The Troubleshooter: Red-Eyed Killer Page 5

  I coughed. “What the hell is this stuff?”

  Hunter downed his shot and poured himself another. “Absinthe. It’s a developed taste.”

  Like he knew. Synoids can turn alcohol into the fuel that keeps them running, which was the only reason why they drank at all. Same for the protein in food.

  I shakily set the glass back on the table. “I’ll pass, thanks. Look, you probably know why I’m here.”

  “Yes. You require my assistance in killing someone.”

  “Might be more than just someone.”

  He shrugged. “The quantity of targets is of no consequence. My purpose is to kill people and I have only rare occasions to do so. Your troubles are my opportunities to fulfill my prime directive, so to speak.”

  “Glad to know that you’re up to the challenge, Hunter.”

  “I doubt that what you request will provide any challenge. Nonetheless, present me with targets and I will present you with cadavers.”

  I paused. I didn’t have to go through with the gonzo plan that I had in mind. The brass already wanted me for my earlier escapade, and I sure didn’t need any extra heat on my back. I could slink back into the shadows and try to lay dormy until things blew over.

  But that wouldn’t do anything for Natasha. And I couldn’t rest until the Red-Eyed Killer and everyone involved paid up for what they did.

  “All right, Hunter. This is what I need for you to do…”

  “Hey Joey. How’s it going?”

  Joey’s eyebrows raised just a tad as he turned from the doorway of Big Louie’s flophouse. Then he saw that I wasn’t pointing heat at him. He straightened up and flexed, almost ripping his rags from the stress of holding in his muscles. His knuckles cracked as he grinned.

  “You got a major set of stones coming back here, Mick. Seems like you’re looking for another shot at getting your face punched in. First time was a freebie. This time I gotta charge.”

  “I figure you owe me a rematch, Joey. Last time you had me at a disadvantage.”

  He smirked. “Yeah? You mean besides being bigger, faster and stronger than you?”

  “Something like that.” I took off my flogger and set it on the terrace furniture. I carefully placed my Bogart on top of it. Then I rolled up my sleeves.

  Joey stared. “You’re serious. You wanna do this for real? No weapons?”

  “That’s right, Joey. I don’t take too kindly to getting manhandled. Damages the rep. So whaddya say we settle that score right now?”

  Joey displayed his teeth in what I guess he thought was a smile. “Now you’re talking.” In overconfidently predictable fashion, he practically ran toward me.

  That’s when I let him have it.

  The weight of his bulk tore the door off the hinges when his body smashed against it. He and the door skidded inward a few good yards.

  I gently shook my gloved fist. The knuckles were lined with metallic sensors and wired to discharge a heavy dose of electricity like a shotgun blast when they struck something. In that case it was Joey’s massive jaw.

  I put my Bogart and flogger back on. Then I pulled out the Mean Ol’ Broad and stepped inside. I walked past Joey’s comatose form and quickly darted to the side as a barrage of gunfire hummed past and shredded the walls. When the shooting stopped, I heard Big Louie’s voice.

  “I know that’s you, Mick. What the hell’s got into you? I told you it was business. You got one chance to breeze out before my boys fill you with daylight.”

  I didn’t say a word. I let my hands do the talking when they rolled a couple of grenades in that general direction. I stayed put and lit a gasper as the fireworks went off. After the explosive roar died down, I strolled down the blackened hallway.

  Turned out that Big Louie was in the dining room. I should have known. Fire flared along the walls and danced across the floor. A few droppers were strewn across the blackened furniture. The goons seemed to have had good enough sense to duck for cover, so they avoided some of the damage. They groaned and staggered to their feet. I spared them a glance.

  “You boys dust out now and I’ll forget I ever saw you.”

  They hobbled out the room as fast as their injured limbs could carry them. I took a drag of my gasper and listened to the angry crackle of the flames. The heat was pretty close to unbearable, and I’m pretty sure Big Louie felt it even more than I did. Since he was trapped under the massive dining room table and all.

