranged husband wanted her dropped on the spot he had proposed to her. He had paid a lot of money to make sure that happened.People were mumbling about a body that had been found in the Thames this morning.People thought it was suicide. London was a dark and dreary, depressing place that had plenty of self-killings. But the man with the broken nose knew the truth.Glasses on, he was reading Divorce for Dummies, drinking a tall house coffee. No cream. Sugar. With his cellular up to his ear. Frustration was crawling up and down his spine.Jaw tight, he told his soon-to-be ex-wife, “I’m in London. Left a message on your cellular.”“I’m leaving you. I’m moving on with my life.”“Let’s not go
Fourteen like oil on my skin I was inside Benjy’s deli. The dead entertainer I was supposed to look for was standing across the street.I was on the edge of the theater district, six lanes of insane traffic separating me from the Dominion Theatre. On top of the Dominion a larger-than-life-but-smaller-than-legend-size golden statue of Freddie Mercury was on the roof. The Queen Musical, We Will Rock You.I was waiting between Chinatown and Bloomsbury, underneath the shadows of Centre Point Tower. Next door was a grungy-looking theatre-club that advertised Betty-somebody and some punk-rock-looking group whose name was the acronym GAY. I sipped on a green tea, reading Metro.Co.UK, an article about poor areas having the fewest free ATMs. The poor getting scammed, being once again penalized for being poor.I looked up, didn’t see her, checked my watch, went back to the paper.Channel 4 was planning to screen Britain’s first marathon masturbation event, called Wankathon. They were giving prizes t
Fifteen chinatown That had Arizona’s attention. I told her that the men who had followed her from the tube were in the room. Their hoodies had been pulled back. I got a clear view of our present danger. One was bald, the other sported locks. They had slipped inside and posted up in the section of Starbucks between us and the front door. There was only one way in and one way out. They weren’t that close. The coffeeshop was large, could be divided into three sections, us being in the back third. Neither had a coffee or a newspaper. They were waiting for something, and I knew it wasn’t the tube.I told Arizona all of that with smiles and laughter.Arizona sat back down, did that real ladylike, crossed her legs, played with her hair.Then she chuckled and smiled like everything was okay.I did the same, kept the game going.She asked, “You sure they’re following me? They could be following you.”“They were behind you when you showed up at Freddie Mercury.”“Who are they?”“Thought they might be pa
Sixteen contract killer Docklands Light Railway. Aboveground train. Heading toward Canary Wharf.The man with the broken nose had been turned around all morning. He had taken the tube to Embankment. But he was supposed to be at Bank to catch the DLR. Embankment had sounded like Bank. When he realized he was at the wrong location, Embankment not Bank, he looked for Bank on the tube map again. That labyrinth of tubes was confusing. Didn’t look like it was that far. Hoping to have better luck, he had taken to the streets, got lost again, ended up at Covent Garden, then hurried back inside the tube, took the Piccadilly to the Central Line, finally made it to Bank and the DLR.Brits and their fucking accents. Felt like he was in a damn Harry Potter movie.That reminded him. He had to find a bookstore. Had to buy books and magnets.For a moment, when he was lost at Covent Garden, it felt like he was being followed.But no one was there.No one had boarded the train with him. No one on the platform
Seventeen murder by contract Back at his swank hotel room, the man with the broken nose took his coat off. He put the souvenirs from the Cutty Sark on the dresser and took off his Italian shoes.Then he put the backpack on the queen-size bed.It felt like Christmas. Like he was opening a Christmas present.He unzipped the backpack. Took out a box.He took his time, opened the box with patience. And there it was.Desert Eagle .50. Not a regular Eagle. This bird was dressed in titanium.He had owned one years ago, but not with this finish.Almost five pounds. Not many men could control an Eagle’s recoil. Its thunder so loud indoor ranges prohibited them. The Eagle was all about the big hunt. It was made for a real man.There was a tap on the hotel room door.He put a pillow over the Eagle, left his bird within reach. Adjusted his pants. Looked through the peephole. It was the man from concierge. He was bringing up a small FedEx box.The package had arrived. He took the package, gave a tip, closed
