‘II Vampiro Mafioso’ by Helen C. Murphy
Cats: Featured Writers|Inching back his cuff, Reno looked at his Rolex. It wasn’t the real thing, only a moderately good copy. He never quite managed to get enough cash together for the genuine article, as his friend who managed his money insisted he handed over the bulk of his earnings. Reno was either too stupid or too wise to ask where his money went. He got money for the essentials and the odd luxury, which was fine by him. It had to be, his ‘friend’ had an uncanny lucky streak; anyone who crossed him ended up with shotgun balls in their kneecaps or simply disappeared altogether. Besides, who needs banks anyway, with their paperwork, forms and endless queues? Reno had a talent that made him extremely valuable, (though not indispensable, he never fooled himself that he was irreplaceable) to his ‘friends’. Whether with a 44., a sawn-off, a knife, a garrote, a rifle or a handy blunt instrument, he could take out virtually anyone who had pissed off his employers without getting caught. He wasn’t just good, he was the best. Lean, mean, fighting machine was an apt description. A sensible diet, apart from the whiskey and the odd double chocolate chip muffin, and a rigorous exercise regime saw to that. Reno prided himself on his taut stomach, carefully maintaining the squares of muscle so they looked like a perfect six-pack. At thirty-seven, he was in great shape, years of potential usefulness left in him.
His latest venture had been to stroll into a police station that made Fort Knox look like kindergarten, wander onto the second floor, shoot in the chest two bent cops who owed his ‘friend’ money and saunter out again, without anyone turning a hair. Recollections of that successful jaunt made Reno grin to himself, as he slotted shiny metal bullets into the empty barrel of his lovingly polished gun. ‘Hiss!’ ‘Hiss!’ through the silencer and two faces were etched with indelible expressions of horror and surprise. Leaning on the lamppost outside, eating a mustard slathered hot-dog, he had watched as the station erupted into a frenzy of activity when the stiffs were discovered propped up at their desks. No one had thought to haul in the unshaven man outside wearing faded jeans, round dark glasses and a woolly hat. That job had earned him fourteen grand, seven grand a head, of which he gave ten to his ‘friend’.
Now he was just about to get going on another job, this time for a ‘friend of a friend’. The price tag on this one was a cool fifty grand. Fifty grand was an awful lot of money to rub out one scrawny jumped-up tart who had placed a stiletto heel over the line. Reno wondered exactly what she had done to warrant taking out a contract on her life. He had heard some nasty rumours about a gangland boss found in his Jacuzzi with his severed head in his lap, entrails left in the ice bucket.
Apparently he was bled dry, several hundred grand’s worth of coke and cash missing from his safe. It must have taken the household staff weeks to get the stains out of the carpet. In Reno’s humble opinion, no one, let alone a pampered moll, could have done that without the heavies at the door hearing. Those same heavies had been discovered slumped at their posts like cauliflower-eared bookends, gaping red-rimmed razor smiles at their throats.
Peering at the apartment building, through the fine grey drizzle of the chilly autumnal night, Reno wiped the raindrops from his face, loaded gun disappearing into his pocket. Jogging across the street, dodging chugging taxicabs, he pushed open the glittering glass doors and slipped inside. Pretty soon, he was studying the front door of the hit’s home. Even for the squeeze of a deceased drug baron, the place was pretty swish. A penthouse apartment in the most expensive building in town, mahogany paneled doors, cool white marble floors, brass-button uniformed, dead, security guards downstairs. Fortunately, the building’s other occupants seemed to be out, probably at ridiculously expensive restaurants or the opera. Reno had never understood the appeal of watching people mince about in silly outfits shrilling in Italian, a language he had never mastered, to fiddly music.
A discreet white electronic keypad caught his attention, set unobtrusively in the wall beside the polished door frame. Padding quietly over, Reno drew a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, double checking the code sequence that would, his ‘friends’ assured, open the door. He had been staking out the joint for four hours before the target had arrived home. It was now the wrong side of one a.m. A sleek silver Mercedes had rolled up, the three-piece suited driver jumping out to open the rear passenger side door. Muffled against the damp night by an exquisite ankle length single-breasted black cashmere coat, heels clicking on the pavement, she had emerged from the car.
Dark hair swept up in an immaculate chignon, diamonds winking expensively at ears and throat, she had thanked the driver, patting his cheek in an almost maternal fashion. Though he had been quite a distance away, Reno could have sworn he saw the driver begin to tremble and turn the colour of boiled mutton. As the car had roared away into the night, the target sashayed into the building. Waiting a good half an hour before he had ventured up, Reno had given her time to get settled, maybe down a bedtime drink or two, and relax.