  He took the brunt of the blast, probably because he was too fat to get outta the way. His face sagged like an overheated candle as he struggled to move the heavy table that pinned his ruined legs to the floor. Smoke wafted from his scorched and torn rags. His beady eyes rolled fearfully.

  “Mick. Give me a hand. I’ll… I’ll make it… worth your while.”

  I shook my head. “All that alcohol you had stashed up sure turned out to be flammable. Like storing drums of gasoline. No extinguisher system, Louie? Lemme guess –didn’t pay the fire dues for the joint and they cut off the supply, right? Pretty bad move… in retrospect.”

  “Mick… please. Help me…”

  I exhaled gasper fumes. “I knew a man that needed help, Louie. You may have heard of him. His name was Luzzatti.”

  “Just… business.” Big Louie’s breath rattled. “Nothing… personal…”

  “Nothing personal? You chose the Red-Eyed Killer for a reason. Because you knew that he’d butcher the Luzzattis. You wanted to make a statement. Show the other lowlife thugs that you were serious. That you were ready for the big leagues. Congrats, champ. You made it.”

  Big Louie wheezed as his hands frantically clawed at the scorched wood. “Not… me. Pike… his idea…”

  “Don’t worry about Pike. He’ll get his desserts soon enough. But it’s getting hot and something smells like bacon fat in here. I think I’ll take a breath of fresh air. All this smoke is bad for the lungs.”

  “Gotta be… something you… need.”

  I paused. “You know, now that you mention it, there is something I need. The Red-Eyed Killer. He’s not the type of mug that’s easy to trace. So why don’t you tell me where to find him and I might consider pulling your fat from the fire in very literal fashion.”

  His rubbery face sagged even further. “Don’t… know. Pike set up the… deal. I’m just… the handler.”

  “Sucks to be you.” I turned to leave.

  “Don’t leave me like this. Not like this.” Big Louie’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m begging you, Mick…”

  I paused. The Mean Ol’ Broad was in my hand, and Big Louie was at my feet. A pull of trigger and he’d go from one hell to the next. But that was too clean. Too good for a dirty rotten skel like Big Louie.

  I flicked the gasper stub into the nearby flames. “I bet Mrs. Luzzatti begged too, Louie. I bet she begged for her life. For Luzzatti’s life. They deserved better than that. You don’t. But I’ll do you one better. I understand that adrenaline can make a person stronger. You know, cause people to do things that seem impossible. Like move heavy objects for instance. So I’ll give you a chance. You get that table off of you and manage to get outta here before the place burns down and you get to live. If you don’t…”

  I holstered the Mean Ol’ Broad and walked away. Big Louie’s voice followed me out into the hallway.

  “Mick. You can’t… leave me here. Mick!”

  Smoke billowed from the room and into the hallway. It was so thick that I nearly tripped on something on the way out. It was Joey; still laid out cold from the uppercut I’d served him.

  I paused.

  Chapter 8: Fishing for Pike

  I set Joey down a few yards away from where Big Louie’s flophouse had gone up in flames. We both were half-choked on smoke, and I was worn out from carrying his heavy, half-conscious frame.

  He looked at me through half-closed lids. “Why… why did you drag me out?”

  “Got no beef with you, Joey. It was Big Louie I was after. That deal’s done. Why throw
you in for a bonus when I didn’t need to? I’m not a mug who holds grudges. Unless you get on my bad side, that is.”

  “I… owe you one, Mick.” He broke into a fit of coughing. I patted him on his shoulder as I stood up.

  “Yeah, you do. You can start by telling the brass that you never saw me. Stay frosty, champ.” I left him where he sat winded and walked over to the hoversled. My datacom beeped in my ear. I glanced at my holoband and tapped the com.

  “Tell me something.”

  Hunter’s monotone voice fizzled in. “The contracts that you drew up have been liquidated. Is there any other business that requires my attention?”

  “Not at the moment, Hunter. I’ll keep you on standby.”

  “As you wish, Mick.”

  “Oh, and Hunter? Thanks.”

  “Not necessary. I am merely serving my purpose.” He clicked off.

