A Killing Kiss Read online

  “If you’re a religious man, buddy, I’d suggest you start praying. You’ve got about an hour’s worth of pain to take first before I kill you with my bare hands,” Mick said, glancing up into the mirror before driving the van into a black expanse of emptiness.

  The van came to an abrupt halt. The side door exploded open and one of the hoods who was sitting beside the dark-eyed man leaped out and turned to help the hobbled man. Yanking Smitty from his seat they dragged him out between the two of them and forced him to stand up. Turning their heads toward Mick and Wil for instructions they momentarily took their eyes off their victim.

  Their mistake.

  When it happened, it happened so fast no one could throw a hand up in defense. Somehow – somehow – the supposedly hobbled and strapped hands of Smitty were free. Free to move. Free to strike out. And they did so in deadly fashion. Elbows moved with blinding speed. One caught the hood on his right in the throat. A vicious blow that staggered and dropped the man to his knees in an instant. The hood on his left had the gun knocked to one side and then something as hard as a sledgehammer rammed into his genitals. A blow so strong he let go of the gun and started to fall. But he didn’t fall to the ground. Hands caught him as he was going down and yanked him back up to a standing position. Yanked him up and jerked him in front of the dark-eyed man’s silhouette just in time to catch two slugs from the gun in Wil Marconi’s hand.

  Smitty felt the man’s body jerk twice from the bullets ripping into him. But the gun – the gun the dead man two seconds earlier had aimed at Smitty’s chest – barked loudly, filling the cavernous but empty warehouse with ear splitting explosions.

  Blood splattered across the side of the van as the back of Mick O’Toole’s head dissolved into a fine mist and chunky pieces of flesh and bone. The second slug caught Wil Marconi in the chest. Just an inch above the man’s heart. Surprise, disbelief, incredulity flooded across the man’s face as he hurtled backwards into the air and slammed onto his back on the cement floor.

  Smitty, gun in hand, let go of the ex-thug and pushed him to one side. Eyeing first the dead form of O’Toole and then the dying form of Marconi he bent down and used the thin blade of the scalpel in his hand and cut the strap around his ankles. Standing up, gun aimed at the groaning, twitching body of the Italian, he stepped closer and looked down into the still conscious man’s face.

  “Let’s have a teaching moment here first, friend. When you nab someone and search him for weapons, make sure you feel the cuffs of the victim’s shirt. Especially if the intended victim is someone like me. I never go anywhere without a scalpel.”

  Wil Marconi looked up at the dark-eyed man standing over him. Watched as the man moved the muzzle of the gun up and aimed at his face. Watched the finger tighten around the trigger of the 9 mm Beretta. Watched...

  BOOM!

  The gun’s voice reverberated over and over in the gigantic metal building of the warehouse. Pigeons, hundreds of them, fled from the rafters in a thunderous roar and escaped out of various holes in the metal roof of the building or out of the many broken windows lining the walls. The smell of cordite hung in the air along with dust, pigeon feathers descending from above, and... applause.

  The applause, loud and clear, came from one set of hands. A pounding, slow, methodical clapping. Somewhere in the black spaces. Looking up, Smitty saw moonlight cutting through the darkness of the warehouse and slamming onto the cement floor in a great round puddle of white. Stepping into the moonlight, two big men with pump shotguns materialized. Followed by two more equally armed. And then, the dark-eyed man was unsurprised to see, a much smaller man. A small man dressed nattily in a two piece suit with one hand hanging across his chest in a bandage. The other hand gripped the heavy cane with which he supported himself.

  For a moment or two the small man remained silent. And then in the darkness Smitty heard a sigh. And a chuckle of amusement.

  “Still fast. Aren’t you, son.”

  Smitty said nothing. Made no effort to bring the gun up and use it.

