SHANK (A Wilde Crime Series) (3 page)

Frankie came in
to the room carrying a tray filled with drinks, and looking much too good in tight jeans and a black tank top. She placed a beer in front of me, and a coke in front of Andy. I nodded my thanks, taking the barest notice of her long red hair tied back in a ponytail and the sprinkling of makeup covering her cheeks. I had no idea why’d I noticed, but it pissed me off just the same. Frankie was off limits to me, or any other asshole in the neighborhood. She was like a sister, of the nun variety, meaning you ain’t getting none.

And those who thought differently would bleed
.

Stupidly,
Dumber wasn’t quite up to speed and patted her ass as she past. Her eyes widened, growing cold as she stared at his hand on her butt. He winked and she slapped it away. Leering, he put it back. Her hand flexed into a fist.

Before violence
ensued I growled, “Hands off.”

Dumber jumped in his chair
, snatching his hand away. It would have been comical if Frankie hadn’t turned her glare on me. What did I do? I shrugged and went back to the game.

The flop came. A
ce, deuce, queen. I had flopped top pair, and unless Dumb or Dumber had an ace, the momentum was in my favor. Dumb’s bet. He threw down two thousand, play money to an Ivy leaguer like him. Dumber folded, as did Andy. I stared into Dumb’s eyes, watching beads of sweat pool along the edges of his receding hairline. Was he bluffing or did he have the nuts? I called and tossed two thousand in the pot. My heart raced, but I gave nothing away.

The next card was the king of diamonds. Dumb
reached for his money, an aggressive and stupid mistake. He went all in, pushing the ten thousand dollars in front of him into the pot. Calculating the risk, I called. He flipped the cards in front of him—a jack of hearts and ten of clubs.

Fuck, the asshole had a straight. M
y two pair wouldn’t hold up. I threw my cards over, noting the satisfaction in my opponent’s eyes. Andy turned the river card. The ace of spades stared back. Lady Luck smiled on me and gave Dumb the finger. I grinned. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.

Dumb jumped from the table, knocking it over
and scattering beer bottles, poker chips, cash, and cards. Ducking flying shards of glass from broken beer bottles, I pulled the .38 before he could grab the gun hidden in his jacket. “Don’t fucking think about it,” I said, aiming my gun at his heart. Dumb threw up his hands. I wasn’t fucking around and he knew it.

But
Dumber, true to his name, went for his weapon.

T
he pump of a sawed-off stopped him cold. Frankie stood in the doorway, pointing a double-barreled shotgun at his testicles. “Drop it,” she ordered. Dumber did, his shoulders slumping. I could smell his fear, or at least the urine soaking through his black chinos. Frankie smiled, glancing at the puddle at his feet.

I nodded to Andy and he
picked up Dumber’s gun. “Give him seven thousand,” I said to Andy while waving the pistol at Dumber. Andy scooped up some money from the floor and handed it to Dumber, who took it with reluctance, hands shaking.

“That’s what you had left
, right?” I dared him to argue, but he only nodded his head. “Today’s your lucky day, boys.” I pointed the gun to the door. “Get the fuck out and don’t come back.” Frankie slipped from the doorway, and let them pass. We laughed as they tripped over one and another fighting to be the first out.

Once they
left, Frankie glared around the room. The floor was littered with broken glass, spilled beer, and a rapidly cooling pool of piss. “I’m not cleaning that up.” She lowered the shotgun and walked away.

Later that night while Frankie hustled drunks from the bar, I sipped a shot of Jameson and glanced around the smoky room. It was two in the morning, and the only the die-hard alcoholics remained. The night hadn’t gone as I planned. The brief altercation with the frat boys had taken its toll and I was tired, more so than I’d ever been. What kind of life was this? Almost getting killed over a nickel and dime game? One day I wouldn’t be so lucky, and a bullet would find its way home. Fate didn’t miss twice.

