The Dogfight

Kung Fu Factory

2011-03-23T05:14:00.000-07:00

Ngo Thanh Van in Clash

From the far East-to-the backwoods of the American Nightmare - Crimefactory Magazine Presents: Kung Fu Factory! Crimefactory's hardest hitting pulpfest to date! Featuring new fiction and features by Christa Faust, Anthony Neil Smith, Frank Bill, Cameron Ashley, Duane Swiercynski, Chad Eagleton, Chris La Tray, Matthew McBride, Liam Jose, Jimmy Callaway, Garnett Elliot, Bryon Quertermous, the Nerd Of Noir, Michael S. Chong, and Joshua Reynolds!

Kung Fu Factory is finally available in several different formats. I suggest picking up the snazzy print edition.

If you've been reading The Dogfight, I think you'll especially enjoy my story, "Down by the Water." It gives some background on several of the characters who appear in Dogfight, reveals the true fate of Johnny So Long and his Sayonara Boys, shows the effect Heckler and Doyle's war has had on the Japanese organized crime, and introduces a new character, a young girl out for revenge.

Chapter 12: The One That Got Away

2010-06-27T13:14:00.000-07:00

There was a moment of absolute silence after the vans rolled to a stop. The men inside felt it, Doyle felt it, perhaps even the Russians guarding the Vinnie Pook felt it. It was a moment that lasted longer than it should have, a short life given extra time. But extra time always gets paid back somehow.   

In this brief, dreamlike moment Doyle thought back to the first time he had fired a shotgun... Out at the old Army base with his brother David and their friend Kent, they lugged boxes of clay pigeons and extra shells. Doyle asked Kent how hard the recoil would be. Kent spun and punched him in the shoulder with a tightly clenched ham-fist. The punch made Doyle stumble back for a few steps. No more words were spoken.

They loaded the guns. Doyle flung the clay pigeons from a flexible plastic throwing arm into the blue, autumn sky until, finally, David handed him a loaded 12 gauge and took the throwing arm from him. The recoil, when it finally came, hurt much less than the punch.

Doyle was the first to move out of the collective fugue in the van. He lifted the jackhammer and removed the drum-shaped clip. Checked the action, reseated the drum of ammo and cocked the science fiction looking monster. At this the other men in the van quietly prepared their weapons. The driver of the van reached into the glove box and pulled out a flask of whiskey. The paper around the cap snapped as he wrenched it off and took a slow slug. He passed the bottle to Doyle who drank and passed it behind him. When the bottle came back up it was empty.

  “If there’s a chance of dying I want that taste to be the last in my mouth,” said one of the men in the back. 

 “That’ll help you wash out the taste of cock,” someone added.

No one laughed.  

The breeze came off of the harbor in a foul, low-tide miasma thick with rotten fish and soured algae. Doyle wanted to be somewhere that smelled clean again--a blinding mental image of cedar beams and green tea. Go away weakness, he willed his brain. There’s too much at stake here. Faintly his brain whispered that nothing important was happening here. It whispered again, you have nothing to lose.

  A military, black stain moved over the docks, a stain that moved quietly on Vietnam jungle boots and carried pounds of dark-metal assault weapons. The Russians around the boat smoked quietly as death silently surrounded them. The rudimentary plan was for the two other groups to move in and take out the dock guards while Doyle’s group made for the boat. They would act as a boarding party to take out Fido and find Heckler.

It was understood that only Doyle would pull the trigger on that particular bastard.

  +++++++  

To their credit the Russian guards showed guts and nerve as the fire-flowers of muzzle flash popped all around them. They dropped their smokes and drew large caliber weapons even as bodies jerked from swarms of rounds that chipped their feet out from under them. The Russian’s shooting arms seemed to be separate from their torsos. They fired with straight, determined precision until the man they were attached to could no longer stand.

But the odds were too weighted against them. The guards died quickly.

  Doyle and his group ran swiftly to the gangplank whil sporadic fire erupted from the Vinnie Pook. Flynn’s boys took up positions to cover the ship as Doyle’s group ran up the gangplank and onto the boat. Doyle sent rumbling bursts of slugs and buckshot into whoever crossed his path. There was no one on this ship that he wanted to stay alive. The Vinnie Pook was large enough to have quite a few hiding places and Doyle and his men cleared them out with brutal efficiency.

+++++++  

  Hefting the heavy Jackhammer, Doyle made his way to the lowest hold of the ship. As he strode quickly between decks a large Russian threw open a door that almost smashed into Doyle’s face. The Russian’s eyes were wild as he caught sight of Doyle. He raised his pistol, pointed at Doyle, but he was slow.

Eternities too slow.  

Doyle held the Jackhammer tight on its sling at waist height. The recoil had not been nearly as awful as advertised. But the muzzle climb was fierce and Doyle used it to his advantage. The first shot was buckshot; it sprayed into the man’s thighs. The next shot was a deer slug; it punched into his stomach and blew out his lower back. The next round of buckshot peppered his chest with bloody holes while the last hit squarely on his forehead and blew the top of his head off. The ruined corpse dropped as the heavy pistol clattered against the metal floor.

  Doyle knew that the next round was buckshot, so he turned and fired into the now open doorway. A sigh, a scream, a cry. He looked into the room long enough to know that Heckler wasn’t inside. He recognized Fido laying on the floor coughing blood from a hole in his neck. A drugged piece of arm candy was crying over the fallen form of a Japanese man. Was that Fukasaku? This boat was lousy with bastards.

 One of the Christophers or maybe an Anthony came up behind him flanked by his strike group.  

“Keep whoever’s alive alive. Take Fido to Flynn and the Nip to Marco’s place. Give the broad some cash and get her lost.” Doyle hated this damned upper management shit. He just want Heckler to die, die, die!  

There is a humor that comes from true shock and surprise in the brief moment when the body chooses to scream or laugh or cry. To those who have seen too many shocking things this humor always blasts out as a short hysterical laugh. As he entered the hold of the Vinnie Pook this laugh escaped from Doyle’s mouth. He tried to contain it but only managed a hardened rictus that set his mouth in a firm grimace while leaving his eyes twinkling with hilarity.  

The scene, frozen in time like a stage play tableau, was awesome in it’s surreal oddity. On the floor an aged Japanese man tried desperately to remove a scalpel from his throat as a small black and white dog tore the leather-like skin from a mannequin. A tall woman in a whore-couture dress held another scalpel in the air as if trying to hold off invisible attackers. She pointed the scalpel at the old man on the floor, at the dog, and at Heckler who stood in a corner taking a piss. Then she started the whole pointing process all over again. As the urine sprayed out of Heckler it mixed with a stream of blood pouring from a long cut that ran down his chest and left a foul looking stream that trickled down the hold’s drain.

  “He got away from me. I tried to catch him. He got away,” the woman said over and over again in Japanese.

  “I know how you feel lady,” Doyle responded as he climbed down the metal stairs into the hold.

  “But now I’ve finally caught the fucking dog I’ve been looking for.”  

At this Heckler shook his cock and turned to face Doyle.  

© Brian S. Roe

Chapter 11: The Metropolitan Glide

2010-02-24T20:37:00.000-08:00

As his dreams died and he drifted toward consciousness, Rudolf Heckler heard a dog barking. The yipping pushed the girl through the doors of memory, and his thoughts turned instead toward his grandfather…

When he was eight, Heckler wanted a dog. His mother told him to ask his grandfather. His grandfather responded by telling him about the end of the war. “I had a dog when I was boy,” he told him. “His name was Fritzi.”

The young Heckler fidgeted.

“At great burden, I kept him through most of the war. Near the end, when Berlin was smoldering ruin, I saw the way the neighbors looked at him. I saw the hunger.”

His grandfather lit a Lucky Strike and shrugged. “He was my friend. I could not let him be eaten. Would you let your friend be eaten?” He rubbed his hands over his mouth. Heckler noticed the yellow staining his fingers.

After picking something from the corner of his mouth, Heckler’s grandfather continued, “One day, in the hours of the early morning, before my own parents awoke, I took Fritzi outside. I fed him our last bit of meat. When he finished, I patted his head once and broke his neck. I buried him under the floorboards.”

He sighed. At eight Heckler thought it came from age. It would be years before he realized his grandfather was, in fact, not that old. “When my father awoke, he beat me savagely and sent me up to my room.”

Rudolf stopped wanting a dog then. His grandfather, however, got one of his own shortly after Heckler joined the army. It too was named Fritzi…

And now, a voice, accented, but clear. “Wake up, Mr. Heckler. I have something to show you."

His limbs twitched. He inched closer to wakefulness, fighting his way through one last memory before finding awareness…

The first man Rudolf Heckler assassinated was a Soviet Army soldier stationed in Berlin. He killed him sometime around midnight in an alley just off Goethe Straße.

In Russian, Heckler asked, “Do you have a light?”

The soldier matched him. Heckler nodded and dragged. The soldier stood erect and moved his back from the wall. He inhaled and gave Heckler the men’s room glare—he stood too close.

“What are you to be looking at it?” The soldier asked.

Heckler was not nervous—he owed his grandfather that too.

It was sometime after Fritzi’s story, that his grandfather started by answering Rudolf’s question with a question. “Your father?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.” He picked at a splinter buried under a thumb callous. “Only your mother knows. You see, you, my boy, are a bastard.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your mother was raped.” His grandfather claimed he could tell things by faces. “That means—“

“I know what that means.”

“She would never say by whom, but once, after you were born, we went into town. We passed a café. Soviet soldiers smoked their Russian cigarettes and pinched Fraulein bottoms. She didn’t say anything then, either, but I saw her face. Your father is probably Russian. That explains your lack of humor.”

Heckler carried that with him for years; until the alleyway…

“What are you looking at?” The Russian asked again.