Eighteen path of the unrighteous I burgled my way inside a single-story Tudor home. I’d traveled north and engaged in criminal acts right outside Royal Air Force Lakenheath. Eyes burning, in need of rest, I sat and waited for my contract to come home.American flags decorated the walls of the modest home. Not one thing in the place was expensive, nothing was beyond his military income. Nothing was out of character. Plaques praising the sergeant’s marksmanship, leadership, and dedication, all sorts of commendations took up every inch of one wall in the living room. Pictures of his six children were on another wall. Not a single photo of either his first or second ex-wife. His oldest kid went to USC. The kid below that one was stationed at Lackland. His youngest was almost in middle school. Had pictures of him and his kids out at Thetford Forest working out on the Go Ape obstacle course. Pictures of him on the Breckland Pines Golf Course. From a glance everything looked ordinary.Six kids,
Nineteen one false move I took another hard breath and wondered which way this was going to go. Peaceful. Or with a hellified row.I wanted him to see me when he came in. Wasn’t going to hide.A key was put in the door. My heart crept up my chest and stopped in my throat.The door opened.He came inside. Dressed in military fatigues. Rough face. Looked like Sergeant Rock.He paused when he saw me sitting at his table, Stars and Stripes newspaper in my hand.He frowned at me for a moment. A long, hot moment.He spoke right above a whisper, “Gideon.”“Sergeant.”He looked like a sixty-year-old Sergeant Rock and sounded like Johnny Cash.I kept my hands where he could see them. “Sorry to sneak up on you like this.”“This a social call?”“Arizona asked me to stop by.”He nodded, said, “The slant-eyed bitch raised the stakes and sent Gide-fucking-on.”“Guess you could say that.”“She tell what it was about?”I nodded. “FEMA scam. That’s all she said. Don’t need the details.”“Why didn’t the bitch bring her
Twenty erotic gherkin Hours had gone by. The grayness of London had changed to a mild black.The coldness remained, most of that chill surrounding my heart.Not many tall structures polluted London’s skyline, so the contemporary Erotic Gherkin could be seen from almost everywhere. It was actually the Swiss Re Tower, but the locals loved calling it the Erotic Gherkin, maybe because it was smooth and looked like an exotic vibrator rising from the ground. Hard to believe that Foster got away with that architectural design.If he had put two round buildings at the base, it would’ve been a dick pointing at the sky.Arizona said, “Good job. What you did in Lakenheath, good job.”I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to rejoice in my wrongdoing.She said, “After what happened this morning in Chinatown, I started thinking.”“And those thoughts were?”“Come work for me. Exclusively.”“Other shit is on my mind right now.”“I’m listening.”She had boarded the Stansted Express at the Seven Sisters platform. She
Twenty-one women are trouble Phone call from his ten-year-old daughter as he waited for the tube at Tower Hill. “But, Dad…Skeeter is eating all the cereal. My favorite cereal. The last box.”“Melanie. Baby. What time is it over there in Texas?”“It’s one o’clock. And he’s eating all the cereal. He always eats all the cereal.”She went on and on. In full-blown drama mode. Like her mother.He took the phone away from his ear.He was standing midway on the platform, District Line, when a couple, a tall and muscular black man wearing a BOSTON cap, and a woman, short and light-skinned, maybe a Zadie Smith–type, maybe an octoroon, he thought, stopped right by him. More like she stopped in front of him, her face tense with anger, and the tall black man followed her, his steps heavy, face laced with frustration. The guy wearing the BOSTON cap had on a leather coat, long and black. She wore an oversize black coat, about the size to fit the tall man she was with, and across the back of the jacket, in
Twenty-two detour Leicester Square was alive, crowded and lit up like it was Times Square. The man with the broken nose hated the crowd, he hated crowds, preferred the easiness of Katy, Texas, over this craziness. Too many people. He had paused in front of the rows of people off the side of the three cinemas, artists sketching mediocre caricatures of tourists, hundreds of people filing into clubs and restaurants between the Leicester Square tube and the Piccadilly tube. They walked by Burger King, Starbucks, Häagen-Dazs, and steak houses.He moved on with Tebby.Tebby said, “You haven’t said anything about the play.”“I didn’t know what to say. Saw you were disturbed by the performance.”“I wanted a different ending.”“You didn’t like the ending?”She shrugged. “Yes. And no. It made sense. But I wanted something else.”He said, “Seemed appropriate to me. Made sense.”“The killer got away.”The man with the broken nose shrugged.Tebby nodded. “Wanted a happy ending. We all want happy endings. Eve
