Gordy seemed not to notice the fat man. He stood frozen, eyes on Monica. The fat man, with the guns, left the room.
Gordy said: “You.”
“I look a lot different now, don’t I?” Monica Frye said. “You weren’t expecting me, were you, Dad?”
Gordy made a choking sound. “You can’t prove I’m your father. Your mother never could, either. And I did not kill her, I swear.”
“Yes you did,” she said. “That I can prove.”
“Now wait,” Wolf said.
“Quiet, dipshit. I said you didn’t know the whole story, remember?” To Gordy: “I tracked down your old gang. They were more than kind enough to tell me you stabbed my mother. Before I killed them myself.”
“You-”
“I have written statements.”
Gordy flexed his hands; the blonde kid with the shoulder holster made a tut-tut noise and took out his gun.
Wolf said: “Gordy-”
The fat man reentered, dragging Mike with him. Mike, gagged and tied at the wrists and ankles, made a noise when he saw his father. The fat man shoved the younger O’Rourke to the carpet, left him on his stomach. Mike rolled over. His nostrils flared as he breathed. The fat man planted a foot on the younger man’s chest and took out Gordy’s revolver.
“Now,” Monica Frye said. “Either admit you killed my mother, or I shoot your boy right here. You could bury him next to Bobby, wouldn’t that be nice?”
“I swear I didn’t kill her!” Gordy said. “You want the truth, don’t you?”
“Your men told me the truth.”
“A man says anything when there’s a gun to his head.”
“Except you.” She eyed the fat man. The fat man cocked the revolver. She looked back to Gordy: “Well?”
Gordy, panting, let his arms fall at his sides. Sweat trickled down his face. Wolf watched the fat man and moved his right hand to scratch his nose. The fat man jerked his head Wolf’s way. Wolf lowered his arm. The fat man looked back down at Mike.
“All right,” Gordy said. “All right.”
The fat man looked at Monica. Monica said okay. The fat man placed his finger on the revolver’s hammer, put pressure on the trigger. The free hammer lowered under the guidance of his thumb and he took a step back.
Wolf’s right hand moved again, this time to his right pocket. The fat man turned his body Wolf’s way, bringing up the revolver, but Wolf already had his two-shot.32 Derringer aimed at the big man’s right eye. Wolf fired once. The bullet puckered the fat man’s eye and he remained on his feet a moment, then crashed on top of Mike. The younger O’Rourke’s body folded under the impact and he screamed through the gag.
The blonde kid, on his feet, had to change positions as the falling fat man blocked his aim; Wolf, dropping to one knee while covered by the fat man, fired the second.32 slug up through the kid’s fuzzy chin.
Gordy lunged at Monica-“Damn you, bitch!”-while drawing a knife from behind his back. She screamed as he landed on top of her, blocking her swinging arms and pushing her head into the cushions. The arm holding the knife pumped like a piston, once, twice; Gordy pulled back, and with one last thrust buried the knife in her neck.
Wolf rolled the fallen fat man off Mike’s body, hauled him to his feet. “Should have stayed home, you damn child,” Wolf said. He didn’t remove the gag but instead hoisted Mike over his shoulders. He looked at Gordy. Gordy turned to him. Blood had splattered on part of his face and the front of his shirt.
“Let’s get out of here,” Gordy said.
GORDY MOVED some of the paperwork on his desk to one side and poured two drinks and sat behind his desk. He gulped down his drink. Wolf, legs crossed, seated on the other side, left his untouched. He said: “This didn’t turn out exactly how I imagined.”
“Well it’s done. I’m glad you were there.”
Wolf said: “She was right about one thing.”
Gordy frowned.
“She told me,” Wolf said, “about a side to you I wouldn’t like.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you tell me the truth?”
Gordy gave his friend a wide-eyed look. “What did you say to me?”
“You heard me.”
“I had no idea it was her,” Gordy said.
“Gordy.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to ask you again. You started to tell a story back there.”
“You know a man will say anything when there’s a gun pointed at him. Or at his kid.”
“Nobody innocent goes off like you did.”
“She was threatening my boy.”
“I dropped the fat man and the kid. It was over.”
“You think we should have just let her go?”
“Your friends didn’t exactly warn you somebody was after them,” Wolf said. “She didn’t take them all by surprise.”
“You gonna drink that or just sit there and insult me?”
“Are you going to tell me the truth?”
Gordy sucked in his breath.
Wolf stood up, left the glass on the desk, and started for the door.
“Wolf.”
Wolf looked back.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
Wolf said: “I’m not a fool. Don’t play me for one.” He went out.
Gordy clutched his glass and stared at the closed door.
GORDY WANDERED the club. Every seat was full. The bar packed. But his mind wasn’t on business. Did Wolf really think he had murdered Mona Frye? He hadn’t. But he knew who did, and that was a secret that had to stay a secret. He had to keep the secret.
He wandered back to his office. The paperwork still waited on the desk. There was no flash or glamour in being a connected guy. You still had a stack of paperwork to sort through just like the rest of the schmucks. Every night.
But there was a new piece of paper on the desk. Folded. Left in the center of his blotter.
It hadn’t been there when he stepped out.
With his hands shaking, Gordy picked up the paper and unfolded it. Somebody had written three words. His heart skipped.
Three words.
Remember Mona Frye.
BIO:
DEAN BRECKENRIDGE isn't his real name.
He has wasted his first forty years as a matter of course and principle; wandered all over California; been a broadcaster, salesman; and many other ill-sorted what nots. Dean likes: fast motorcars, peanut butter, Coke, cigars, red meat; whatever alcohol you got. Dean dislikes: the color pink, sopranos, backgammon; a great many men, women, and children.
SOUP SANDWICH By Christopher L. Irvin
They said when the winter air washes down the mountainside, ignoring armor and slipping under your collar without so much as a whistle for a warning, that it’s like an adrenaline shot directly to the spine. A crackle of cold energy that sharpens your senses, keeps you awake through the long and lonely shifts.
Special Forces bullshit.
Three weeks into a six-month stint in Afghanistan for a little R &R and bonus hazard pay had turned into a one-way trip to hell in the mountains. Randall heard all of the action-packed stories from his buddies in the DEA, seen the “official” movie of the head-cam filmed drug raid, produced with heavy metal soundtrack to get the blood flowing. Supporting Spec Ops raids on villages, kicking in doors and jamming an M4 in the face of the enemy. All with an itchy trigger finger that wouldn’t be questioned. This was real war, not the kind that found him going door to door in Detroit, rummaging through flop houses littered with week-old piles of shit and junkies who hadn’t used a clean needle in months. Even the most violent criminals laid down when ten men knocked on the door at the crack of dawn, weapons drawn, cuffs at the ready. Prison time meant respect and three squares with a side of warm bed. Wife? Girlfriend? Kids? None of that mattered. What Randall wouldn’t give to see a little fear in their eyes. To slip into their cells at night and fix his rough hands around their throats. Something to haunt their extended vacation.