Jabbing an index finger at the pad, Reno keyed in the five digit code, his other hand creeping into his gun-filled pocket. Muted electronic beeps filled the air, like the sounds of a touch-tone phone. As always, he wore snug leather gloves to avoid leaving prints at the scene. He had been surprised to find that she had no heavies guarding her door. If he’d been neck deep in the sticky smelly brown stuff, he would have surrounded himself with all the protection he could find.
The keypad gave a triumphant three-fold tootle. As Reno flung himself flat against the wall, he heard a series of deadbolts clanking back into their housings. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, noting the chunky steel plating beneath the costly mahogany paneling. Noiselessly stealing across the threshold, he carefully closed the heavy door behind him so it didn’t make a sound. The apartment was in darkness, the floor beneath his feet covered with luxuriously thick carpet. That was always good, carpet muffled footsteps. Bare floorboards or tiles were bad; you might as well send the target a polite note announcing your presence and intentions. Squinting in the gloom, that was relieved by the distant twinkle of city lights through the open curtains, he could see that the apartment was tastefully decorated. Pale painted walls, discreet wall lamps, a sensuous ebony and brass Art Deco table bordered by a low Chippendale suite scattered with jewel-coloured silk cushions. A Bauhaus side chair sat in the corner of the room, stark metal lines glimmering in the reflected light from the building across the street. On the wall above the extravagant marble fireplace, a magnificent reproduction of Dali’s ‘The Persistence Of Memory’ hung.
Reno, of course, didn’t realise that the contents of that room alone could have earned him a lot more than fifty grand. He just saw a lot of designer gear that he vaguely recognised could possibly be worth a pretty penny. Unconsciously wriggling his shoulders, Reno poked his head into the kitchen. Nothing. Just pristine surfaces and sparkling stainless steel utensils that looked like they had never been used to prepare so much as a boiled egg. She must be asleep, nothing else would account for the still silence. If she were in the bath, changing for bed or applying the gunky shit women put on their faces at night, there would be small sounds, little indicators of movement and life. Maybe the splash of scented water, the pad of unwary bare feet on bathroom tiles, tinkling of cosmetics bottles or opening of wardrobe doors. There was nothing.
Despite this, Reno was decidedly uneasy. Over the years, he had developed an almost infallible gut instinct, a danger-radar that alerted him if he was about to get his throat cut or a bullet put in his skull. It had saved his life on many an occasion, and now it was prodding a sharp warning finger in his six-pack stomach. Fingers tightening around the butt of the gun, his hands were suddenly clammy inside his gloves.
A flash of movement flitted past the corner of his field of vision, causing him to whirl, gun held out before him. The room appeared exactly has it had before – almost. A dully gleaming bottle of wine lay in a silver ice bucket on the table, the handles moulded into stylized bunches of grapes. It looked so very inviting, lying at an angle encased in a sheath of crushed ice, cork just waiting to be popped free of the green glass. Reno realised how thirsty he was, how tempting it was to snatch a quick mouthful of chilled wine. It wasn’t normally his preferred poison, and to drink on the job was a sure sign you were beginning to lose it.
Licking his dry lips, he ignored the bottle, wondering why he hadn’t noticed it before. He was sure it hadn’t been there when he came in. His unease grew, pressing forward in his mind until it threatened to become panic. Panic was not an emotion Reno experienced very often; in fact, he was renowned in certain circles for his dead calm attitude. His gaze returned to the wine.
“It’s Château Lafite Rothschild, though I wouldn’t waste it on the likes of you,” a female voice said coolly from behind him.
Reno spun about, arms snapping straight as he aimed his gun in the direction of the unexpected voice. He hadn’t seen or heard anyone enter the room. There was a quiet click, and a soft halo of light mushroomed out from a Tiffany lamp perched on a pedestal table next to the armchair. Reclining in the embrace of the ornate armchair, the target languidly folded her slender white arms, vibrant squares of blue, red and green light cast through the lampshade playing across her features.
Clad in a simple black shift dress, fingers, throat and ears devoid of the dazzling array of jewels she had sported earlier, she raised a perfect dark brow questioningly.
“Well? I expected something more than slack-jawed amazement, Mr Reno, a bullet to the heart, perhaps.” She trailed long, pianist’s fingers across her chest before touching her temple,
“Or maybe the head.”