“Nothing,” Heckler said and severed the artery in the Soviet’s thigh. His second strike landed just under the rib, angled upward to puncture the lung. Much like had been done to his mother, Heckler thrust with a mindless fury until satiated. When he was finished, he left the alley, never looking back at the crumpled mess behind him.
“Nothing,” Heckler said again and opened his eyes…

Naked and shackled to a metal table in the hold of the Vinny Pook, he promised, silently, to kill Gavrilov after he Jackson Pollacked Doyle’s brains.

“I’m glad you are awake now, Mr. Heckler,” Oyabun Fukasaku said.

“Is that a dog?”

“Yes, Mr. Heckler, it is a Chin. I believe elsewhere in the world, one refers to it as a Japanese Chin; however, to me, it is just a Chin.” Fukasaku patted his speckled, Brachycephalic dog. “We almost had you in Macau,” he said, more to the dog than to Heckler.

“Someone I knew once told me that almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

“Must have been an American,” Fukasaku said. “Ah, here’s what I wanted to show you.” Two dead-eyed women pushed a large metal box into the center of the hold. When they reached the center of the hold, they spun the box around.

“I think you will be surprised,” Fukasaku, “I believe you remember Oyabun Kitano.” Each woman grabbed a handle and stepped to the side of the box with a flourish, revealing the a mannequin covered in Kitano’s tattooed skin.

“Mr. Tsukamoto’s work is quite extraordinary. But what is truly impressive is the stitching.”

Fukasaku approached his former boss with reverence. He handed the Chin to the woman on the left and dismissed them both. “If the Oyabun’s skull had not been ruined,” he said, stroking the red eyed samurai etched across Fukasaku’s chest, “I could have preserved that as well.”

“It truly is a shame, Oyabun,” another voice said.

Heckler craned his neck and blinked. His vision was still blurry, a haze of drugs and memory.

Fukasaku waved the other man over. He walked with a broken rhythm, his left foot thudding and his right gliding. Fukasaku put his arm around the smaller man, and lead him back over to Heckler. He veneered his pleasure. “Mr. Tsukamoto,” he said, “was a valued member of Unit 731 during the war.”

“You’re insane.”

Fukasaku leaned over Heckler’s prone form. “No, Mr. Heckler, I am not. I believe in revenge. Revenge must be taken savagely and without remorse. Otherwise, it is quite useless to prevent future occurrences and to curb the trespasses that flitter through all men’s thoughts. When your skin is on display, you shall be of great service.”

Heckler didn’t hear Fukasaku leave. There was only Tsukamoto’s uneven teeth and lethargic lilt. “I would like to assure you, Rudy—may I call you Rudy? By your silence, I am assuming I can.” He stroked Heckler’s chest. “I would like to assure you, Rudy that I shall remove your skin in nearly a single unbroken piece.”

Tsukamoto sniffed his finger. “It will, however, hurt a great deal.” He sighed and wiped his hands on his blue, work slacks. “I call my technique The Metropolitan Glide,” he said. “If you would like, I can narrate as I proceed.”

© Chad Eagleton

Dogfight 10: In the Coliseum

2009-12-30T23:54:00.000-08:00

The door of Flynn’s creaked as Doyle pushed past it. His coat was mangled, his face bloody, his suit dirty and torn. He walked with a pronounced limp but still swung his shoulders like a boxer entering the ring. To be weak in such a place was to be eaten alive. This late at night only the hardest, meanest drunks were still in Flynn’s. And of course that meant that Paul Flynn himself was there.

Flynn’s stank with a heavy smog of smoke, sweat, and liquor fumes. Several brutish men and a few whorish women sat at tables and at the bar in greasy, muscular knots, huddled over booze like starving inmates in a stingy prison. As Doyle came in a few eyes followed him but most of them were too lost in the fumes of their favorite hooch to care.

Doyle walked to the bar and sat on a stool that had been contoured by countless Irish asses. One more Irish ass wasn’t going to hurt it. Flynn took a quick look at Doyle, pulled two shot glasses from the shelves and a brown bottle of whiskey from his private collection. The whiskey was his welcome and his challenge. Drink with Flynn and he was a friend. Say when and he would see you as less then useless.

The shot glasses thumped on the bar as Flynn poured golden poison from the bottle. Doyle waited until the cork had been rammed back into the bottle before lifting his shot to Flynn, Flynn did the same towards him, and both men downed the whiskey. Fire, Hell, pain, searing, lust, anger, and sweet numb relief washed down Doyle’s throat. The whiskey was good but strong as a gut punch. Flynn poured another and then a third before he sat the bottle on the bar.

“ If we keep that up you’ll have drunk all my whiskey.” he said to Doyle.

“ And where would that get us Paul?” Doyle’s voice was scratchy and strained. He swallowed hard to try to clear it.

“ Damn sorry about your girl. She was truly lovely.” Flynn was most dangerous at these times, the times when he seemed like any other concerned human. Doyle had the quick mental flash of dog jaws biting into a little girl’s pigtails and was reminded of what he was talking to. But he needed Flynn and some of his goons. He had to remain civil.

“ That means a lot to me me Paul.”

“ So who did it? Is he dead yet?” A simple question but one that carried judgement and meaning beyond its simplicity. If the killer had been some pissed-off John who couldn’t get his rocks off with Liu, Flynn would have belittled Doyle for letting such a worthless waste occur. And especially if he let the man who killed Liu live one minute past his time.

Doyle let a beat go by without answering. He lifted his empty shot glass and let the last drop plop into his open mouth.

Flynn poured for both of them. Doyle raised his glass to his mouth and in the alcohol fumes rising from the whiskey he nearly whispered the name.

“ Rudolf Heckler.”

“ Heckler.” Flynn spat the name out. He poured shots.

“ I’ve had him in my sights twice tonight. But he messed up some of Mugsy’s boys and in the time it took to babysit them I lost him.”

“ That’s damnable.”

“ But the best part is that he’s been shanghied by Fido Gavrilov. Seems there’s still some money to be made from Heckler’s hide.”

“ So not wanting to question a visit from such a beloved friend as you my dear Doyle, but then why are you here talking to me when you should be out killing your way to the man who killed your whore?” Flynn’s melodic brogue was beginning to ice up. The whole room full of drunks seemed to tense at the tone of the question.

“ Because I need to kill a man, I need your help, and you need to quit being such a cock-sucking nancyboy.”

Dog teeth bit into a little girl. Doyle held the image and smiled at Flynn. A brother’s arm slid a straight razor into his own brother’s throat. Doyle held the image and smiled. A shotgun blast from under the bar vomited into Doyle’s stomach. Doyle held the image and smiled.

The emotions that swept over Flynn’s face were fleeting but readable. He went through surprise, rage, and joy in such a flash that the three blurred into something wholly Irish. The sum of the three was a grimacing rictus that caused his face to light up with mad dog glee.

“ You’ve only got a few minutes left to live you bloody fucking bastard.” Flynn choke-laughed out.

“ Tell me why you get to live any longer.” He went into a brief coughing fit but never lost the lockjaw smile.

“Because I’ve come here to give you a great big present. Care of Don Marco, Mugsy, and myself. And all we ask in return is that you help us do something you’ve been wanting to do for a long, long fucking time.”

++++++++

The night air on Doyle’s face revived him. It would be sunrise in a few hours and what they were planning to do had to be finished in darkness. Murder always played out better when hidden from the sun.

They sped along in one of Flynn’s vans, dark gray Econolines with Flynn’s Catering on the side in faux Gaelic Uncial. Under the hood customized powerplants that growled with menace. In the back men with red-rimmed eyes surrounded by black ski masks and balaclavas. A few had olive drab patches on the shoulders of their commando sweaters of a shamrock with a skull in the center. One was wearing a t-shirt that proudly exclaimed “Fuck You I’m Irish”. All of them were tense and blood crazy like a pack of wolves ready for the killing to start. They clattered with various assault rifles and sub-machine guns.

This whole little party was made possible by Flynn’s relatives. His cousin Timmy was a harbormaster who was in charge of making sure The Vinny Pook never launched. Their cousin Michael was a cop who would make sure the police didn’t show up for another couple of hours. And the brothers Christopher, Christopher, Anthony, and Shawn were called in to drive the vans. One of the Christopher's had been pulled out of a bed with his girlfriend and he still reeked of the woman’s perfume. The scent drew Doyle back to Liu. She always smelled of clean rain and green tea. It was getting harder to push her memory away. It lingered in his brain like the smoke from a spent shell casing.

The path they took to the docks has once been impassable to Flynn since it went through Don Marco’s turf. The two mile deadzone had made it impossible for Flynn to defend his dock interests and the Russians had years ago begun to carve into his holdings like a cavity in a rotten tooth. But Marco realized that the Russians didn’t respect borders the way the Irish did and he didn’t like the way they bought and sold women like cattle. He could at least work with Flynn. Better the demon you know...

Doyle had changed out of his shirt and tie and into a Flynn’s Pub Softball Team shirt. He held a gun that shouldn’t exist, a handmade version of a Pancor Jackhammer 12 gauge full auto shotgun. The gun had been built in the Pakistani village of Darra Adam Khel by a gunsmith who found the patent papers online. The gun had been bought by one of Flynn’s endless stream of cousins and given to Flynn as a party favor. When Doyle and Flynn’s men had been loading the vans Flynn had presented it to Doyle with a warning not to scratch it. The massive black monster was loaded with an alternating load of deer slugs and 00 buckshot. It would take less than two seconds for the drum to empty on full auto. It was a revolting, crude, and deadly sexy device.