  “You know, at first I thought it was you who did this to me. But then I thought otherwise. When you work you don’t miss. You never miss. You never make mistakes that you don’t immediately clean up. That’s what Jacob liked about you the most. You knew how to correct your mistakes. So I had to ask myself. If not you then who? Who’s starting this war? Who’s smart enough, or dumb enough, to start this and think they can get away with it? You got any ideas who it is, Smitty? Any ideas at all?”

  “I know who started it, Greg. Knew from the beginning. Knew it had to be played out to the bitter end. The only thing I didn’t know was if I could keep those needing to stay alive from getting hurt.”

  In the moonlight Smitty saw the small man nod in agreement. Nodding, and using the tip of his cane to point to the dead men at Smitty’s feet.

  “Too many people had to die, Smitty. Too many greedy, greedy people who should have known better. I’m tired of killing. I’m tired of all the bloodletting. You get to a certain age like I am and it’s no longer fun. No longer important. But what the hell. For me it’s too late. I’m in too deep to back out now. But there’s some who can get out. Get out in time and never look back. It’s those people I want protected, Smitty. That... and the pleasure of killing the sonofabitch who started this.”

  “You can have him,” Smitty whispered back, smiling. “I’ll take care of the other part. Promise.”

  “It’s a promise I’ll hold you to, son.”

  The little man leaning on the cane hobbled backwards. Back out of the moonlight, vanishing into the inky blackness of the warehouse. And one by one the gunmen stepped back and disappeared. Like wraiths. Like ghosts.

  Like nightmares.

  #8

  When she came into the kitchen of the large, quiet, home she was humming a little tune to herself and holding the baby close to her. The baby needed a fresh bottle of formula and a nap. She needed a nap. Spending the whole day with Stu had been wonderful. Wonderful but tiring. All that shopping. All that laughing. All that... happiness.

  But she stopped humming the moment her eyes saw the three figures sitting around the small kitchen table. And the gun lying on the table directly in front of the dark-eyed man. Panic filled her soul. She froze in the doorway and pressed the baby close to her as she watched Stu rise halfway out of his chair, a look of worry on his face, and start to move in her direction.

  “Stu!”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Menten,” the dark-eyed man said softly. Almost pleasantly. “Please. Join us. It’s important you hear what I have to say tonight.”

  Stu gathered the beautiful woman and baby in his arms and escorted her to the vacant chair directly across from the dark-eyed man. The silent, stoic giant – Otto – said nothing and showed no emotion as he watched the woman sit beside him and Stu take up a position immediately behind her.

  “Good. Now we can begin. I have a story to tell you. All of you. A story that affects us all. So listen very carefully.”

  “Smitty... I... I want to start out saying I had nothing to do with Jacob’s death. Or with Greg Tarkanian’s. I loved those two old men like a son would love his father. I had nothing to do with anyone’s death.”

  “I know that, Sheppard. I know you’re clean of this mess. In a fashion. But you are, in part, the source of it. You and Mrs. Menten here.”

  “But...!” Stu began in protest, shutting up just as fast when the dark-eyed man held a hand up to silence him.

  “You didn’t kill Jacob Menten. Your wife didn’t kill Jacob Menten. Jacob Menten killed Jacob Menten.”

  “My wife!? How... how did you know we were married?”

  Otto, showing emotion for the first time, lifted an eyebrow in surprise and turned his head to look at Stu and the woman. Smitty watched all three for a moment or two and then went on with his story.

  “The last time Jacob and I talked he told me a few things. But not everything. I got the rest from Greg. Greg told me. Told
me everything. Told me how he knew you two kids fell in love in college and ran off to Las Vegas for a quickie marriage. Told me how you brought her back here and tried to hide her from the others. Told me how Harry Bosley discovered this beautiful woman living with you and squealed that piece of news to his buddies.

  “He saw the trouble coming. He heard them talking. He knew Harry or Mick or Wil or Charley would do something to you, Sheppard, once certain facts came to light. Would use your wife against you. So he did the only thing he could. He stepped in and told you she was coming to live in his house. He would put up an act and make it look like Charlene and he were married. He did that to protect you. To protect your son. Protect the three of you from his own men.”