Reno shifted from foot to foot, dumbfounded. Most hits either made hysterical grabs for their weapons, screamed for their heavies, or simply pleaded for their lives if they knew he was there to stamp them out. This target didn’t. She merely gazed at him unblinkingly with luminous cat emerald eyes, showing not the slightest trace of fear or panic. Reaching unhurriedly for the wine bottle, she produced a cut-crystal stem glass, popped the cork and poured in the chilled alcohol. Reno couldn’t see where she had magicked the glass from, the sudden light disrupting his usually excellent night vision.
Sipping a small mouthful, savoring the fine wine, she ran a moistened fingertip around the rim, the high quality crystal emitting a delicate musical tone. Belatedly, Reno realised she may have a gun secreted in the folds of her dress, or behind the cushions of the armchair.
“Don’t move!” he snarled, cocking the gun,
“Keep your hands where I can see them!!”
Her response was to look bored and stroke her pearly incisors with the wet pink tip of her tongue. Setting her glass down on the pedestal table at her side, she held up her open hands, lips quirking with tolerant amusement. Wiggling her fingers, lamplight causing her ruby varnished nails to wink and shine, she gave a slow, thoroughly unnerving smile. It was gentle, almost benevolent, but the warmth did not reach her eyes.
“I’m unarmed save for my cutting wit,” she announced, winding a strand of her unpinned hair around her index finger,
“Are you going to shoot me now, Mr Reno, because if you are, I suggest you do it quickly.”
Reno beat his confusion into whining submission and locked it in the cellar; forcibly relaxing the tight knot of tension his muscles had wound themselves into. There was something about this woman, something that set his teeth on edge and made him want to fall at her feet and beg her to stop whatever strange, terrifying enchantment she was weaving. Most of the women Reno knew were either tired-looking hookers that stank of baby milk, heroin and cheap perfume, or pancake-cosmeticked molls with just enough brains to know what would get them a diamond bracelet and a designer dress.
This woman wasn’t remotely like them, she bore herself with supreme confidence and the knowledge of her complete and utter mastery of her sexuality. She wasn’t something to be used, abused, or dominated. Reno had the unsettling feeling that she was the one holding all the cards here. The fact he had the loaded gun suddenly didn’t seem to matter one iota. Lazily picking up her glass, she took another mouthful, eyes partially closing with pleasure. Reno watched as she drank the fragrant wine, mesmerized by the movement of her white throat as she swallowed.
A sudden, knee-trembling desire came over him, like there was an invisible piece of string attached to his crotch that she was yanking on. He yearned to run over there, swat the glass from her hand and lose himself in her creamy white flesh. Swallowing hard, he felt a trickle of perspiration run down his spine.
“How very Neanderthal,” she observed, eyeing him coldly,
“You disappoint me, Mr Reno, standing there reeking of sexual frustration, longing to paw at me like I was a cheap whore.”
Staggered, Reno flinched as if she had slapped him across the face, stomach clenching as he vainly tried to comprehend how she seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.
“How the hell….?”
“All you need to know is you’ll never understand.” She cut him off with a somewhat imperious wave of a pale hand.
Sinuously tucking her bare feet beneath her, topping up her glass, she leaned forward conspiratorially.
Involuntarily taking a step back, Reno wondered if he had misread the script. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she was the one who should be frightened. She was the one who should be shining with nerves, seen as horses sweat, men perspire and ladies merely glow.
That’s it, he thought. After this job, I’m gonna ask Tony for my money and retire. I must’ve short-circuited somewhere along the line and not noticed… I’m standing here talking to the bitch instead of pumping her full of lead, for Chrissake.
He could have emptied his gun into her three times over in the time he had been stood there gawping like an amateur. Wondering how long he could keep it up, he shifted his grip on his gun, ignoring the ache in his rigid arms.
“Aren’t you just a little bit curious?” she asked softly.
“About what?”
She gave a quiet chuckle, dipping her pinkie tip into the wine before popping it into her mouth. She was like a living, breathing Pre-Raphaelite painting, with her milky opalescent complexion and cloud of dark hair. Reno wondered how it was her lips were such a deep dark red; there was no tell-tale lipstick ring on her glass. Come to think of it, why was she so flawlessly pale? It was like every inch of her skin had been airbrushed with matte white paint. He was close enough to see she wasn’t wearing any cosmetics. Reno wasn’t exactly a man who paid attention to those kind of things, but he noticed now. The more he thought about it and the more he looked at her, the more anxious he became. It was an instinctual unease, the kind that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise. Try as he might, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
“To know if I really did those awful things to Nickolai?”