The harbor was dimly lit except for a few sparse docks. Doyle looked over the various boats with a pair of army surplus binoculars. Headlights died as Flynn’s vans coasted closer. Just ahead one of the lit docks harbored The Vinny Pook , a pudgy looking yacht that couldn’t decide whether to be a fishing trawler or a luxury party boat. The few men standing near the plank were smoking cigarettes, oblivious to the storm of death brewing all around them.

The vans crunched to a stop in the shadows surrounding The Vinny Pook. Doyle took a second to scan the water around the dock. Just out of normal sight was the harbormaster’s cutter with Cousin Timmy on board, 50 caliber machine guns pointing silently at the Russian's boat. And a bit further out was another boat that made Doyle look closer. The Lady Loren, Don Marco’s weekend party yacht. Legend has it that the Don had bedded a young Sophia Loren aboard her and promised to name the boat for her. It was all hand made elegance and well crafted opulence. And now it sat still in the harbor like Caesar sitting in his box waiting for the gladiators to enter.

For the briefest second Doyle hated that he worked for Don Luigi Marco. He hated the swindles, scams, killings, and plain rotten deals that had gotten him to this place in his life. He hated that Liu was dead. He hated Flynn, all of his damned Mick cousins, the Russians, and he hated himself. But most of his hatred was still left for Heckler who had come in and fucked up Doyle’s whole world without even asking. Fine then Caesar Marco. If you want blood.

I’ll give it to you in buckets.

Chapter 9: The Ocean Doesn't Want Me

2009-11-25T22:12:00.000-08:00

In the back of the black SUV, drugged and dreaming, Heckler remembered what he had hoped to erase with a finger squeeze and a muzzle flash…

Long after midnight, when he sees her waiting for the train. A lone girl on the platform in a red blouse with a scooped back. Skin lightly sun-kissed. In the dim lights glow, as he moves closer, he can, sometimes, see faint tan lines and he likes that almost as much as the mole on her left shoulder. Her blond hair is pulled up and a flower pin spikes it into place…

Leonid nodded at Gavrilov as he glanced in the rearview, confirming Heckler’s unconsciousness.

“Interpol is to be arresting chief supplier. Already, Doyle in Japan for the negotiation of pornographic materials. Mafia to be seeing chance for new brokerings.”

“Heckler?” Leonid asked.

“Heckler—“

—stands on the opposite side of the packed train car; the two of them tall bookends holding garish paperbacks in place. She texts one handed. Heckler sees the hint of facial expressions, mouth curls, pursed lips, and eye crinkles. Her other hand grasps the handle dangling from the ceiling. A blue lotus tattoo blossoms on her wrist…

“Like a G8 Summit for criminalizing elements,” Gavrilov said.

“Until things went to hell,” Leonid said.

Gavrilov nodded. “Not at the beginning. It was not to be falling to the pieces until later when—“

—they exit same stop and Heckler walks behind her all the way to Nagoya Castle. Heckler stands by Doyle. She takes her place in the spotlight of the moon and the city glow shafting through the two kinshachi, tiger-headed dolphins, roof-side and castle-top. She stands by—

“Johnny So Long?” Leonid asked.

“Oyabun Kitano’s bastard son,” Fido said, “birthed to a Chinese girl Kitano is purchasing on mainland for working in the mizu shōbai. So Long is to be for the acting of saikō komon.” Fido exhaled as he searched for the right word. He tapped a button on the armrest. The window stuttered down. The night air sucked the cab clear and cooled Heckler’s feverish forehead.

“Underboss,” Fido said, proudly. “He was having own gang. They to be calling themselves The Sayonara Boys and running a club called—”

—California Girls. Blue neon lights and Hawaiian shirts and ganguro girls, all spray tanned and eyes rimmed with white makeup, bare-footing it on a dance floor lightly coated with artificial sand that catches the DJ lights and sends them twinkling up through silvery toe rings in time to an Ayumi Hamasaki cover of a Beach Boys tune, techno remixed.

“I have a proposition for you, Rudolf Heckler,” Johnny So Long says.

But Heckler’s focus is all blue lotus tattoo and the shape her mouth makes as she sings quietly along, “Let me go home, I wanna go home, let me go home…

“…more than just the girl,” Gavrilov said. “There was a boy—“

The boy with eyes like the end of summer and tiny ears with lobes that swept down to a small pointy chin that always seemed to be wet and tiny fingers that found Heckler’s hand once and squeezed him tighter than all grips he had ever felt around his throat.

“What happened to boy?” Leonid asked.

“Died,” Gavrilov said. “So Long was to be lacking in the patience. Doyle is lacking in the empathy that only communists have and only communists learn from capitalism.”

Leonid started to speak—

“Doyle sent So Long to pitching off the balcony. The Sayonara Boys went like the shit of apes. The boy was gunned in the crossfire.”

“Not know or not care?”

“Doyle?” Gavrilov said and shrugged. “Not know, I am to be guessing.”

“How Japanese.”

“How Russian,” Gavrilov said.

“Where will you go?” Heckler asks her.

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” she says again and finds the balcony railing. She looks out toward the coast and the Pacific. “The ocean doesn’t want me.”

“Why are they not to be killing him here?”

Gavrilov shrugged, took a final drag and pushed the butt out the gap. The window zoomed closed. Gavrilov wiped the stray specks of ash from his dark coat. “Fuck me if I am knowing. Perhaps out of some needing for gesture of grandiosity for all the men who Heckler was to be killing—”

It’s swing time at High & Low. The Drunken Angels on stage opening with Shizuko Kasagi’s “Jungle Boogie”…

“The docks,” Leonid said.

Heckler blasts the first one five feet inside the door. His brains splatter and the crowd scatters…

“How many did he kill?”

“A lot until he was to be reaching Kitano—“

Oyabun Kitano reaches over, grabs the dead hand still clutching the lighter and forces the stiffening thumb to spin the wheel. The Zippo flames. He lights his moke. Drops the hand. A napkin catches flame.

Kitano stands, cigarette vised between his teeth and button-pops the shirt to reveal the irezumi covering his chest. “A stray dog sees only what it chases,” he growls, all trilled r’s and slurred vowels, smothering the smoldering napkin with his palm.

Heckler’s pistol pops. The eye of the samurai splayed on Kitano’s chest weeps blood. But the Oyabun’s face remains dry even as Heckler continues to fire…

Leonid opened the rear hatch and pulled Heckler out. His head lolled, snapped up and his eyes fought for focus. He tried to stand and fell into the Russian’s arms.

Gavrilov slammed the hatch and chuckled. He patted Heckler on the back, “You need to stop smoking. It’ll kill you.”

Leonid hoisted Heckler over his shoulder and followed his boss along the docks to where the Vinny Pook’s dark bulk iceberged in the black water.

“What happened to her? The girl? The one with the tattoo?”

Gavrilov snorted. “I am not knowing. Since this is very Russian, I am liking the thought Heckler was to be meeting her at the train. But men were waiting there for the killing. Their eyes found each other as the train pulling away and they both were disappearing into long nights of their own.”

“What—“

“Enough with the questioning. This, as much as I am wishing, is not Dostoevsky. Only two peoples are knowing. The girl—and I am not seeing the girl. And Heckler.” Gavrilov stopped on the gangplank. He grabbed a fistful of hair and raised his head. “You have anything for the saying?”

“The ocean doesn’t want me,” he mumbled.

© Chad Eagleton

Chapter 8: Russian Dance

2009-11-04T18:25:00.000-08:00

The sound of trucks miles away floated through the park and into Doyle's ears. His blood whooshed through his brain with a sound like thousands of marching soldiers. The drugs, the booze, the pain, the fatigue were beating him down, making him dull when he needed to be sharp. This would be the end if he didn't bootstrap and get his shit together.

Slowly he pried his fingers off of the Colt. He dried his fingers on the leg of his pants and rubbed the grip of the pistol dry with his coat. He flexed his fingers like spider's legs, loosening them and getting the blood flowing again. If Heckler came at him right now Doyle would die. In a few small moments Doyle would be ready. But now he needed to stop the action for a bit, if for no other reason than to remind himself that he was in control. He wasn't just waiting for someone else to write his story.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly and quietly. Now you fucking kraut. Let's get this over with.

Blinding flowers of fire popped to life in the night. They chained together in Doyle's vision like firecrackers. Someone was running towards Doyle and firing as he came. And it wasn't Heckler. Doyle had two distinct feelings pass through him instantly. One was disappointment that Heckler wasn't in front of his gun. The other was annoyance at this person who was shooting at him.

The shooter ran in an odd angular style that was hyper-efficient and stagey. It was the run that male ballet dancers used to go from one side of the stage to the other. The legs were moving like a pair of drafting compasses, opening exactly and closing exactly. The torso was mechanically stable with little up and down movement. The pistol that the shooter held tracked along an invisible rail, the recoil seemed to be minimal, and the shots were precise and accurate. And the bastard was closing the distance between them quickly.

Doyle crouched behind the bench and let loose three rounds. A shower of concrete pinged off of the bench and threw his aim off. He willed himself to slow down and fucking aim. The shooter was closer than he had expected. The other man clamped one hand onto the bench and vaulted it. He put the momentum into a kick that hit Doyle in the chest and sent him tumbling. Doyle's Colt clattered to the pavement as he fell. The shooter landed with a bounce and fucking spun in air to dissipate the excess energy. He gracefully pulled his hands to his side like a gymnast ready to begin floor exercises.

The ground hit Doyle hard, but he rolled with it and came up snarling like a mad dog. He didn't need his gun to kill and he didn't like getting knocked down. He went into a boxer's crouch and shuffled towards the other man.

Blond curly hair cut short. Striped shirt with sleeves shorter than they should have been. Black fatigue pants and black Adidas military boots. A web belt with a large knife hanging from the back. And a face that had been designed by a welder and carved with a hatchet. The man walked oddly towards Doyle, his gait now a sinuous, slack amble that seemed at odds with the angular way he had attacked. His shoulders rolled loosely. His hips seemed overly relaxed. His hands hung like nooses.

