Shotgun Opera
Victor Gischler
A DELL BOOK
Acknowledgments
So many people to thank. I?m sure I?ll miss somebody. Apologies. Apologies.
Let?s start with the crew at Bantam Dell. Bill Massey, whose editorial advice keeps me focused. I do listen to you. I promise. The cool folks in publicity who get the word out: Sharon Propson and Susan Corcoran. Keep talking me up! And I can?t forget the captain of the ship, Irwyn Applebaum. Thanks for stopping at that bookstore in Arkansas and buying that first copy of
Continued and heaping thanks to the men at the V&G Writing Lab: Anthony Neil Smith and Sean Doolittle. I appreciate both the pats on the back and the cold splashes of water in my face.
The booksellers and the readers. Without you guys, I might as well stick the pages of these novels to my refrigerator with a magnet.
Prologue
HARLEM, 1965
?When the noise starts, half them spooks are gonna spill out the back.? Dan Foley thumbed buckshot shells into the twelve-gauge. When it was full he checked his revolver. ?So I want you ready to splatter ?em real good. Right??
Dan?s little brother Mike smacked the barrel magazine into the .45 Thompson gun. ?Right.? Mike had more guns, .45 automatics under each arm and a.32 revolver strapped to his ankle. ?How many in there??
Dan shrugged, screwed the cap off a flask of whiskey, tilted it back and swallowed, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ?They?re playing cards and sucking reefer. They won?t know what hit ?em. I mean, shit, be careful, sure. But I?d say maybe a dozen guys. Give or take.?
Two against twelve. Mike gripped the tommy gun tight. No problem.
They sat in the Buick a block down. Dan looked at his wristwatch, lit a cigarette. ?Five minutes.?
Mike didn?t like waiting. But waiting was what he did. Dan was the man, and Mike waited for Dan to give the word. That?s how it had always been for the five years since Mike was eighteen and Dan had taken him on his first job. Mike had been scared shitless, but when the shooting started, even he?d been surprised at how steady he?d turned out. He?d picked his targets, squeezed the trigger, hadn?t flinched or wavered even when the bullets had whizzed past his ears. He?d killed four men his first night out, and afterward Dan had bought him shots of bourbon until he threw up and passed out.
Dan and Mike made a living solving problems for the guineas. Sometimes the mob needed to lean on the competition but didn?t want the blame. Mike didn?t pretend to understand underworld politics. All he knew was that there was good money in making people go away.
Now he was preparing to punish this Harlem gang for trespassing on the mob?s heroin trade. It didn?t make a damn bit of difference to Mike which gang of scumbags pushed the poison. All he knew was that the friction made enemies, and the situation put cash in his and his brother?s pockets. That was how Dan had explained things. It wasn?t the place of two Irish boys to try to understand the morality. They provided a service and got paid and that was all there was to it.
Dan cranked the Buick and pulled it into the alley behind the club. He pulled a grenade out of his coat pocket, showed it to Mike, and winked. ?When you hear this baby go off, get ready.?
Mike frowned at the grenade. ?Where the hell did you get that??
?Jersey.?