Shrugging with feigned nonchalance, Reno decided to play along for a while, breathing long and deep to calm his quick-stepping heart. Relaxing his arms a little as his muscles decided they had really had enough and needed a break, he inclined his head.
“Did you?” he asked gruffly.
She smiled a glacial, predatory smile, utterly devoid of warmth or humour. Reno felt his mouth dry, his gut instinct telling him to get out of there as fast as he possibly could, no matter what. Screw the job, forget the money, get out, now. Something nailed his feet to the carpet, and he didn’t move.
“Yes,” she said dispassionately, then with an almost girlish glee,
“All on my lonesome, too.”
Uncoiling from the chair with lithe feline grace, soft limbs firming with lean muscle, she crossed the room in two strides. A terrible, frightening luminance shone from her leaf green eyes, like someone had stolen two squares of stained glass from the Tiffany lamp and fixed them in her head.
“And do you want to know why?” she hissed ferociously, upper lip curling away from her teeth,
“Do you want to know why I tore his head off? Because he got too greedy, he thought he could have it all, muscle in on my patch and destroy everything I’ve worked for all these years.”
Automatically aiming for her skull, Reno backed off, heart threatening to pull itself through his ribcage. He’d only been in town a few months, long enough to hear whispered tales about a shadowy female figure who was rumoured to control everything from bank jobs to three-a-penny crack dealers on the street. Seemed he was one of the few to meet her in the flesh. Fingers curling into eye-gouging claws, she suddenly leapt with deadly streamlined elegance. Silencer-clad gun hissing as he squeezed the trigger twice, twin flowers of dripping crimson exploded at the target’s chest and abdomen.
The only sound in the luxurious apartment was a dull, fleshy thud as a body crumpled to the floor like so much black silk. Slender arms flung out like spilt milk, dark hair in disarray around her close-eyed countenance, she lay stiller than death, a slowly spreading pool of liquid redness soaking into the expensive carpet. Allowing himself a wide grin, Reno let out the breath he had been holding with a long, noisy exhalation. Wagging his head from side to side to relieve the tension-induced crick in his neck, he kneaded the bridge of his nose with gloved thumb and forefinger. That was that, all done and dusted. Fifty grand, oh boy. Peering down with interest at the lifeless form, he experienced a twinge of regret. If she really had been the enigmatic ‘Miss X’ of the gangland, she could have paid him an awful lot more money not to pull the trigger. Besides, it seemed such a loss to have wasted all that creamy dreamy skin and wet-dream curves.
God, she really had the knack of getting to you, Reno thought, watching as a thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of her partially open mouth, staining her porcelain cheek. I was ready to give up and run with my tail between my legs. Wonder how the hell she did it?
Musing on this and various other tit-bits of strangeness, he stepped over the body to retrieve the half-full glass left on the pedestal table. Tossing back the wine, he smacked his lips thoughtfully, she was right, it was really good stuff. Tucking his gun back into his pocket, he readjusted his green wool hat and zipped up his jacket. It was bloody cold outside, and he wanted to get to Tony’s with the good news. Tony was sure to break open a celebratory bottle of Chivas Regal and they would spend the remainder of the night getting gloriously drunk. Reno had taken three steps towards the door when he heard a slight sound. He froze in place like a cornered fox, hardly daring to look back. Whirling around, he felt very stupid, when all was as it had been before. The target still lay on her back, arms outstretched seemingly in supplication, just as dead as when he had last looked. Suppressing the urge to touch her, to see if she was still warm, Reno turned his back. When you started wanting to get friendly with your hits after the job, it was most definitely time to call the men in white coats.
Shaking his head, berating himself under his breath, he turned to leave. Even though she was laid out on the floor, he still couldn’t shake off a touch of the heebie-jeebies. He heard another small sound, like the sigh of inhaled air, but he deliberately ignored it. Bodies sometimes made weird noises, blood in the lungs, fluid rising in the throat, bowels expelling wastes after death, things like that. Reno had been around enough corpses to be familiar with the whole grisly repertoire. Scratching at his stubble, he headed for the door.
When he was seized from behind with inhuman strength, he was too flabbergasted to struggle or even cry out. Pincer fingers drove themselves into his shoulders, puncturing the skin, as he was spun around. A single powerful blow to the chin sent him sprawling to the floor, bright blue stars scrambling across his vision. Numerous sharp nails raked across his front, shredding his jacket and T-shirt. The same curvaceous body he had imagined caressing, now pinning him inescapably to the carpet. He felt lances of agonising pain shooting through his neck, followed by a sucking sensation and hot wetness against his skin.