Two bodies hurled themselves together. Punches rained back and forth like artillery fire. Blocks and grapples traded with elbows, knees, and kicks. Both men too skilled to let the knockout blow land and both too proud to stop trying to land it.

His arms numb from blocking kill shots, Doyle stepped in and threw a fast jab to the blond's face. The blond took the bait and moved in with a sliding hook that doubled back to elbow Doyle in the side of the head. Doyle backpedaled and felt the breeze from the elbow blow past his face. The blond had his left hand up in an open palm guard as his right hand completed the arc of the elbow shot. Doyle planted a sweet little hook right into the blond's ear. The blond fell like somebody dropped his puppet strings, but somehow managed to catch himself. He hopped out of Doyle's range then snapped a quick kick at the side of Doyle's knee. Doyle lunged over the knee and tackled the blond full force. The two men toppled onto the ground. A sickening thud as the blond's head contacted the edge of the concrete bench. Then only the bestial panting of Doyle's hoarse breathing.

He stared at the man on the ground. The bastard was still breathing. Maybe he was good for some information. Doyle rolled him over quickly and pulled the knife from the belt sheath. Fucking Russian Spetsnaz. The goddamn knife had a cartridge and firing chamber in the handle. The Russians always went for shit like this. Goddamn 007 bullshit. Doyle took off the man's belt and tied his hands with it. He took the Russian's cell phone. Then he walked to the Escalade.

The land-yacht started. A belt squeaked. It'll probably overheat quickly, but it'll do, Doyle thought as he got, dragged the Russian to the back of the truck and placed one of the Adidas boots under the rear wheel. He wedged it in nice and tight and then got back into the truck. He backed up a bit. He felt the crunch but didn't hear it. All he heard was the Russian screaming.

The scream died as he climbed out of the cab. "Hey there sport," he said. "Who sent you?" The Russian glared at him and tried to free his leg. "Don't pull on it so much, you'll severe the tendons and never dance again. Tell me what I need to know and I'll roll forward. But if you don't play nice I'll roll backwards very slowly. And you've got a lot of leg to go. Not to mention your hips, balls, and guts."

Doyle reached into the Escalade and found a cigar. He lit it and puffed contentedly as the Russian squirmed in pain. Doyle admired the hell out of these Spetsnaz bastards. The only reason the guy had screamed was because he had been knocked out. He comes to, he stops screaming. Fucking amazing pain thresholds on these fuckers.

"Did Heckler send you or was it Fido?" Doyle already knew the answer but he needed confirmation before he took the next step.

"No one is calling him Fido now." The Russian grimaced. His head's split open, his arm's torqued behind his back, his foot's crushed and the poor sinner is still sharp. Damn you had to admire these guys, he thought.

"So where is Heckler? You tell me. I kill Fido. You step in. Run whores and meth all you want. Stay out of our turf and no worries. Or...I back up over you and spin out through your guts as I drive away."

"The Nips want him. They are cleaning up the house. He is loose end." Doyle nodded. "They are leaving on boat tonight. Old Harbor. Boat called "Vinny Pook"."

Doyle smiled. He opened the Russian's phone and scrolled through the contacts. "Which one of these women likes you the best?"

"Karina. She is my favorite. And she speaks English very good." Doyle called Karina. She answered quickly.

"Your blond boy's hurt. Holt's Park. Come get him or he'll be dead by morning." Doyle snapped the phone in half and threw it away.

"Here's your knife in case any dogs come around. Don't try to shoot me. I took the bullets out."

+++++++

The Escalade was dying. The heat gauge was redlining and it was knocking itself apart.

"Just get me to Flynn's you fucking hulk," Doyle whispered. It came close. It died two blocks away. Doyle had enough momentum to ditch it in a parking lot before it coughed and croaked. Nobody in this neighborhood would mess with it. They knew what Mugsy's boys drove.

Doyle made two phone calls. One to Mugsy to tell him where to pick up the Cadillac. And one to Don Marco.

After he spoke to the Don, who slept two hours a night and still had the sharpest brain of anyone he knew, Doyle started walking towards Flynn's. Flynn's was run by the head of all Irish crime in the city, Paul Flynn. Paul was a burly but kind faced man with huge hands and a voice that soared like an angel. He was also a cold blooded murderer who slit his own brother's throat and buried a rival alive with the man's wife, two daughters and pit bull. Legend held that the dog was the last to die.

The place was a welcoming shit-hole. Every town has these bars, ugly siding and mug shaped signs with more bulbs burned-out than lit. Beer signs golden with layers of nicotine stain. Flynn's was part neighborhood bar and part frontier fort. In the 1920's and 30's, there had been frequent shoot outs with the cops. Around 1950, a lynch mob surrounded the place and dispersed only after a hot torrent of machinegun fire rained down from the roof. Not that long ago, an ex-IRA operative blew himself to hell in the back alley when he found out his girlfriend had been fucking Timmy Flynn. The explosion took Timmy and the girl with him.

But mostly there were fights in Flynn's. Good natured maulings that left all involved tougher and meaner but with no real permanent damage. Iron workers, mechanics, and machinists frequented Flynn's. Men used to making metal behave and who often forgot that they were made of flesh. And now Doyle needed a few of these drunken Micks to form a small little army for him.

© Brian S. Roe

Chapter 7: Big in Japan

2009-10-12T03:56:00.000-07:00

Heckler crossed Stuyvesant Street, darting diagonal across the intersection of Monticello where the King Edward Hotel held the street corner with the tenacity of an aged whore. The oldest building in the city, its beauty had faded with time and experience—the anarchist bombing that rang in the start of the 20th century, the Spanish influenza epidemic that swelled its halls with the dead, the WWII writer who returned from Hollywood only to coat the walls with his brains, the police standoff in the late 70's with the heroin king who barricaded himself on the seventh floor. But like the whore, sometimes at night, when no one remembered the past and the light was poor and you had nowhere else to go, you could see why men had once paid so much to get inside. You hoped that underneath the ages of paint that couldn't hide the gaping cracks in the facade, a little beauty remained just for you.

For Heckler, it seemed like the only place to meet a Russian who would give him guns he would point at an Irishman and commit a murder he prayed would kill the ghost of a promise he had made a dead, little boy. An act he wanted to believe was justice, hoped came from a conscience he barely remembered, but feared was only ego.

Heckler looked straight ahead at the here and now, at the three men waiting beside the black SUV.

His polished wingtips and long, dark coat couldn’t hide the awkwardness of Fyodor Ivanovich Gavrilov’s build. Even without the two large, men on either side of him, Gavrilov appeared short. His expensive, green suit couldn't mask the wide, beefy thighs and biceps narrowing into thin calves and forearms. The jacket couldn't even the barrel chest defining his long torso. Since the last time Heckler had seen him, he had grown a beard. The trimmed, reddish whiskers magnified the hint of a hair lip and the jutting bone structure of his mouth. Coupled with a nervous head tick from a childhood illness and a bullheaded tenacity, Fyodor had earned the nickname Fido.

The two men flanking Gavrilov, Heckler recognized. Their names he couldn’t remember. He did know both were former Spetsgruppa V soldiers. The ugliest one with the lazy eye and the blunt, discolored teeth had been a Sport Sambo champion. The other, the blonde with the flat nose and cauliflower ears, had taught Systema to other units of the Soviet Special Forces.

Gavrilov he knew well from back in the days before perestroika, when the collapse of the monolithic Soviet Economy seemed only a Western wet dream, and he ran KGB operations across Europe for the First Directorate. He had chosen Heckler as part of a team to assassinate a Soviet footballer who had defected and dared to play a match in West Berlin. After economic woes drew the Iron Curtain back to the harsh light of the free market, Gavrilov did what every intelligence officer who managed to escape jail time or execution in the Eastern Block did and went into business for himself. With the help of his former contacts he formed the Mayakovskaya Bratva, murdering his way into gangster prominence, carving a large slice of the international trade in guns, drugs, and women from the bodies of Chechen rivals.

“Rudolf,” Gavrilov said.

“Fido,” Heckler said as they embraced.

Fido pushed Heckler to arm’s length. “No one is calling me Fido any longer.” Heckler nodded as Fido patted his shoulders, released him and continued, “It has been a long time since the seeing of each other—not since…what…the UAE?”

“Yes. Not since the Arabs.” Heckler reached into his coat for cigarettes.

“Here, smoke one of mine. Your cigarettes are stinking. There is only one thing the French have ever been doing well and this is not the making of cigarettes.” He handed Heckler a Sobraine Black Russian and lit it with a diamond encrusted lighter. “See, better than the fucking French shit for the smoking, yes?”

Heckler answered with an exhale. The sudden rush of nicotine hit him hard between the eyes and sent his heart galloping in his chest. I shouldn’t have taken so many pills, he thought. “They’re harsh,” he told Fido.

Fido laughed, shook his head and then lit one of his own. “Tell me...what the fuck you are doing here?”

“I came to kill a man.”

“The Irishman? Fucking kill him and be done and board a plane and get the fuck out of here, okay? You are fucking things up here in the ass for everyone. No ones likes ass fucking except for whores and faggots. Whores are only liking if there is paying, okay? And you, my German friend, are not paying me for the fucking in the ass. So, do not being a faggot.”

Heckler wetted his lips. “I’m not paying you for anything, Fido,” he said. The stitches itched, but he didn’t scratch them. “You owe me and this ends tonight.” When he finished, his tongue felt thick. He drug it across his teeth and looked at the butt of his cigarette. It was discolored.