On the other hand, the
card game netted enough to cover the bar’s overhead for the next month. Maybe even enough for a new icemaker, one that didn’t generate cubes of rust-colored ice. Rubbing my hand over my face, I counted the bar take. It was a little less than two hundred dollars. A good night. Most nights, I was lucky to pull in one bill. I tossed the winnings from the poker game in the pile, and shoved it all into the safe below the floorboards.

A
Hell’s Kitchen 401K.

“C’mon, Frankie,” a regular named Zed
pleaded. “One little kiss.” Grabbing her around the waist, he tried to plant one on her. She slammed her foot on his instep and shoved him out the door with a hard push. “Sober up. Susie’s not going to be too happy when you get home.” Closing the door on his drunken apologies, she twisted the lock and bared it with a reinforced iron pole. “Idiot,” she whispered in the now silent room.

“Did you say something?” I
glanced at her over the top of the bar.

“No.” S
he shook her head and began wiping down the tables. Her hair was twisted on top her head and tiny pieces curled around her face making her look ten years younger. She was too young and too beautiful to be slinging drinks for less than forty dollars in tips a night. She should be an actress, or a wife, raising a family somewhere in Brooklyn. Anywhere else but this drug-infested neighborhood, serving drinks to punks and drunks.

S
he swiped at a wayward curl and gave me a concerned smile. “You look tired. Go to bed. I’ll finish closing up.”

I pondered her for a long second, before taking a gulp of whiskey. It tasted sour on my tongue.
“Why do you stay here?” I asked, knowing I wouldn’t like the answer. 

“What kind of question is that?”
She dropped the cloth on the tabletop.

“For God sakes, you’re twenty-seven?
” I took another drink, wishing away the suddenly exhaustion that plagued me. “For ten years of your life you’ve worked here. Don’t you want more?”

“I’m twenty-eight.
” Her voice rose. “Are you firing me?”

I considered it. “No.” As much as I wanted her to be free of this place
, and this life, I couldn’t lose her. Not yet. Not today. “I can’t understand why someone so smart and beautiful wants to serve drinks to drunks and crack addicts.”

“I’m happy here.”
She smiled, the briefest hint of sadness entering her gaze. “I know where I stand, what my job is. Besides, admit it or not, you need me.”

T
rue. “You could make a lot more money somewhere else.” I motioned to the half empty tip jar next to the register. “Buy a house. Get a car. Maybe marry some rich guy from uptown who will take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah.” I paused, rising my glass in a half-salute. “But you wouldn’t have to if you found some rich schumk.”

“
I’d like to be rich.” Her eyes took on a faraway glow. “I’d sail around the world. See all the exotic places I’ve only read about. What about you?”

“I’ve been around the world.” The Navy
had seen to that. I’d spent six years fighting for my country, not to mention seeing the worst parts of humanity. I’d been to countries where puppet regimes setup by my own government slaughtered small children. I’d been shot at, stabbed, and beaten by men loyal to one thing—the almighty U.S. dollar. Thanks but no thanks; I’d rather stick to my small corner of the city where I knew my enemies.

Frankie
started to speak but a pounding at the front door stopped her. I pulled my .38 from its holster and gestured for her to get behind the bar. In this neighborhood, you could never be too careful. I kicked the iron bar from the door and opened it.

Mickey, Frankie’
s brother, flew into the room. His feet barely touched the floor as he stumbled past. Behind him, one of Salvatore DeMarco’s enforcers entered followed by Sal’s son, Nick. The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

“Are you Wilde?” T
he enforcer gestured to me.

I nodded, staring him in the eye.

His fist drew back, and he cold-cocked me.

The surprise blow knocked me flat. Pain exploded in my right eye as I flew backward over a wooden table. The table collapsed under my weight, and I crashed onto the concrete floor. Lucky for me, I held onto the .38. I aimed it at the goon’s head, flicked off the safety and prepared to fill him with nice round holes. He smiled in response, showing a large gap between his tobacco-stained teeth. My finger convulsed on the trigger.

Mickey shouted, “Ian,
don’t,” as he jumped into my line of fire. “Don’t give him a reason.”