The pain at his throat became The Pain, a many-mouthed, writhing thing that threatened to rob him of consciousness. He wondered what had happened to cause such a terrible feeling. The Pain lessened, becoming no more than a tingling indeterminate throb. Floating in a disorientated state between full awareness and oblivion, he felt her rear up, the burning warmth of her body withdrawing to leave him cold and drained. He saw her sit back on her heels and wipe her soft mouth with the back of her hand. A violent streak of blood daubed her lips, like misapplied lipstick. With a sickening jolt, Reno realised it was his, recognising the dizziness as a symptom of severe blood loss.
She gazed down on him with satiated triumph, a sudden blush colouring her etiolated cheeks. As she smiled, long incisors peeped over her bottom lip like ivory fishhooks. To his utter horror, Reno realised that they weren’t normal teeth at all, they were fangs. Tongue questing over her lips, she licked the away the last traces of blood. Incisors retreating into her gums, she yawned for effect, absently placing her open palm on his chest to feel the mad tattoo of his heart.
“What’s the matter, Mr Reno?” she asked, dabbling a finger in the sluggishly flowing blood from the matching puncture wounds at his jugular, “You look a little pale.”
Too weak to answer, Reno strained to move his arm, to reach into his pocket for his gun. Try as he might, he couldn’t summon enough energy to twitch so much as a little finger. A deft female hand slipped into his pocket and retrieved the weapon.
“Looking for this?” she asked with amusement, leaning the pocket-warmed barrel against her smooth cheek, “Doesn’t the fact you’ve shot me in the heart and I’m still alive and kicking tell you anything?”
Reno gave an involuntary gasp as five points of burning agony kindled at his chest as she dug in her talons. He was way past the sceptical stage; no urban legend or mythical creature could cause quite so much pain. Again, he strove to move, to snatch his gun or simply crawl away before she decided to inflict any more nastiness of the physical variety.
“Don’t even think about it.” Her voice was quietly menacing razor blades,
“I could rip your heart out and squeeze it like a grapefruit before you’d got two paces, which in your current condition I doubt you could achieve.”
Looking up at the eerie radioactive green of her eyes, Reno came to the conclusion he wasn’t going to get out of this in one piece. More like several hacked-to-shreds pieces. There was an odd comfort in that thought; to surrender to death, allow it to take him. After all, he supposed it was no more than he deserved. Reno was a lapsed Catholic, fiery images of sulphurous hell and damnation etched into his subconscious brain from a far-away childhood of cigarettes slyly smoked before choir practice and the thundering warnings against sin from the dog-collared priest. He doubted they would welcome him with open arms upstairs, not with the spectres of the ‘taken-out’ hanging around his neck.
“Look at you, lying there with your life flashing before your eyes.” Her voice pierced the muzzy grey cloud that had begun to gather at the corners of the visual world.
“How very typical…. You think I’m evil, don’t you, Mr Reno? A monster, an abomination, etcetera, etcetera. Let me ask you this; is what I do so very bad? Everyone I kill or have killed has transgressed against me, like dear departed Nickolai…. but you, Monsieur Hitman, have any of the people you’ve murdered done anything to you personally? I very much doubt it.” She leaned down over him, so close he could feel her cool blood-scented breath.
“Doesn’t that make you worse?”
She had reverted to playing mind-games, running her long white hands across his torso, appreciatively feeling the toned muscle. Every hair on Reno’s body stood on end, prickling goose bumps running across his flesh. She touched him like he was a possession, the latest collectable piece of modern art, admiring texture, contours, scent. He felt himself reduced to a new and marginally interesting toy, an action-figure complete with accessories. Maybe she was right; after all, he did what he did for money alone. He had no particular allegiance, he took little notice of the gangland hotshots as they scrapped and slaughtered each other, except to keep out of their way.
Overwhelming guilt gushed from nowhere, flooding into the farthest flung recesses of his mind. Granted, he had felt bad after the first dozen or so hits he had done as a twenty-something semi-professional, but you learnt to deal with it, to bury it so deeply that it never dared bother you. Salt water abruptly welled in his eyes, brimming over to run down his stubbled cheeks. Reno ached from head to toe, his soul hurt with grief and guilt. Blinking furiously, he stared up for answers. Compassionate emerald eyes held his, wordlessly imparting comfort and understanding. Cooing endearments, she slipped her cool white arms around him, helping him sit up.