Fido narrowed his eyes. “That is good. Tonight is all I’m giving you, okay? You kill this fuck and you move on. You are drawing of the heat. You are costing me money and I do not like to spend money on your hard-on for Irish fuck who is not having of the sense to use potato for only worthwhile use—vodka. Potatoes taste like dirt...I want to spend money on my hard-on: clothes, food, women…”

Heckler’s vision blurred. Fido’s voice distorted, words lolling off his tongue. “You have my guns?” Heckler blinked. Nothing cleared.

Except Fido's throat as he held his cigarette against his lips, studying Heckler through the thick curlicues of smoke. He drug on the cigarette, pinched a piece of tobacco off his tongue and smiled. “You won’t be needing of them.”

Heckler’s knees buckled. He looked down at his cigarette and then back up at Fido. The cigarette slipped from between his fingers and tumbled in slow motion. It hit the pavement and bounced twice. Fido ground it under his shoe and pushed Heckler.

Heckler fell. His legs twisted underneath him. Pain shot up his ankle. His head smacked the pavement and something exploded in front of his eyes. “What did I tell you after you strangled that footballer?” Gavrilov asked, his English suddenly improved.

Heckler gibberished.

“Never take a cigarette from a Russian.” Gavrilov laughed. “Put him in the truck.”

Heckler was aware of something lifting him up. Gavrilov’s face stretched into a long snout. His jowls flapped and ropes of spittle flopped as he barked, “Oyabun Fukasaku has put a price on your head. He is grateful for that you murdered Kitano, but he must save face.”

Heckler plummeted…cold…hard…boxed in…Gavrilov’s tongue curled out of his mouth. Panting campfire breath. Hovering beside his dog’s head, two blobs twisted and contorted. Leering face shapes. Long proboscises twitched wetly. A thousand eyes stared at him hungrily. Heckler scratched at his face. The stitches erupted. Something wet flowed across his fingers. As a chittering, black cloud fell, separating him from the dog and the two bloated fleas, he muttered, “Jingi naki tataka.”

“The fuck he say?” Leonid asked, slamming the hatch closed.

“Nichevo,” Fido said. “Nothing.” He turned to Fazil and thumped the blonde man on his chest. “Stay behind. Fucking kill Doyle. And make it quick.”

Heckler dreamed of the girl with the lotus tattoo…

© Chad Eagleton

Chapter 8

Chapter 6:   Just the Right Bullets

2009-10-01T22:52:00.000-07:00

Engine grumble and bullet hole whistles followed the Cadillac as Doyle chased the headlights towards Holt’s Park. The chemical soup of painkillers, speed, and booze was starting to work it’s synergistic magic on his pain. The nerves, the blood, the meat were going numb. He felt more like a machine. He’d need that feeling to go up against Heckler.

We’re all just bullets. Sitting in this damned metal box speeding towards death, locked in like a slug in a clip, the feeder spring always pushing you up towards the firing chamber. Bosses, money, women, honor, these things pushed men to become killers. Some men were just born into it. Some found their way into the life and once you partook of the killing communion you could never leave. Once you became a bullet it was all you could ever be.

Doyle wondered what kind of bullets he needed to kill Heckler.

Why the hell was he here?! He should have been back with Liu, taking her out for drinks after her shift at La Chabanais, laughing with her as her eyes sparkled in the neon, feeling her body writhe under his hands. Instead he was in a shot up land yacht going off to meet a cold-blooded, psychotic, European in a final game of kill or be killed. Doyle didn’t mind killing when there was a clear purpose. That was why he’d thrown that kid off the balcony in Nagoya.

The little punk had been brewing up what promised to be one of the bloodiest yakuza rumbles in recent memory all for the sake of meanness and spite. The same sort of blood desire that made men turn dogs loose on bulls or mongoose on cobras. Except that little evil twist had wanted to see all of Aichi Prefecture burn with corpse-fires. In the time that Doyle and Heckler had been in Nagoya the traditional system of yakuza balance had been upset to such a point that the major clans had started going against each other with a violence never before seen. Even clans within the Yamaguchi-gumi and Sumiyoshi-rengo families had started cutting into each other over a series of bloody incidents that cast blame on each other.

What had started as a simple job busting heads and running guns had turned into a vile meatgrinder of a gang war fueled by Heckler’s fucking boyfriend. The night he tried to seduce Doyle into his little group was the night he had been thrown from the thirteenth floor of a Hibino apartment house. Doyle had one last meeting with Oyabun Kitano and made his way back stateside. He could have tangled with Heckler right then and there but thought it would be more fitting to have Kitano’s boys carve him into bite-sized pieces.

But apparently he had given the young blades of Kitano’s clan too much credit since now a vengeful machine ghost named Heckler was ripping through town killing as he went and looking for Doyle. Fine you razor-blade-cock-sucker, here I come.

*****
The headlights swept the park entrance as Doyle pulled in. He calmly parked the car and got out. He’d picked a spot with no lights and plenty of clear sightlines. Heckler was one hell of a shot but he only had a pistol. Doyle would take his chances.

He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pint of whiskey. One of the boy’s he guessed, proper rotgut. He downed a gulp and dropped the bottle in the seat. No worries about a sniffing cop coming by. One of the great things about Holt’s Park is that the police just sort of forgot it existed. So if someone wanted a little action, something smuggled in, or for something to happen bad in secret Holt’s Park was as good a place as any. During the weekends the place was full of low-rent families burning Value-Tyme hotdogs over smoldering briquets and sometimes finding spent shell casings and crack vials. Doyle had the odd thought that he had never taken Liu on a picnic. He shrugged that thought away with cold force.

He got back in the Escalade and prowled the park with his lights off. Heckler had laser sharp senses so he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t see him first. But moving was better than staying in place. He hated this cat and mouse bullshit. He hated even more that Heckler made a damn good cat.

Tick. A small hole existed in the windshield. A fine spray of safety glass cut his face as a nine millimeter slug etched a perfectly straight trench across the side of his head. The bullet plowed into the headrest and then right out the back of the Cadillac.

Tick. Doyle’s foot slammed down onto the gas pedal and the monstrous engine roared fury that forced the metal hulk onward like a charging bull.

Tick. Another hole in the windshield. No pain this time. Miss. Air blasted through the windshield.

Tick. A quick glance of a Nissan Maxima parked back behind some bushes. Doyle turned the wheel towards it.

Tick. The Escalade rammed full tilt into the side of the Nissan sending the smaller car tumbling over on its side.

The Cadillac coughed, the stress of the crash too much for its over-large engine. Doyle spun the wheel, sliding the Escalade to a stop. As the hulk came to a rest he dove from the truck while using it as cover. As he landed he felt his knee go out and he turned this into a clumsy roll that soon had him crouched behind the steaming wreck of the Escalade. He knew that there was great pain in his knee but the drugs kept it hidden. He hoped it would hold up when he needed it.

He hobbled over to the Maxima hoping to see a smashed Heckler pinned behind the wheel. He swept the car with his Colt but Heckler was nowhere to be seen. The car reeked of fucking Gaulois. Ping! A bullet smacked off of the car. Doyle dropped and fired back the way the rounds had come. Zip! A round flew past his ear. Crack! Another shot tore the shoulder of his coat.

Only the teetering randomness of his charge saved him. Heckler was an ace marksman but even he has trouble hitting a chaotically stumbling shape in the dark. Doyle dove behind a concrete bench and took the time to find Heckler before giving his position away again.

The night went heavily silent as the two killers stared deeply into the dark.

Chapter 7

© Brian Roe

Chapter 5: God's Away On Business

2009-09-19T21:48:00.000-07:00

With his left index finger, Heckler fish-hooked the corner of his mouth, revealing a bloody hole next to his back molar. He tongued the wound. A splinter of tooth poked him. He fretted it loose and then pried it out with his blunt nails.

Heckler stared at the yellowed tooth-piece. The hollow sliver nestled in the deep fate-line crosshatched across his pale palm. He turned it over once with his thumb before pitching it in the trash. His teeth didn’t hurt. They couldn’t hurt. He had a nerve-dead mouth full of metal and plastic, crafted with all the artistry of Iron Curtain dentistry.

Uncapping the mouth rinse, he knocked it back like a shot. It burned on his tongue. He swished it and spat it into the pitted basin. He tore off a paper towel, wiped his mouth, and unzipped his single piece of luggage.

Heckler removed a compact black case and placed it on the sink. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt. He winced as he shrugged it off his shoulders. He wadded it up, his lats on fire, and shoved it down into the overflowing waste basket.

He unbuckled the leather belt and removed his pants. In the jaundiced light of the gas station restroom, Heckler’s body looked like an expressionist painting, a worn pallet for the mad swirl of colors that softened and darkened across his tender flesh.

With a handful of antiseptic pads from the case, he scrubbed the cuts and abrasions until his skin burned. He spat again. Then prepared with a few deep controlled breaths, vision focused on the black hole in the middle of the sink. A warm tendril of bloody saliva clung to the tarnished metal ring before releasing with a single bubble pop and disappearing down the rusted pipe.

Heckler began.

He sat the vial on the short, narrow ledge above the sink and removed a packaged needle from his “travel bag”. A gash on his right arm burned. He tore the package open with his teeth, popped the syringe out, and removed the cap. He filled it with lidocaine.

The worst gash started at the hair line and curled around the skull into the narrow arch of his eyebrow. He inserted the needle in the flesh around the wound, shooting it full of the anesthetic. He paused for two quick breaths, the lidocaine burned, before numbing the inch and a half long cut under his eye and leading to his nose.

When the burning stopped and the numbness spread, he removed the atraumatic needle with sutures and used a simple interrupted stitch to close both wounds.

A breath and a pill-cap twist. He dumped a handful of OxyContin into his palm and then his mouth. He chomped them like breath mints and got dressed.

*****

Heckler ghosted through the city.