  “I... I’ve never understood why he took so much interest in us,” Charlene said, green eyes watering in grief and happiness all at the same time, looking down at her baby quickly and up at Stu. “Why was he so concerned for our welfare? I mean... he didn’t know me. He hardly knew Stu. Why so interested in our lives?”

  “But he did know you. Or, at least, he knew Stu. Knew him since he was a boy. Kept tabs on him and watched him grow up. Just like Stu’s father watched him grow up.”

  “My father?” Stu mumbled, color draining from his face as he stared. “I never had a father. As far as I know the man who fathered me left mom the day I was born and was never heard from again. You must be mistaken, fella. I have no father.”

  “Yes, you do,” a voice behind Smitty said quietly.

  Smitty heard the tap, tap, tap of a heavy cane moving across the polished oak floor of the dining room. He didn’t have to turn around to see who it was. He knew Greg Tarkanian had stepped into the kitchen behind him, bent over slightly as he leaned on the cane.

  The shock and disbelief of all three people in front of Smitty was palpable and genuine. Stu, eyeing the old, wounded man, sat speechless and gripped his wife’s hand tightly. Charlene leaned closer to her husband, clutching Greg Tarkanian’s grandson close to her breast, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “One day, decades ago, two men fell in love with the same woman,” the dark-eyed man began quietly. “The two men were old friends who grew up together in the same neighborhood. Both loved the woman more than anything. But she only loved one man. She loved your father, Stu. She married your father knowing what he did for a living. She didn’t care. She loved him. Wanted to be with him. Wanted to grow old with him.

  “Jacob Menten accepted being the best man at the wedding. Accepted it and wished the two of them all the happiness in the world. And when Greg and his wife had you, Stu, he was as happy as they were. Did everything in his power to protect you, your mother, and Greg from any harm. Loved you like you were his son as well.”

  The red-rimmed eyes of Stu Sheppard drilled into Greg Tarkanian’s weathered, lined old face and just looked at him. Looked at him with a million questions he wanted to ask. Wanted to ask but was too emotional, too confused, to know where to begin. Behind him Smitty heard the old man let out a soft sigh of regret.

  “I know what you’re going to ask, son. You’ve known me all your life as a family friend. A close family friend. But never as your father. I never identified myself. Your mother never said anything. And so you want to know why. Why would neither of us say anything to you? I couldn’t son. I couldn’t. I made a promise to your mother. I promised her I’d never let you follow my footsteps and become a gangster. I meant to keep that promise. I did keep that promise. But I couldn’t leave you. I had to be near you and your mother. So we came up with this idea. I would be a family friend. Just a family friend who cared for his friends and their children.”

  “And it worked,” Smitty went on, the cruel smile on his lips again as his black, pitiless eyes turned and bored into the giant frame of the man sitting beside Charlene. “Until you found out, Otto. How you found out Jacob never discovered. But you did. And then you concocted a plan that was visionary. That was marvelous in its complexity. That guaranteed you taking over the syndicate once all the stray threads were cut off. You mentioned one day to Jacob in an off-hand fashion that someone found out about Stu being Tarkanian’s son. You suggested leaving Stu alone and not folding him into the family might be dangerous in the long run for the boy. You were persuasive. Convincing Jacob you were right, Jacob went to Greg to tell him he was going to make Stu a member. Make him the number two man in the organization.”

  “Jacob and I had an angry confrontation, son,” Tarkanian began, taking up the thread of the story from the silent Smitty. “I told him in no uncertain terms I would not allow him to do this to you. That we would not break our promises to your mother. But he wouldn’t listen. He was convinced that this was the best way to protect you from those who might want to use you somehow, to get at both Jacob and me. We argued. We screamed at each other. And after, we never talked to each other again. Not even on his deathbed when I came and stayed with him for a few hours.”