Cradled in her embrace, face pressed against the warm swell of her breasts, he wept like a two year old. Rocking him back and forth, she patted his back, leaning her cheek against the top of his head.
“All those people, Reno,” she whispered, arms tightening about him. “All those people you shot, stabbed, bludgeoned and strangled. And for what, for love, for hate, for loyalty? No, it was all for money.”
Something snapped inside Reno, broke with a metallic, discordant ring. Sobbing, he summoned up enough strength to reach for her, desperately trying to pull her blood-hungry mouth to his throat, urging her to finish what she had started, to end his life. She smiled, gently fending off his weakly grasping hands.
“Oh, no.” She took his face in her hands, thumbs brushing away the tears,
“I have a little something I need you to do, something important. Will you do that for me, Reno?”
Slumped against her, he nodded, listening to the slow, regular beat of her heart beneath his ear. Anything, anything she said he would do. He felt rather than saw her satisfaction as she nuzzled his neck, tongue dabbing at the puncture wounds.
“Good boy,” she murmured, lips resting at the soft hollow just below his left ear,
“Now, here’s your gun back. This is what I want you to do……”
A good hour later, the door to the little Italian restaurant jingled merrily as it was pushed open. It was never locked, as nobody dared break into or vandalise Big Tony’s joint. Sat at a small table covered with a blue and white check cloth, Tony looked up as the door swung back. Lit Havana poised in one hand, glass of eighteen-year-old single malt whiskey in the other, he looked every inch the original gangster boss. A tall, somewhat dishevelled man wearing a dark green woolly hat and torn leather jacket shuffled in.
“Reno, my man,” he greeted, blowing a blue-grey plume of aromatic smoke,
“How’s it hanging?”
Reno did not reply, gloved hands dangling limply by his sides, swaying from side to side like a disturbed child. Big Tony frowned, unsure whether or not to take the silence as an insult. Anyone who insulted Tony usually ended up taking a swim wearing concrete overshoes. Then he saw the stiff bib of blood coating the front of his jacket, the vacant, dead-eyed expression on his face.
“Reno? What’s up? Are you hurt, did the hit go pear-shaped?”
Shambling up to his employer, the Hitman still said nothing, lower lip quivering with barely contained emotion. Perplexed, Tony pushed back his chair, calling to someone in the kitchens to bring a bottle of something strong and extremely alcoholic.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell has she done to you?” he asked, unsuccessfully attempting to guide his employee to a chair.
“She.”
Reno looked up as he spoke, some semblance of animation seeping into his haggard features. He moved like an automaton, a remote controlled plaything. Trembling, he fixed his bloodshot eyes on Big Tony, reaching into his pocket to produce his gun.
“Now hold on just a minute!” the gangster protested with mild alarm, thrusting a hand into his jacket for his own weapon.
Like every word was a tremendous effort, Reno began to speak, voice husky and faltering, seemingly unaware of the gun trained on him.
“She said you’re dead, all of you,” he said colourlessly,
“She’s tolerant to a point, but you’ve gone too far. You’re all dead, you just don’t know it yet. Bang. Bang.”Big Tony, not a man who was usually scared by anything short of a nuclear fallout, turned ashen. Keeping his gun levelled, he picked up his glass and tossed back his whiskey in a single, throat-scalding gulp.
“Reno, you look like shit, buddy,” he said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice,
“Have a seat.”
Astonished, he watched as Reno’s face cracked into a skeletal, lifeless grin. Slowly, the Hitman lifted his arm and pressed the silencer to his temple. Thoroughly concerned by now, though more for the stains it would leave on the tiled floor, Big Tony started forward.
“Hey! Reno, don’t be stupid, man… look, I’m sure we can work this out!”
It was a definite case of the lights were on but nobody was home as the Hitman closed his eyes, tears shining on his cheeks. Tony swore as he realised that the deranged bastard was really going to blow his brains out all over the floor.
“It was what she wanted.”
The gun sighed, shards of white bone scattering across the room in a spray of crimson and grey chunks of brain matter. Flinching, Big Tony stared helplessly down at the fallen body, the clear fluid leaking from the shattered remains of the skull. His grand scheme had failed. What was he going to do now? Tasting fear as he swallowed, he looked at the glistering pool of blood. Such a shame to waste it, now it had been spilled. Kneeling down, tucking his silk tie into his belt, he began to lap it up from the floor.
(c) Helen C. Murphy, All Rights Reserved
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