Twenty-three valley of darkness The green cardboard sign outside the first door I passed said MODEL UPSTAIRS Hand-painted on the wall inside the next door was the same advertisement.Berwick Street. Central London. Postal code W1.Red lights were perched in almost every windowsill, red bulbs hanging inside dingy windows.Openings to every door had at least one fading sign made from cheap cardboard, damp cardboard that had been cut by hand and warped by the elements, written on in block-style lettering that looked like it had come from someone who had a third-grade education at most.A soccer ball rolled by my feet. Two young boys, neither any more than six, ran by me, chasing the ball. One had blond, curly hair. He had on yellow-and-green footballer’s gear, Brazil’s team, the number 10, and the name RONALDINHO across his back. The other boy had dark skin, maybe the darkest skin I’d ever seen, his footballer gear blue-and-white, the colors of Chelsea, the number 8 and the name LAMPARD acros
Twenty-four prelude to fury Her cellular rang. Her ring tone was hip-hop. Beyoncé. Thelma picked up her cellular phone, looked at the number, pressed a button to divert the call, then sat back down on her barstool.I leaned against the wall, left her potential customers a clear shot of her wares.She asked, “What name are you using now?”“Gideon.”“The name you had when we were in Montreal, that was the name I liked best.”“I don’t give a shit what you like.”She paused. “You found me. You actually found me.”“Ran into Sergeant.”“He told you.”“Right before he died.”Her face lit up. She shook her head. Grief covered her face. Her eyes watered.She asked, “You?”I nodded.Her lip trembled. She swallowed. “No. Not Sergeant. Why?”“Because some people deserve to die.”Her grief magnified. As did her fear of me.Looked like she wanted to run. Then realized there was nowhere to run.Then she jumped.Someone was sneaking up behind me.I remembered Amsterdam, how she had sent trouble to find me.I jerked aroun
Twenty-five out of control Eight stops later he exited the Central Line at Bank, nose aching. He exited the tube at one of the busiest stations in Central London, got off looking to see if Gideon was following him. The man with the broken nose was shaken. He was sweating. Running like that had aggravated his nasal fracture. Pain was rising and spreading across his face. Felt like blood was dripping from his nose. The bruising around his eyes felt magnified, his eyes again feeling swollen. He slowed down. He could run over twenty-six miles, wanted to do a one-hundred-mile run at some point, but with the hard time breathing, running in a suit and shoes and having to inhale through his mouth on a cold and damp night, he was momentarily spent.He’d run away from Gideon expecting the man to give up chasing him in less than a quarter mile. No one chased for much longer than one lap. Gideon had kept up. That surprised and…frightened him. Gideon was a killer too, after all. Then he expected to
Twenty-six night of the hunter I took the Central Line, looking for that broken-nose bastard at every stop. I’d see that motherfucker again. I knew that. Just had to see him before he saw me.I saw men in suits.Men in dark suits.Men dressed like preachers.“The wrong you’re doing…stop doing evil while you can. Stop because one day somebody will come for you. One day what you do to other people, that will be done to you.” That voice from the past came and haunted me, whispers from a shallow grave.It felt like a knife being stabbed inside my wounded spirits.Those words didn’t come from a television show.It was the voice of the minister I had killed a long time ago.I’d never forgotten what he’d said as he begged for his life.That I would have my day.That day had come.Someone had come for me.Seemed like every man on the train wore a dark suit.Pallbearers dressed in the color of death.Every man wore the hue of mourning.European men. Nigerian men. Russians. Swedish. Old men. Young men.A killer