*****

The alleyway cut between Alta Loma Road and Stuyvesant Street just west of Gambier Terrace. Narrow and dark, it provided the only viable shortcut to Holts Park, avoiding the congestion of Bachelor’s Walk with its long lines of trendy bars and teetering drunks.

Heckler’s headlights found her first.

A small girl on her knees in the alley. Red tube top pushed down around her waist. Black vinyl skirt. Scuffed boots crossed at the ankles.

Heckler stopped. Hit the high beams. The john opened his eyes and squinted. Searching for the blue-red flash and, finding none, he clenched his fist and yelled.

Heckler climbed out of the car.

The john pushed her away. She fell against the dumpster.

“What the fuck you want, man?” He barked, fastening his chinos.

Heckler glanced at the girl. She wiped her mouth and brushed her thinning bleached hair back over her large, pimpled forehead.

“Go fuck yourself, mudfucker.”

“Who the fuck—“

Heckler stabbed two fingers hard into his suprasternal notch, the hollow of the throat. The john gagged, dipping his head and meeting the thrust of Heckler’s knee. He fell back onto his ass. The button on his chinos popped and his fleshy belly peeked from under his faded, black t-shirt.

Heckler showed him the knife. “Fuck off.”

As the john ran out of the alley holding his pants closed, he approached the girl. She watched him with dead eyes. “Up,” Heckler told her, “and cover yourself.”

She did and waited for the blade.

When it didn’t come, she said, “What…what do you want?”

Heckler pushed the memory of the girl with the Lotus tattoo out of his mind. “Get in the car.”

She moved like a dog that had been beat too much and still licked for the master’s hand even as the boot came stomping down. Her door slammed and Heckler walked slowly to the car, making sure the john hadn’t found his courage.

Once inside, Heckler said, “We are driving to the park.”

She nodded. “Can I smoke?”

He gave her a Gaulois.

“These stink,” she said, but smoked the entire thing down to the butt as they hit Stuyvesant Street and headed north into the park.

The girl with the Lotus tattoo had said the same thing. But she had been smoking Gaulois cigarettes that night everything went to hell. The night he pumped a cluster of shots into Boss Kitano’s tattooed chest.

When Heckler pulled into a dim parking spot, shaded by a thick line of trees and overgrown bushes, the hooker ground her cigarette out in the ashtray and turned in the seat, spreading her legs.

“No,” Heckler told her. “You and I are going to make some phone calls.”

*****

“Fuck you,” the girl said. “Fucking kill me now.”

“You’ll make the phone call.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do to me, ain’t already been done. Ain’t nothin’ you can do to me won't get done to me when they find out I fucked Doyle.”

“You will help.”

She crossed her arms.

“No one will know you sold Doyle out.”

“He ain’t never done nothin’ to me.”

“But he did something to me.”

“You pro’lly deserved it then.”

“Most likely,” Heckler said. “But the boy didn’t deserve it.”

Her arms slacked, hands trembling a little. She tried to steady them by smoothing out her skirt. For a moment Heckler saw the shred of humanity that hadn’t been beaten or fucked out of her.

“You have children?”

“Only one that lived.” She chewed at the dried skin in the corner of her blistered lip. “He lives with his mamaw.”

“You wouldn’t want to see him hurt, would you?”

And Heckler saw the part of her the still knew fear. “No.”

“Then you understand why I must hurt Doyle.”

“He hurt…your boy?”

“A boy—a child that was important to me, yes.”

She turned and picked up the payphone. “It’s broke.”

*****
They found one that worked on the other side of the park. When she hung it up, she said, “Can I have another one of those weird cigarettes you got?”

Heckler lit one and handed it to her. She took it and hot-boxed it, before she said, “I never heard of these.”

“They’re French.”

She nodded and took a smaller, slower drag. “He’s gettin’ patched up. The words out. People’s supposed to be looking for you.”

He nodded. “You know how to get a hold of him?”

“He’s at Doc Hannigan’s. He’s a vet now. Used to be a real doctor.”

“Call him.”

*****

She hung the phone up and leaned against it. Scratching at her arm, she said, “I told him, just like you told me.”

“Good,” Heckler said.

“Did he really hurt that little boy?” She closed her eyes.

Gently, Heckler touched the back of her head. “Yes,” he told her.

“I hope you kill him, then.”

“I will.”

"You ever wonder why so many bad things happen?"

"No."

"I do. I wonder why God lets it happen."

"God's away on business."

She nodded and closed her eyes. “Can I go? I’m…tired.”

“Sleep,” Heckler told her and then grabbed a handful of her hair and rammed her forehead repeatedly into the phone.

Chapter 6

© Chad Eagleton

Chapter 4: Small Change

2009-09-12T03:26:00.000-07:00

“Kill him Lenny! Kill him.” Doyle croaked at the blue eyed kid. Lenny held his gun like it was on fire, pointing it in Heckler’s direction.

“ Lenny he’s going to kill you and Mikey and Joey and then rape your sister! Kill him!”

Heckler stared at the kid with slickly charming snake eyes. He wondered how a person with so many scars on his face could be so unable to hurt someone. Heckler’s eyes caressed the boy’s eyes. He was telling the boy that I am kind and calm, the large bastard on the ground is crazy and violent, don’t listen to him.

Doyle grunted and started trying to force himself to stand up. He slipped on blood wet pocket change and went down onto his wounded knee. The bellow that roared from his mouth was not human. Bison made that sound. Doyle tried to stand again. All this time Heckler was slipping sideways, away from the kid with the 9mm.

“Stop right there man.” Lenny said. “You shot Mikey and Joey.”

“ And I’m still going to rape your sister you meatheaded queer.” The casual tone stunned Lenny for the briefest second as Heckler slipped quickly into the shadows. The 9mm finally barked, sending wide shots into the darkness.

“ Goddamn it Lenny help me up.” Doyle groaned. Lenny pulled him easily to his feet. Doyle almost buckled but forced himself to hobble to the Escalade.

“Get the boys in the truck and get us to Doc Hannigan’s. You’ve got to get us out of here Lenny.” Lenny snapped into action pulling the other wounded men into the Cadillac and finally settling himself behind the wheel. He drove slowly away from the flashing lights as casually as possible. Only when he was well away from the scene did he stomp the gas and steer the oversized land yacht down city streets towards Doctor Hannigan’s.

*****

Night air blew over them as the Cadillac ate up road. Hopefully, no one would notice the shattered window and bullet holes that whistled as they drove. Mikey’s gurgling was getting slower. Joey was gritting his teeth and trying to stay quiet. These were Mugsy’s boys and he wouldn’t take kindly to them getting perforated by an out of town gunsel. Doyle’s arm burned and his knee throbbed like quiet thunder. He was silent in the way that loaded howitzers were silent.

Blair Hannigan brought a platter of roast beef to the table as her husband, Dr. Blake Hannigan, mixed himself a scotch highball. The house was quiet and warmly dark, soft music playing from the living room. The table was set and it was time for a very late dinner. Blake had been on call until 11:00pm, now he could rest and let the day’s patients do without him for a while. When Blair saw headlights slash across the picture window she instantly knew better.

The Escalade pulled to the front of the garage and Doyle got out. He limped to the front door and knocked once. Doc opened the door. Doyle took the drink from his hand and slugged it back.

“ Mikey’s about gone. Joey’s not so bad but still needs attention.”

The Hannigan’s went into full M.A.S.H. mode. Blair opened the garage door and Lenny pulled the Cadillac inside. The four able bodies quickly moved Mikey into the operating room that came directly off of the garage. Blair started various pinging machines as Doc scrubbed up. This would not be the first or the last dinner ruined by someone’s errant bullets. Being an on-call mob doctor required scheduling flexibility.

Joey sat stewing as Mikey was brought back from the edge. Lenny paced like a nervous hen, wringing his hands and looking up startled at any loud noise. Doyle walked into the dining room to call Mugsy.

“ I need you to get the girls and boys to keep their eyes open.” He gave Mugsy Heckler’s description. Mugsy’s network of prostitutes and pushers made for a very effective dragnet.

“ Have them call me directly if they see him,” Doyle said.

“ What kind of shit have you brought to my house Doyle? Liu’s dead? I almost fucking lost Mikey? I don’t need fucking friends like you if this shit keeps going south.” Mugsy was fuming, vomiting his words out like dry heaves.

Doyle said nothing.

“ I mean fuck man! You got shootings in my place. My boys getting shot up for no good reason. Fuck! You can’t do this to me.”

Doyle said nothing.

“ I mean, shit man, I know I owe you. Fuck, I owe you everything I guess. But I don’t need this shit...” Mugsy trailed off.

Doyle said nothing.

“ All right. I’ll get the whore network going. Fuck man. I’m sorry about Liu.”

Doyle hung up.

When Doc Hannigan finally came out of the op room he had a bloody shirt and bloodshot eyes. Doyle was picking at the roast beef and drinking scotch.

“ He’ll make it. Damned kid’s built like a Mack truck. Joey’s going to need a new knee. I’ve got some friends in Belfast who are real good with that kind of thing.”

Blair came in and started giving Doyle an impromptu exam. His knee was slashed, his arm was grazed, he had various abrasions and bruises from the car that smacked them.

“ Just give me a cover for the knee and something for the pain. And some Dexies if you’ve got them.” He couldn’t afford the time for a complete tune-up. He had someone to stalk and kill.

When the Doc finished, Doyle found Lenny and got the keys to the Cadillac. Doyle opened the compartment in the back and took out three fresh clips of .45 ACP ammo. Mugsy would be sending somebody around to pick up the boys once Mikey was stabilized. Doc Hannigan and Blair finally sat down to a cold, congealed dinner. Doyle saw Doc eating roast beef with blood on his shirt.

It made Doyle’s stomach growl.