  I hopped on the hoversled and headed for my next stop. Everything had gone according to plan so far, but I didn’t like including Hunter. Deep inside, I knew he had a reason for volunteering his aid. I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  But I knew that I wouldn’t like it when I did.

  The Uppers. One of the more plush, security-gated deluxe suite apartment buildings. Roving drone security. Mob-owned. Regular folk like me weren’t supposed to be on the premises.

  Too bad.

  “That’s a real smooth Deusy.” I nodded to the wheeler that was parked nearby. It was modeled after the Duesenberg Ghost, if memory served me correct. Which it always did. The beetle-black paint job gleamed like it was still wet. And the curves… enough to make a hot dame jealous. I’ve always had a thing for the vintage era before the Cataclysm. The eye for design was never better. Even with my mind on darker things, she was still a sight to take the breath away.

  Scars gave me one those looks that summed up everything in a flash. He was a tall, angular mug in a bad suit with a face hard as a petrified skull and twice as ugly. He had a reputation around New Haven that earned him his nickname. It wasn’t because of any scars that he’d gotten.

  It was because of the ones he left other mugs with.

  “Mick Trubble.” He spoke casually, but his alert manner spoke otherwise.

  At the mention of my name, the two other goons reached for the iron inside their jackets. Scars stopped them with an upraised finger and a look of searing scorn. He turned his attention back to me.

  “What are you doing here, Mick? Word is that you fried Big Louie. Serves the pig boy right, but you’re out of your league now. If you’re looking to repeat that score then you outta know that you’re outgunned and outnumbered. I got four other droppers that you don’t see, and each of them has a direct shot at parts that you need. If you want to keep on living, that is.”

  I had figured that out by then, mainly because of the laser sights that were decorating my flogger. Another seemed to be pointed directly at my eye, which was pretty damn irritating. I had to squint while I spoke around the unlit gasper hanging from my lip.

  “You think I came all the way over here just to get smoked, Scars?”

  “I don’t know any other reason why you’d show your mug, Mick. You know that I can’t let you get past me. And you know I can’t let you walk away, either.”

  “You’re right, Scars. I do know. So this is the way that it’s gonna go down. I’m gonna go upstairs and take out your boss. He’s got it coming, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Scars’ laugh was like sandpaper rubbing together. “You’re a funny man, Mick. But I hope you got more to offer than just a comedian act.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned that. Because I do have more. I got a proposition. A profitable one.”

  I thought I saw a glimmer in Scars’ eye. “You got thirty seconds. This better be good.”

  I gave him my most carefree grin. “Seems that Moe Flacco has a bad need for a tight squad. I happen to be on good terms with No-Nose Nate. You know, one of Moe’s top lieutenants. I put in a word for you, and you get to step up in the world. Get away from guarding a smooth set of wheels to guarding the meanest mug in the Mob.”

  Scars lit a gasper and puffed. “Don’t grift a grifter, Mick. Moe already has a top squad. Those Blackguard animals. Dirtiest sons of bitches in New Haven. Those mugs are barely human.”

  I nodded. “Well, Blackguard prides itself on hiring nothing but the most vicious murderers and sadists ever born. Thing is, they took a major hit tonight. Seems some malfunctioning synoid took most of their unit out. No one knows why. Maybe a new player moving in on Moe’s territory. All that’s known is that the synoid kept saying ‘Pike sends his regards’ every time he rubbed out a goon.”

  I heard uneasy mutters from the chopper squad.

  “He’s right, boss,” one of the trouble boys said. He scanned his holoband and checked out the latest news. “Blackguard mugs got hit bad. It’s all over the wire.”

  Scars squinted as if seeing me for the first time. “You set this up, Mick? All of this… over one old codger and his frail?”

  “I’m not claiming responsibility for nothing, Scars. Unless it’s for a fire at Big Louie’s pad. Or the mug currently here in the penthouse suite whose luck just hit the eight ball. Now the way I see it is that I can make a call and get you on a high paying gig, or you can go ahead and rub me out. Of course, then you’d have to take your chances that Moe Flacco will take it easy and not smoke everyone associated with Pike as a precaution.”

