On the word kill, I pull out my gun. I hate to make a mess in broad daylight, but I don’t take risks. It’s all a blur after that.
The hobbling man yanks a revolver from his sagging trousers, firing it off without aiming and hitting the concrete in front of me as he raises it to my chest. He’s not fast enough to get away with his asinine assassination attempt, though. I place three bullets into his chest, and he falls back onto the sidewalk like a sack of bricks.
I hear a woman scream. “It’s self-defense, lady. Cool it,” I shout to her, shaking my head. I point to the man that I shot. “He tried to kill me.”
She pulls out a phone, her eyes nearly popping from her skull as she dials the police while looking back and forth between the body and me. I don’t need police asking me questions. I need to get the hell out of here.
I turn around, booking it down the street until I reach an alley. I doubt anyone is going to attempt to follow me, so all I really need to do it duck through some tight roads and come out close to Dean’s shitty restaurant. I’m still hungry.
I tuck the gun in my hand back into my shoulder holster and cover it with my suit jacket. I wasn’t expecting an attempt on my life, and certainly not from some grubby man on the street. This is an amateur hitjob, but someone put a price on my head to have it happen, which means somebody wants me dead. I’m starting to think that George’s death was meant for me.
Some African fellow. That’s what the dead man said.
Well, that doesn’t give me a lot to go on. I’m not familiar with any Africans in this part of town that might be pissed off at me about something. Hell, I’ve never even been to Africa. If I’m going to cause trouble in another country, it’s usually Spain. I’ve met plenty of Spaniards that wanted me dead.
I rub my chin, slowing down my job to a brisk walk as I exit an alley onto the same street as Dean’s restaurant. I may have just had a brush with death, but it doesn’t shake me. I’m more focused on this new piece of evidence. I’ll have to watch my back around here from now on. There’s a bounty on my head, and I don’t know how many smalltime crooks have been informed about it.
I walk with my head lower, trying not to show my face to anyone on the street. Not only are the crooks after me, but the cops are bound to do some rounds to check if I’m still in the neighborhood after I killed a man in broad daylight. They have a description from the loud woman across the street, so I’ll have to lay low for a while until the cops get bored of looking for me. It should be a few hours to a few days before they dismiss the case. They’re not especially vigilant around here.
I use my shoulder to push my way into Dean’s restaurant. The bell rings as the dirty glass door swings open, and I’m met with a small room with a counter to order food at. It’s only takeout here, and there aren’t any tables to sit at. I wasn’t planning on staying in one place for very long, though, so that’s fine.
“I’d like to speak to the owner,” I say, walking up to a small man behind the counter.
He looks up at me with a blank stare. “He’s out right now. How may I help you, sir?”
“He’s not out,” I grumble, looking past him to check the small square window on the greasy black door leading into the kitchen. I don’t see anyone, but I know he’s there. Dean doesn’t leave the shop without a good reason.
“He is out, sir. Would you like for me to leave him a message?” the man at the counter asks, sticking to his flimsy story. I’m sure Dean put him up to this, but I’m obviously not a cop. He doesn’t have to lie to me.
I loosen my tie. It’s so damn hot in here. “Listen,” I say, leaning toward him and placing both hands on the counter. “I know Dean is back there. Tell him that Carter is here to see him.”
“But he isn’t here,” the man replies calmly.
“Goddammit,” I shout, banging my fist on the counter and nearly sending the tip jar bouncing off onto the floor. “Tell Dean to come up here before I jump over the counter and get him myself.”
The man looks taken aback, but he finally turns around and rushes into the kitchen, presumably to fetch Dean. I wait at the counter, drumming my fingers on the cheap plastic covering and looking around at the grimy little shop. I’m having second thoughts about eating here.
Contrary to what most people would think when coming into a place like this, I’m thankful that the floor-to-ceiling windows are too dirty to see through properly. It keeps me safe from threats outside. I don’t know how many lunatics are running around the city now, looking for me, and that includes the police.
“Oh shit,” I hear a muffled voice exclaim from inside the kitchen. I’m instantly on high alert. That’s not the sound of Dean’s voice, and it doesn’t sound like someone splashed hot oil on themselves. It sounds like something is very wrong.
I don’t have to wait very long to find out what the problem is. The man that I sent back to fetch Dean comes crashing through the kitchen door, his face as pale as printer paper. “Somebody, call the police,” he exclaims, breathing heavily.
“Don’t do that,” I bark, slamming my hand over his as he reaches for the phone on the table.
“Dean is hurt,” he says, his face twisted in confusion at my