  “An amazingly brilliant plan, Otto,” Smitty began, smiling coldly at the giant. “You used a slow acting poison on Jacob. A poison that would take time. A poison to make it look like Jacob’s death was from natural causes. You knew he had decreed that Greg Tarkanian would not take the reins of the syndicate once Jacob died. You knew that Stu was too young, too inexperienced to handle a bunch of killers. Stu never wanted to be a gangster anyway. He was an accountant. Good with numbers. Honest. Easy pickings. Disenfranchise Tarkanian, kill off the boss; instigate a gang war among the remaining lieutenants and kill as many as possible. And then step in yourself and slap everyone back into shape. Genius, Otto. A foolproof plan. Foolproof, except...”

  “Foolproof except when you showed up,” Otto finally said, breaking his silence and looking unconcerned into the eyes of Smitty. “I didn’t know the old man called you and asked you to come to town and protect his interests. I hadn’t planned on the possibilities of anyone being so, shall we say, ruthless as you were in your work. So what now? You going to whack me? Or is that pleasant task being handed to you, Greg?”

  “I think I’ll clean up the last dregs of the coffee pot myself,” the old man behind Smitty said pleasantly.

  “So... so... these computer discs everybody’s been trying to find,” the newly emancipated Charlene Sheppard said, confusion on her face. “Where are they? Who has them?”

  “I have them,” Tarkanian answered firmly behind Smitty. “I’ve had them for some time now. The moment I realized Jacob was dying. They’re safely tucked away in a place only I know about.”

  “So... Dad,” Stu whispered, emotion filling his voice as he threw an arm around the shoulders of his wife. “We’re out of the business? We’re free? Charlene and I and our baby are safe?”

  “You, my daughter-in-law, and my grandson are free and clear of everything. I’ve made sure of that. And you will never, ever, ever mention anything to your son as he grows up about what his grandfather does for a living. Now, get the hell out of here. There’s a chartered jet waiting at the airport. That honeymoon the two of you never had is waiting for you. Just tell the pilot where you want to go... and call me when you get there. I don’t want my grandson flying around the world without adequate diapers or baby formula.”

  Smitty looked at the two kids and motioned silently with a hand for the three of them to leave. They grinned, came out of their chairs. Stu turned to face Tarkanian. The young man's eyes were filled with tears. He wanted to say something. But he knew words would fail him. All he could do was smile weakly and nod his head. It was enough. More than enough to make Greg Tarkanian's gray lips pull back into a lop-sided, fatherly smirk.

  Eventually, son, daughter-in-law and grandson left. Leaving only the old man, the dark-eyed Smitty, and the giant known as Otto sitting around the kitchen table. And then the kitchen door opened and six men almost as big as Otto entered quietly. When they did Smitty stood up, stepped to one side of the chair and pushed it up against the table. He turned and looked down at the wounded Greg Tarkanian.


  “How many people have said ‘Thank you, Smitty’ and meant it?”

  Smitty remained silent and shrugged.

  “Thank you, Smitty. For showing a little compassion. A little restraint. For being you.”

  There was nothing to say. He was dismissed. He didn’t glance at the stoic giant. Walking to the kitchen door he brushed past the six henchmen.

  Closing the door behind him, the dark-eyed man blended into the night. Simply disappeared into nothingness.

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  About the Author

  B.R. Stateham is the author of several Smitty books and the Turner Hahn/Frank Morales detective stories, as well as numerous works of science fiction and fantasy.

  He is a sixty-five year old madman who writes in several different genres. Growing up reading the likes of Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammitt and Ed McBain in the detective genre, and Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov in science fiction, the author’s imagination was profoundly and permanently affected. The idea came to him quite early in life that he wanted to be a writer. He’s been working at it ever since. As to whether he’s accomplished his boyhood dreams will fall upon the shoulders of those who read his stories. They will be the final decision makers on the issue.

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  About Number Thirteen Press

  Pulp

  Crime

  Novellas

  Number Thirteen Press is building a list of 13 quality crime novellas and short novels, to be published consecutively on the 13th of each month, from November 2014 to November 2015.