“What?” Horace tightened his hand on the gun as he watched the fag holding onto his jaw. He grinned, he still had a mean right cross.
“Gordon, that’s my name.”
“I oughta do you and get it over with.” Damn faggot had balls.
“Do me, as you put it, and Mr. Striker and yourself will wind up being strapped down as they stick in the needle?”
“The fuck you talking about?”
“The death penalty, Horace. For you for sure. A cop’s mother, another’s kid. The kid’s the capper, you’ll get the needle, no doubt.”
“So, if I’m going down, what’s one more body?”
“Tomorrow I’m gonna meet with Striker. I have a deal that ends it. You walk away, we walk away. As far as the cops are concerned, the world’s better off without Frankie Fujimori. And, as of now, they believe Wolfe’s kid climbed over that balcony and fell, his wife ate her gun and Norton’s mother took her own life. Maggie’s twin will just have to go down as unsolved.”
“Twin?”
“Don’t act so surprised, you’ve already figured it out. And yes, you got Margo Kenyon. That was another mistake, dumping her body behind the bar. We never would’ve been involved if you hadn’t done that, never would’ve figured it all out. And before you think you can shut me up by pulling that trigger, you’d better wonder whether or not I wrote it all down and left it in an envelope with someone to go public with if anything happens to me or Maggie.”
“Don’t make sense, nothing in it for you.” Horace tightened his grip on the gun.
“Margo Kenyon inherited over three million dollars from her father when he died. We get to keep it, me and Maggie.”
Horace was stunned. They get to keep three million bucks if they keep quiet, but if something happens to either one of them, someone opens an envelope somewhere and tells the world about how fucking stupid he’d been, hitting cops’ kin. Yeah, Striker would leave ’em alone, at least until he found out who had that envelope.
He saw the payoff for the Twin sinking down a rat hole. No way could he do her now. Striker might even try to renege on the old broad and the kid. It wasn’t fair. Minutes ago he was looking at a fortune, now this clown and the woman were getting it.
“So, you and Striker got it all worked out?” Horace moved in closer, stood above Gordon, pointed the gun at his head.
Gordon looked past him, said, “Jasmine, you’re not supposed to be up. Get back to bed.”
The kid was here? Horace snuck a quick glace over his shoulder.
And pain blasted through his hand.
Horace spun his eyes back toward the fag. The fucker was in flight, coming toward him like a killer bird. He tried to bring the Beretta to bear, but it was gone. Bastard had kicked the gun from his hand.
Then the faggot was on him. Hands circled his neck, claws dug in, cut off his air. Pain thundered from his groin, bastard had kneed him in the balls. No air, can’t breathe. He was falling backward, fucker on top of him.
Air, need air.
Horace jabbed a fist into the faggot’s belly, but he didn’t let go. He hit him again and still he held on, thumbs digging into his windpipe. Again, again, again, but each blow was a pale imitation of the one before. Horace had no power behind his fists. He was a two year old trying to stop a train.
His head pounded into the carpet as he thudded to the floor with the faggot still on top of him, hands still on his neck, still squeezing. Horace was getting dizzy. He was going to die here. Fucking faggot was killing him. He could feel his eyes popping out as he stared into the faggot’s cold glare. There was no mercy in those eyes, the faggot was going to kill him. No doubt.
Horace struggled a hand into a back pocket, fingers snaked inside, closed around Virgil’s knife. He was going to pass out, but first his thumb hit the button, flicked the knife open.
No strength for a good thrust, but he gave it his best effort, a swipe at the fucker’s chest.
The faggot jumped back.
Horace sucked air, wheezing like a sick dog, he couldn’t get enough.
All of a sudden, the faggot was on the other side of the room, his yellow Hawaiian shirt covered in blood.
Horace rolled over, pushed himself to his knees. His balls felt like they were going to explode, but he had to get up before the faggot came at him again. Fuck, the guy was strong. Horace climbed to his feet as the faggot ripped out a shivering scream. Not pain, one of those karate screams.
The bastard was coming at him again, rage in his eyes. No knife was gonna stop something like that. Horace dropped it, picked up a lamp. The base was a thick glass bowl stuffed full of sand and sea shells. Heavy as cement. He ripped the cord from the wall and smashed it into the charging faggot’s head. Fucker was so blind angry he never saw it coming.
The faggot went down like he’d been shot and Horace dashed to the door. No telling who heard that scream. He was outside in an instant. He thought about going back for the knife and gun, but a light went on down the way and it made up his mind. He ran.
Gordon came to with the mother of migraines. Everything was black. Something cold was pressed against his forehead. He tried to get up.
“No, lay still.” It was Maggie’s voice.
“I’m okay.” He opened his eyes. Concern was written all over her face. She looked like an angel. He was on the floor, head in her lap. Gay was looking over her shoulder.
“No, you’re not.”
“Where’s the girls?”
“Still at the movies. It was a teenage vampire kind of thing, we left in the middle and it’s a good thing we did, you were bleeding all over everything.”
“I’ll call 911,” Gay said.
“No,” Gordon said.
“We have to get you to a doctor. You’ve lost a lot of blood and that cut on your chest is going to need stitches.”
“Don’t feel it,” Gordon said. But he was beginning to.
“It’d be quicker if we took him to the hospital,” Gay said.
“No, call Jonas. He’ll know what to do.”
“Gordon!” Maggie said.
“No doctor, no police. Call Jonas. Tell him what happened, he’ll fix it.”
“I don’t think so, Gordon,” Maggie said.
“It’s the only way. I’ll be alright.”
“I’ll take over, so you can make that call.” Gay sat down and Maggie shifted Gordon into her lap. He fought to stay conscious as Maggie went out to the kitchen and the phone. In a few seconds, he heard her talking to Jonas. Heard her explaining how she was still alive and why she’d called. Then he closed his eyes.
Chapter Twenty
“I thought you were gonna take the kids to your house.” Maggie pushed her hair out of her eyes. She was in Jonas’ kitchen in his apartment above the Whale. She leaned on the counter by the sink. She was tired.
“I decided it was a bad idea. It didn’t seem safe, not after what happened tonight.” Gay whispered, so the girls in the other room wouldn’t hear. She’d gone to pick them up right after they’d delivered Gordon to Jonas’. She’d only been back a few seconds, when Maggie whisked her into the kitchen. “How’s your friend?”
“He’s going to be alright. The doctor’s with him now. It doesn’t look like a concussion.”
“What about the knife wound?”