“Get out of the way,” I
bit out each word as I slowly rose to my feet, my gun trained on the goon.

“Listen to your boy,
” Nick DeMarco drawled.

I
skimmed Nick’s face and lowered the weapon. “What do you want?” It had been six years since I’d last seen him. Time hadn’t been kind. Like spider webs, broken capillaries lined Nick’s nose from too much cocaine. His thick black hair was slicked back and receding, forming a deep widow’s peak, but his eyes were the same cold black I remembered. Eyes of the dead.

Nick gave me a greasy smile.
“I’m here as a friend.”

Friend? The DeMarco’s had no friends.
“Bullshit.” I gestured with the gun. “What do you want?”

Gap-
tooth gestured to Mickey. “Mickey here owes Mr. DeMarco some dough. We wanted to make sure nothing bad happened to him before the marker comes due.”

“Nice of you.” I took an intimidating step toward Nick. “Funny, I don’t remember you being much of a boy scout.”
What I did remember was his cruel streak. Growing up, he’d been a bully who picked on anyone smaller or weaker. With his brother Chris at his side Nick ran the neighborhood. He’d been the brains, and Chris, the brawn.

Nick
laughed, a chilling sound like gunfire in the silent room. “Guess there’s plenty of things we don’t know about each other.” His face lost its humor and grew cold. “For instance, I never expected you to get out of the joint alive.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’m not disappointment,” he said, his smile firmly back in place. “I’m glad.”

“Why’s that?” I knew what he was going to say, but why r
uin his big moment.

“So I can kill you myself
.” He moved closer. Spittle from his ruthless lips landed on my t-shirt. I wiped it away before I answered, “You can try.” Mickey jumped between us, his hands tugging at my shoulders. I kept my eyes on Nick, but asked Mickey, “How much are you down?” I had about twenty grand put away. It might not cover all of it, but it would be a good start.

He
studied the floor. “Half a mill.”

“When?”
Fuck. Even if the marker wasn’t due for a year he couldn’t come up with that much cash.

“Two weeks,
” Nick responded. The grin on his face said it all. “Five hundred thousand in cash in two weeks or Mickey dies.”

Bastard.
“Is this your revenge? Going after the crew?” I smiled, it wasn’t kind. “Pathetic. Why not take me on—one-on-one—right here, right now?”

“No. T
his is business.” His eyes drifted around the bar, the curl of his lip showing his disgust. “Figured you’d know the difference. When I take my revenge it won’t be pleasant, and trust me, it will come without warning.”

“Can’t wait.
” I gestured to the door with the barrel of my .38. “Now get the fuck out.”

“Is F
rankie around? I’d like to pay my respects.” Nick leered, and blood pounded in my ears.

“Don’t think about
her,” Mickey warned with a growl. “Ever.”

“
She sure has grown into a beauty.” His flat black eyes flickered with something undefined. Lust? Hate? I wasn’t sure, but I knew one thing. If Nick caught Frankie alone she was in serious danger.

My voice went soft.
“Get out of here or I will put a bullet in you.”

Nick nodded to the enforcer, and
Gap-tooth smiled. “Watch yourself,” he said, smacking Mickey in the back of the head. Mickey’s fist clenched and he glared at Nick’s bodyguard/puppet. At the door, Nick turned to me. “Don’t bother asking for an extension. The answer is no.” With those words ringing in the air, they walked out the door and down the street. I kept the .38 at my side in case.

As
their steps fade into the night I swung to face Mickey. “Are you insane?”

His shoulders slumped.
“It was a mistake. I didn’t know it was a DeMarco game.”

Frankie leapt from her hiding place behind the bar, the shotgun g
ripped in her arms. “Oh, Mickey.” She rushed to him, running her hands over the black and blue marks covering his handsome face. At first glance, you knew Frankie and Mickey were related. They both had bright red hair, intense blue eyes, and sculpted Irish features. The family definitely had good genes, even if brains had skipped a generation.