*****

He got the call on the way back to Le Chabanais. A girl named Sindy had seen a guy matching Heckler’s description driving through an alley near Holt’s Park. Sindy had been giving a blow job beside a dumpster. She said she didn’t think the man had seen her.

Doyle thanked her and told her to get out of that area just in case. He’d pick up her dues for the night.

Doyle smiled grimly and headed towards Holt’s Park. He had the taste of raw meat on his breath.

Chapter 5

Chapter 3: On the Nickel

2009-09-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

“Have you ever killed anyone before?” Heckler asked Liu.

“You can be the first,” she said.

“Are you prepared for it? The noise. The smoke. The smell. The splatter.”

Her lips quivered and she bit them into stillness. Locking her knees and leaning back, she stuck her scarred stomach toward him like it was the weapon. “Yes,” she said as she clamped her left eye shut and sighted down the barrel.

Heckler nodded. “You might want to adjust your stance, a little wider, especially in the heels. Lean forward more. And aim here.” Heckler tapped his chest with his first, two fingers. Her eyes bobbed to the rhythm. “I would like a cigarette before I die.” He lowered his hands slowly, fingers splayed on his pressed slacks.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Do you smoke?” He fished around for his pack of Gauloise cigarettes.

“No,” she said.

“You should. I always allowed everyone a last smoke. But no one smokes anymore do they?” Heckler continued searching his pockets.

“No, it stinks.”

“Doyle smokes, doesn’t he?” He produced the lighter with his left hand.

She laughed. “His stink better than yours.”

Heckler nodded and took the cigarettes from his inside pocket. He eureka’ed the pack in a triumphant, Olympic gesture over his head.

Liu’s big eyes followed the cigarettes and Heckler hurled the lighter at her face. It cracked her across the nose. She yelped and fired blind. The shot zinged wide, pounding its way into the far corner of the ceiling.

Before she could bat the tears away, Heckler was on her with a tight jab to the stomach and a sharp hook followed up to her little chin. As she doubled over, he grabbed her wrist, cranking it back while stomping the back of her knee. She dropped and he plucked the gun from her grasp, blowing her brains out the back of her skull in a billow of red like a cloud of cherry blossoms.

He walked briskly to the entrance and locked it. As the latch clicked, he heard something slam against the wood followed by nervous pounding. “Liu! Liu!” The bartender yelled into the door.

Heckler scooped up his lighter and cigarettes. He lit one and walked to the window, the bartender’s voice crackling louder, twisting into desperation. He opened it and waited, rubbing the raised Ministry for State Security seal stamped on the lighter-front.

When the bartender whimpered and ran down the hall screaming for help, Heckler returned the lighter to his pocket, opened the backdoor and climbed the rear stairs.

****

On the roof, Heckler ground the cigarette out on the bottom of his hand-stitched Italian loafers and stuck the butt in his pocket. He lit another one and stepped out to the ledge.

Waiting here reminded him of Paris and the night he first met Doyle. The darkness, the oppressive heat, the teasing breeze, and the murder still to come. Back then Heckler had taken the train up from Marseilles on a contract from the Unione Corse, the Corsican Mafia, to slit the throat of a two-bit forger who had double crossed them in a two-for-one deal.

The forger, a little man named Trocadero, had already burned all his bridges in the States. The final match lit a fire under Don Marco after the Spaniard sold the last Capo di tutti capi what was supposed to be first-rate bills of entry. By the time 5 million dollars worth of designer knock-offs were seized, Troc was already onboard a plane. When the whisper-stream fingered Paris, Marco bought Doyle a plane ticket.

The two killers crossed paths in a trash-strewn, piss-stinking alleyway on the edge of the Left Bank. The one difference, Heckler told himself, only one of us will walk away this time.

Heckler cupped the smoke in his palm and watched as Doyle’s Thunderbird squealed into a lot a block away. The big man barreled out of the car and raced to the side entrance. Doyle drew the antique he insisted on carrying and disappeared inside.

When the door slammed closed, Heckler ran for the ledge and leapt. He landed easily, rolling to his feet and smoothing his lapels. Drawing Liu’s .38, he held it down at his waist and moved into the deep shadows cast by the taller building at his back and the garish billboard with the ivory teeth, wet lips, and red pout.

That night years ago, after dumping Troc’s body in the Seine, the two of them shared a fifth in a smoky bar sandwiched between a sex shop and a discotheque blasting Arabic pop just north of the Champ-Elysees. Over a bottle, Heckler had softened to Doyle.

Now, he liked to think of that time as hangover. A hangover that lasted until Nagoya when everything went bad. He tried to think of Doyle as a headache he wanted gone and nothing more.

It was easier that way and far better than remembering Japan and the Sayonara Boys and the girl with the Lotus tattoo and the child lying beneath the muzzle of that old .45.

Better than acknowledging the loneliness. The loneliness he had felt since that day he read the writing on the Wall, walked into Stasi HQ and then out again with his own file before bluffing his way past checkpoint Charlie and onto a train for Marseilles.

And he would never admit Doyle’s resemblance to that college student in West Berlin, the one he had strangled and left coiled in a roll of barbed wire and whose face he sometimes saw in the thick smoke of a single Gauloise in those hot, hotel room nights after the women were gone.
Heckler had no use for those.

Only death.

It was death he thought of as he watched Doyle climb out one of the windows across the alley and move clumsily around the rooftop, eyes racing as he swung the gun around like a broadsword.

As long as it remains like this, I’ll be fine, Heckler thought. Doyle has always been shit with a gun. It was up close that he became dangerous.

But we’re not up close, Heckler thought, raising Liu’s weapon. He paused for a breath and squeezed the trigger.

Doyle moved and the shot brushed against his arm like a parting kiss. Before Heckler could retreat, the big man dropped to a knee and opened up with the .45, unloading eight rounds into the alleyway.

You can’t kill ghosts that way.

Doyle clacked the empty clip onto the roof with a flat thumb-flip and pistoned a fresh one into the grip. When the reinforcements clicked into place, he sent a fresh, full-metal jacketed wave screaming into the alley with all the concern of a West Point general.

One last crack, then a dry fire and the night quieted except for the sound of distant sirens. Doyle walked to his ledge and looked down before dropping into the killing zone and charging toward the front of the alley. When he hit the street, he veered right.

Switching the .38 to his left hand, he drew the HKP30 and leapt down.

Heckler hit the street and turned, ready to blast twin shots into Doyle’s broad back. But Doyle wasn’t alone. A Cadillac Escalade ate two parking spaces roadside and three other men, all fender-haired and thick necked, claimed the sidewalk for seconds.

The first shot tore open the neck of the biggest, the one with the crucifix nestled in his barbell cleavage, spraying Doyle’s face with blood. The .38 answered with a short pop, blowing the kneecap out of the second as he tried to push his way past.

The .45 boomed, but Heckler was already moving, darting around the front of the Escalade. A window shattered and the night opened to both screams and sirens.

Two quick trigger-pulls and he continued around the SUV. The guy with the puckered scars in the corner of his blue eyes hurried around the rear and busted two quick snaps of his .9mm. Each punched metal and not flesh.

Heckler fired once with the HK, sending the thug spinning for cover. As he glanced back to the front, Doyle rushed around the grill and hammered him in the temple. Both fist and barrel opened cuts on his face.

Heckler tried to raise his weapons, but his former partner dropped his own and slammed them both against the Escalade. His guns clattered onto the street, and Doyle unleashed a fury of fists and knees.

Heckler weathered the onslaught and suffered his way through a fumbling shirt-front grab. He slammed his forehead down, hoping for the soft squish of cartilage, but finding only thick-boned forehead that fireworked his vision.

“Motherfucker,” Doyle yelled and sledge-hammered a fist into his diaphragm.

Heckler retched and buckled.

Doyle stepped back, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. “It wasn’t my fault, you dumb sonofabitch.”

Heckler looked up at him with bloody eyes and smiled. He tore the knife from his pocket and slashed a four inch gash across Doyle’s knee. Rushing to his feet, he thrust all 6 inches of dull steel toward his gut, but he staggered back and grabbed Heckler’s wrist, pulling them both forward.

They smacked into a passing car and pirouetted into a mess of bloody limbs and torn clothes. The car swerved and crashed through a parking meter in a shower of quarters, dimes, and nickels.

Doyle moaned.

Heckler grimaced to his feet.

Blue Eyes cautiously stepped into the street, .9mm in hand.

Flashing lights filled the night.

A single tooth rested on a bloody nickel.

Chapter Four

© Chad Eagleton

Chapter 2: Scarlet Ribbons in Your Hair.

2009-09-02T00:50:00.001-07:00

Previous Chapter

The meeting with Don Marco had gone overtime and Doyle was doing ninety miles per trying to get the time back. He’d gotten a call from Guy at Le Chabanais saying that a man had come in asking for Liu. He said the man swam like a torpedo. The thought made Doyle drive the gas pedal even harder into the floorboard of the Thunderbird. Cops be damned right now.

Doyle had told Liu that this man might come looking for him. She asked him if he was bad and Doyle had said “the worst”, that he was a man of metal, cold and sharp, unafraid and without empathy. Liu asked Doyle how he knew such a man.

“ We were partners for a time. In Paris and then Nagoya. Now he thinks I’ve done him some wrong and he’s probably on his way here to, um, discuss it with me.”

“ I am worried for you. You should go away.”

Doyle smiled at her and kissed her mouth into silence.

The tender thoughts of Liu made him hurt inside. The nighttime streets seemed to stretch themselves out to make the distance to Le Chabanais infinite. Even though the Thunderbird roared and ate up the asphalt, Doyle felt like he was running in a dream. The night air did little to cool the cold sweat moistening his forehead. His brain throbbed. Five hours with Don Marco and a frightened call from Guy made his head pound with each amplified heartbeat. Only the speed of the car and the Colt thumping against his ribs gave him any comfort.