  I knew I had him when he paused to scratch his stubbly chin. “So we just pull stakes and dump our employer? Not exactly good for a squad’s rep.”

  “Even a rat knows to flee a sinking ship, Scars. I figure your intelligence level to be just a step above the average vermin. Besides, in the long run I’d think it might be better for you to be associated with Flacco now than Pike later. Who will wanna take on a squad that used to work for a skel that got on Flacco’s bad side?

  Scars thought things over as he took a hard drag on his gasper. Finally he nodded. “All right, boys. Drop your iron. Mick, you make that call. And you better pray that your recruiting skills are as good as advertised or I’ll personally gut you like a freshwater fish.”

  I grinned. “You mean like a Pike.”

  Pike shot first.

  In my single-mindedness I’d forgotten about the cameras in the booster lift that took me to the top floor. Once I arrived at the penthouse, he was already locked and loaded. The only thing that kept my brains in my head was his bad aim. Being nervous has that effect on a body, and I was pretty sure he’d found out that Big Louie had recently been roasted. Put that on top of his security pulling an unexpected vanishing act, and he was bound to have a pretty bad case of the shakes.

  It was still a close call, though. I ducked and rolled past his next few shots, which punched pretty big, sizzling holes in the hallway. Seemed that he preferred energy rounds –his second mistake. Accuracy is always so-so with high-mech weapons. My piece was retro enough to still use ordinary slugs, and fortunately I’m a pretty good shot even on a bad day. The Mean Ol’ Broad put Pike down with a single booming round. Pike scream in an entirely unmanly manner as he ate the carpeted floor.

  I paused to light a gasper before I strolled over and kicked his heater out of his reach, in case he got a sudden case of desperate bravado. He still had a little fight in him, though. A little Derringer popped from his sleeve, but I was alert despite my nonchalant attitude. I gave him second thoughts on that score when the heel of my size elevens stomped down on his wrist. I ignored his yelp of pain.

  “That’s awful discourteous of you, Pike. After I took the time to take you down with a non-lethal shot.” I stooped down to relieve him of the Derringer, and aimed the Mean Ol’ Broad right at his forehead.

  Pike was a clean-cut, thin-mustached mug. The slick-haired, gentleman gangster type that dames flip their wigs over. He didn’t look so hot at that particular moment. Probably because of the blood staining his darb rags from the shou
lder shot I nailed him with.

  “You must be Mick Trubble.” He was still pretty cool, especially for a mug who must have known I wasn’t there for the stimulating conversation.

  “That’s the rumor. I guess you must know that I got a score to settle with you. You murdered some friends of mine. That’s not something I can walk away from.”

  “Do you know who you’re dealing with?” His eyes practically flickered with heated fury. “You won’t make it out of this building alive, Mick. I promise you that.”

  “Is that so? Funny, I plan on walking out the same way I walked in. You’re a smart mug, Pike. Surely you must have noticed that your boys took a heel-toe outta here. You understand? There’s no one here, Pike. No one but you and me.”

  He tensed as the realization dawned. His breathing steadied, and he studied me with the calm that comes to a lot of mugs when they know that death is breathing down their neck.

  “What do you want, Mick? You had me dead to rights, but you didn’t take the kill shot. So there must be something that I can do for you. Something that might persuade you to allow us to part ways without any further… damage.”

  I grinned. The mug was smooth, all right. “You see? I knew you were smart. So here’s what I want. The Red-Eyed Killer. You gotta know where I can find him. You give up the wire along with one more thing, and I let you live. My word on that.”

  He licked his lips. “Can I take you at your word, Mick? Because you know that if I do as you ask then I’ll be marked for death all the same. The Red-Eyed Killer will know what I did.”

  “A man’s only as good as his word, Pike. I figure if you take my deal then at least you get a head start. If you don’t…” I placed the Mean Ol’ Broad against his temple. “…then you won’t have a head at all, pipe that?”

  He didn’t even blink. “The Black Dahlia.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a dining lounge in the Uppers above Downtown. You’ll find the Red-Eyed Killer there. We’re supposed to meet in an hour to discuss the last… piece of business in the Luzzatti case.”