Twenty-seven wetwork He was still swimming in anger, the undertow pulling him under. He’d find Gideon.To night.As soon as he was done with this little matter.He’d been sidetracked.Sam had called.Another target had been located. The money was in place.The man with the broken nose went for the bird in the hand.He had taken his unbridled rage outside the city to north London, was in Bruce Grove. Again he was in a footrace. He had found his contract, the Jamaican with the gambling debt.The Jamaican was fleeing. That was expected. His profile had said he was a runner.The man with the broken nose chased the Jamaican the way Gideon had chased him.He chased him through urban areas that looked like Houston’s Fifth Ward, New Orleans’s Fourth Ward, South Central, East Oakland, Harlem, and Blackhaven in Memphis combined. He convinced himself that he had tested Gideon. Wanted to see how strong Gideon was.Told himself that fear didn’t make him run; it was only a test.Fear was there. Fear was part of
Twenty-eight shadow of doubt Close to an hour later. Lola had unpacked a few things, was on the other side of the frosted bathroom door.She was crying and running her bathwater.Or crying and plotting. I wasn’t sure what she was doing. I was waiting to find out.I sat on the far side of the bed, on the edge, my eye on the bathroom door, my mind on the man I had chased. And Arizona. The FedEx box was in front of me. Still unopened.My gun was on the floor, at my feet. Just in case.The room smelled like jasmine, Lola’s scent, the aroma of purity and deception.Empty sushi plates were on a tray we’d left on the floor near the door. I had a small glass of sake on the nightstand, and Lola had taken the rest of the bottle into the bathroom with her.The fish smell might permeate the room, so I got up long enough to leave the tray in the hallway. Then I called room service to come get the tray before the hall smelled like sushi. I stumbled over a suitcase. The room had become an obstacle course. L
Twenty-nine we who are about to die Two days after meeting with Sledgehammer. Portable GPS at my side. Destinations programmed into memory.Not too far from Tampa International Airport, down in the stadium area, a block or so from the Yankees spring-training camp, driving in the shadows of their International Plaza. Nervous, I followed the trail of tattoo, pawn, and brake shops that shot down Dale Mabry, saw Asian massage parlors, the type that had discreet business signs and darkened windows.Had to check out the lay of the land, plan an emergency escape route, if needed.I didn’t have to import weapons. Weapons were everywhere. All I had to do was find a hardware store. And finding pepper spray or Mace was easy. Within an hour I had hit four stores and had everything I needed. I found my way back to Dale Mabry Highway, headed toward the stadium, spied the area, and parked in a lot next to Mons Venus, Tampa’s most famous spot for pole swingers. This lot was where Big Bad and his crew alw
Thirty beauty betrayed The sledgehammer crashed into the sofa where my head had been. The hammer was too heavy for her.I had the gun, had it off pause and ready to go.I didn’t want to shoot her.But I would.Gun aimed at her, I made it to the television, grunted out my fear, pointed the gun at her.She held the sledgehammer high again.I snapped, “Back the fuck down, Lola.”Lola grimaced, raised the sledgehammer high, came running at me.I pulled the trigger.Pst. Pst. Pst. Pst. Shot her over and over, the silencer making the bullets exit like a coarse whisper.Blood stained her sweats as she stumbled backward.Lola dropped the sledgehammer, it fell across the nightstand, destroyed a lamp.The light from the lamp blinking on and off, fizzing out, Lola crumpled into her death.I stood there, teeth tight, focused, gun trained on her.That lamp kept fizzing in and out.Shadow and light.Shadow and light.Chest rising and falling, I waited.Caught my breath, looked at the damage she had caused.Looked at w
Thirty-one warm place to hide Lola reached underneath her pillow. With nervous breath and a smooth motion, I stopped her hand.My smile masked my lingering suspicion. “What are you hiding?”“Okay, now I’m really embarrassed.”I moved my hand away.She pulled out a condom.Lola surrendered a shy smile.I helped her out of her red satin. I kissed her breasts, licked her skin, laid her back, moved her knees apart, and went down on her. Held her ass, put my tongue between her legs.Hands on my head, Lola shifted her hips toward my face, released a slow, long moan.Lola struggled to open the condom, gave up, handed it to me, and sat back with her hands in her hair, waited while I ripped open the package and struggled to roll it on. She scooted toward the head of the bed, knees together. I moved toward her and she got on her back, her legs easing apart, and I crawled between her warm thighs, found my position between the gates to a new paradise. I kissed her again. Her hand found its way back to my
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