Finally, Doyle saw Le Chabanais in the distance. He pulled the Thunderbird into a nearby lot and crouch-ran towards the side entrance. His passcard let him in as he scanned the narrow alley. He pulled the Colt from under his raincoat as he hustled into the building. Down a connecting hall, then towards the back, to Liu’s room. He picked up a smell that triggered more pounding in his head. The smoke from a spent bullet hovered in the hallway.

He shouldered the door open and swept the room with the Colt. Liu knelt in front of the couch like she had fallen asleep while giving a blowjob. Here was his woman on the floor, maybe hurt, maybe dead, but Doyle had to ignore her for now. He stepped into her dressing room and scanned the whole area with his red rimmed eyes and the Colt. The back window was partially open. Doyle stepped beside it, slammed it and locked it. He knew which way the bastard had gone. Now he had to see to Liu.

He holstered the .45 and reached for Liu. His left hand went to the back of her head to lay her back. He felt the softness of her hair, the sharpness of the cracked edge of her skull, and the still warm contents of her head. As he leaned her back he saw a perfect red ring where the bullet had gone in. It had penetrated her so quickly that it left an impossibly small wound. It had exited in a shower of her brains and skull.

Doyle heard footsteps behind him, too leaden to be Heckler’s. He spun with the Colt drawn to see Guy stammering with tears rolling down his cheeks.

Doyle holstered the gun as he wiped his hand on a towel printed with a chrysanthemum pattern.

“ Guy, get your head on straight. Call Mugsy and tell him Liu’s been shot. He’ll handle things. Tell him to keep her safe until I can see her again.”

“Keep her safe?” Guy stammered. “Safe?”

Like the slow clicking of gears in an alarm clock, Doyle’s heart began to beat. He rubbed his hand with the towel and didn’t look at Liu. He breathed through his nose and felt his headache suddenly fade. His alarm clock heart ticked slowly, but it was attached to six sticks of dynamite. Doyle slowly folded the towel and laid it on the couch. He pulled the clip from the .45 and tapped it against his head before slamming it into the grip.

The world around him faded in a blood red haze as he calmly exploded.

He vaulted up the small flight of stairs to the second floor. Luckily no one was up here and the lights were off. Usually he would have quietly snuck out the window, but quiet wasn’t going to happen tonight. He wanted thunder, roaring vengeance spat from his trusty .45 1911. There wouldn’t be any cover on the roof but sometimes the best cover was a screaming wall of red-hot, full metal jacket, .45 caliber slugs.

He went into one of the rooms and quickly scanned out through the window. If Heckler was out there Doyle couldn’t see him. Fine you murdering bastard, take a shot at me. Doyle unlatched the window and pushed it open. He hunched his back and threw his leg over the sill and out onto the back patio roof. He did all this knowing Heckler was waiting for him and that Heckler was an excellent shot. Doyle was not as good a shot, but with his blood boiling red hot it didn’t matter. Heckler would pay for Liu. He would pay for all of the others.

Out on the patio roof, the night air blew over him. It cooled him but not the heat in his blood. He scanned the back alley with his senses fully wide open. He looked possessed, but completely in control.

In that ugly, back alley death was waiting.

There! A sharp glint of gunmetal movement, snapshot crack, and searing pain. Left shoulder wet and on fire with burning nerves. Doyle crouched and unloaded the full eight rounds from his .45 before ramming a fresh rail of hardballs into the smoking gun. The jolts from the shots made his injured arm throb. His teeth glinted bright bone in the moonlight. The pistol rocked and spat fury. The barrel fucking glowed!

One more empty clip rattled against the roof. As He fed another in with an action smooth as mercury. Doyle’s eyes showed spots from the prolonged muzzle flash. The 55 gallon drum that Heckler had been hiding behind was riddled with holes. Rust dust hung in the air. Doyle lept and rolled into the alleyway. He charged the hiding spot. Heckler was gone.

Chapter 3

Chapter 1: A Sweet Little Bullet From A Pretty Blue Gun

2009-08-28T15:53:00.000-07:00

Harris Caulfield ran a car rental service two miles from the airport on the edge of industrial district, where factories still belched smoke against the jagged skyline. The lot housed no more than fifteen or twenty cars at a time, a garish neon sign reading simply “CARS!” and a squat office barely bigger than the large air conditioning unit chugging away around back in a feeble attempt to keep Caulfield’s bulk cool in the unending heat wave that always marked the unofficial start of summer.

Rudolf Heckler parked the car that had been waiting for him at the airport and walked inside. A bell dinged and Caulfield made a show of looking up from his nicotine stained monitor even though no more than 10 feet separated desk from the door.

“Help you?”

“I need a car.”

“Economy or luxury? Domestic or foreign.”

“Classic,” Heckler said.

“Model?”

“I’m particular—make it an Edsel.”

At the proper exchange, Caulfield rose slowly, crossed the room, and reached behind Heckler to lock the door and flip the sign.

Back at the desk, Caulfield said, “I’m afraid that model’s gone.”

“A shame,” Heckler replied.

“Will you settle for a Maxima? It’s not a classic, but it has…features.”

“Bells and whistles?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing fancy.”

Caulfield unlocked the center drawer of the desk and withdrew a single set of keys. “This should work. Everything’s clean.”

Heckler reached slowly for the keys with his left hand while slipping the other into his coat.
Caulfield clenched the keys in his fist. “Payment first, I’m afraid.”

Quickly, Heckler grabbed Caulfield’s wrist and yanked his arm forward. As the big man’s gut slammed into the desk, Heckler drew his blade and slammed it into his left armpit, puncturing the lung and severing a bundle of nerves. He glanced briefly through the window, before driving one final thrust into the left side of Caulfield’s neck.

Heckler scooped the keys up off the floor and walked outside to the only Maxima on the lot. He opened the trunk and flipped the carpet back, using the smallest key to unlock the large metal box that rested there in place of a spare.

Sticking the three boxes of ammunition into his pocket, he quickly examined the handgun. He laughed when he saw it was an HKP30.

*****

Two hours in the city and Rudolf Heckler had killed his first man. If only he were the right man, Heckler thought as he walked up to the bar in Le Chabanais.

The bartender smiled. “Good evening, Sir. A drink before joining the other patrons?”

“A drink? No. I’m looking for entertainment.”

“Le Chabanais is—“

“I know where I am. Skip the pleasantries.” Heckler snapped a crisp, one hundred dollar bill on the bar. “A friend recommended a particular companion—Liu Rushi.”

The bartender sat a Gibson Martini in front of Heckler. “Everyone wants a Rush.” He laughed to himself and then held up a single finger. “One moment, Sir,” he said, picking up the phone beneath the bar.

Heckler plucked the silverskin onion from his drink and popped it into his mouth. Even arriving in the city ahead of schedule, he knew he was working against the clock. He trusted his skills. But he didn’t trust his anger. This was personal. For him and the man he had flown half-way around the world to kill.

“Sir?”

Heckler turned.

“She’ll meet you shortly, sir. If you’ll follow me.”

*****

The room lay in the very back, at the end of the deep, red carpet trailing down the long, dark hall. It was wide and spacious, dominated by a long, black leather couch against the far wall.
Heckler paced around the room, looking behind the screens, beneath the pillows on the green chaise lounge, and underneath the well stocked bar. He shook a crumpled Galoise loose from the pack he kept in the inside pocket of his houndstooth jacket and stared at the couch. Above it, a small shelf ran for its entire length, while above that, a lacquered red mirror threw Heckler’s reflection back at him.

He lit his cigarette and moved toward the couch.

He was reaching for the chrysanthemum print towel, when the door opened and Liu Rushi entered. He stopped and turned, finally understanding why she appeared to be the only weakness of the man he had come to kill.

Smooth pale skin. Long black hair shining in the light. Chopped bangs so textured they looked unreal. Big, languid eyes. Shimmering lips painted the color of bruised plums.

She crossed over to him, pulled the cigarette from his hands and took a long drag. She opened her lips in an O and smoke drifted out in thick curls. As Heckler started to speak, she pushed him down onto the couch and turned sharply away.

She stabbed his cigarette out into the crystal ashtray sitting atop the bar and dropped her robe. She exhaled as she turned, stalking toward him through a cloud of smoke.

Her hair swept across her bony shoulders and Heckler stared at her. Not at the small breasts, barely contained in the yellow bra, or the muscles in her legs tensing and rippling, but at the pink, puckered scar that J’ed across her flat stomach.

Liu leaned forward, placing her small hands on either side of Heckler’s head. “I know why you’re here,” she said as she slowly placed one leg and then the other on the smooth, black leather couch. She eased her slight weight down onto his lap and her glossy lips trembled. Her back arched and she shot forward, her long black hair covering Heckler’s face, her mouth against his ear. “You’re looking for someone.”

“I am?”

Her left hand traced its way up Heckler’s chest until finding his face. She caressed the stubble along his hollow cheeks, the long nail on her forefinger plucking at his earlobe. “He told me you would come.”

Heckler tensed.

“He wanted me,” she breathed, “to give you something.” She tossed her hair back and looked at him with her vacant eyes before leaning forward again, brushing his lips slightly with her own.
“What is that?” Heckler said into her mouth.

She rose up on his lap, looking down at him.

They stared at each other for a moment before Heckler blinked.

Liu raked her nails across his face, and then fired her elbow into his chin. Heckler grimaced and she snaked a hand underneath the towel. He shoved her with his shoulder, trying to shoot up to his feet. She stumbled on her platform shoes, but the .38 was already in her hand and pointed at him.

She laughed as Heckler froze. “He wanted me to give you…” she cocked the .38, “a sweet little bullet from a pretty blue gun.”

Chapter 2

© Chad Eagleton