Whorl Page 11

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” she told him. “Coffee too?”

  ‘Um….” He was doing the math in his head. He was barely making more than minimum wage at the twenty-four hour copy center, a far cry from his $100K salary before the arrest. “No, just water,” he told her big tits. They had to be real, at her age, especially how they moved when she walked. And her ass, mmm. He bit his lip watching her walk away.

  “You hear that knocking sound? It’s him banging against the underside of the table watching you walk away,” Nancy whispered to her as she got back with the order.

  “Oh, ick. You’re just gross,” Lori told her, as Nancy turned away, laughing.

  The food wasn’t that expensive at Taps, especially for what the customers got, but it was busy all the time, so the tips added up. Lori was attending community college three days a week and working around her classes, but she just couldn’t seem to get away from working nights…and nights were where the creepers like Jerome showed up. She tended to the rest of her customers, trying not to think of how he stared at her practically every second. At least he’d never asked her out, or followed her after work or anything like that. She wondered if he still lived in the basement of his mom’s house, a middleaged loser, staying up late to perv on underage girls across the internet.

  She got him his pancakes by twelve thirty, and as she slid the plate onto the table glanced out the window. The lot was usually pretty well lit, and the managers walked the girls out to their cars, but still she was glad she’d parked close to the building. The rear of the parking lot was pretty dark, had been for almost a week, ever since one of the light poles had been hit by a drunk. God only knew how long it would take to get that fixed. Freakin’ Newark.

  For as infatuated as he seemed with her various body parts Jerome’s warmth seemed to fail him when it came time to leave a tip. He never left more than fifteen percent, and most of the time it was closer to ten. A lot of it in change. Whatever. At least he didn’t hang around for hours. He came in, stared at her tits and ogled her ass, drank his coffee or ate his pancakes, breathing loud through his open mouth the whole time, then he’d leave. Probably to go home to his smelly basement and jerk on himself while thinking of her, but as long as he went home to do it she didn’t care. Although it was disgusting to think of him doing that. Ew.

  Lori was delivering drinks to another booth when Beiers got up to leave, and he watched her bend over with a smile on his face. He counted out her tip carefully—if she wanted to make more money she should have had a better job, he wasn’t going to be an enabler of ignorance—then headed out to his car. As he walked toward the back of the lot he saw how dark it was. He hadn’t realized it was that poorly lit when he’d parked back there, probably because he’d been looking at the brightly-lit diner. He got even more nervous when he saw a guy walking toward him as he got close to his car.

  The guy had on a dark baseball cap and was coming in off the side street, hands in the pockets of his jacket. Jerome stopped nervously and stared at him. White guy, didn’t look like a punk, but he was in darker clothes, and you never knew…

  “Hey buddy,” the stranger said to him, tilting his head so he could see Jerome from under his baseball cap, “the diner still open? How late they open?”

  Jerome glanced at his watch, then over his shoulder at the diner. “They close in—” he began to say, turning back to the man, when he felt a sharp pain in his chest, and was suddenly out of breath. Jerome was confused; somehow he’d fallen down, and was on his back on the asphalt next to his car. How’d that happen? He opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t sure what—but no sound would come out. It was like an elephant was standing on his chest. He looked down, and saw something…what was that? A handle?

  Beiers gurgled and twitched as Marsh pulled the gardener’s pruners from his pocket and grabbed Beiers’ right hand. The fat man grunted as Marsh separated Beiers’ ring finger from the others, applied the pruners to the first knuckle, and squeezed smartly. Beiers jerked and keened as the thick blade severed his finger with a wet crunch. Without a pause Marsh stepped away from the body and walked back toward the dark side street, leaving Beiers twitching in the parking lot. The entire incident had taken ten seconds.

  Would he live? Maybe. The knife had a six inch blade and Marsh had hit his diaphragm perfectly, anglng up toward his heart….but the human body was elastic. He was pretty sure he’d felt Beiers’ heart beating against the blade of the knife, but it didn’t matter. He no longer had anything of interest to them, and there were no fingerprints on the knife he’d left stuck in the man, so if he lived or not was irrelevant.

  Marsh reached the end of the block without incident, turned the corner, and headed toward his rental car, on which he’d switched the plates. He was in and driving away ten seconds later. Thirty seconds after that he was driving over the Passaic River, and he threw Beiers’ finger out the window toward the dark water. He kept driving with the window down, and peeled off the fake moustache, tossed it, the clear glasses which changed the shape of his face, tossed them out the window, and finally tossed the gloves, slowly, one at a time, when there were no oncoming cars to see. He might have some of Beiers’ blood on his clothing or shoes, but he’d take care of them once he was safely out of New Jersey.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dave was sitting on the couch with Gina, eating pizza for dinner and watching TV, when his cell phone rang. He glanced away from Castle, which had been a compromise—she’d wanted to watch one of the Kardashian train wrecks, he wanted to catch a Law & Order. The number on his phone was local, but he didn’t recognize it. 313 area code, which meant Detroit.

  “Hello?”

  “Jackass.”

  It took him a second to place the voice, which was resonant but not quite deep. “Hey, Hollywood! What are you doing? Are you local?”

  Dave heard Taran Butler sigh on the other end of the phone. “Hotel phone. The battery died on my iPhone, it’s charging now.”

  “What are you doing in Detroit?”

  “Working on a Michael Bay monstrosity. A gigantic turd of a zombie movie. I’ve been in town all week, we’ve been filming downtown among the ruins and filth.”

  Dave had met Butler two years previous at the United States Practical Shooting Association’s National Championships, where the best pistol shots in the country, and the world, vied for the combat-type pistol shooting title. Butler was a professional shooter based in Simi Valley California, who had made a name for himself not just winning matches but working as a ‘technical advisor’ for movies. He was one of the people directors hired to make sure actors looked like they knew what they were doing when they were handling guns. The past few years he’d spent a lot of time in front of cameras and behind the scenes of the History Channel show Top Shot. He and Dave had hit it off, and kept in touch. They saw each other a few times a year at major pistol matches as well.

  “Is it that bad?”

  “I don’t know, maybe not. Don’t tell anyone I said that. You never know what the camera’s looking at, or what the movie’s actually going to look like after they put in the special effects. What do I know? I thought Public Enemies was going to be a huge hit.”

  “Who are you working with? Are you the lead or backup or part of a team?”

  “Harry Humphries. This thing’s bigger than Ben Hur, they’ve got everybody and their mother’s brother here telling the stupid actors not to stick the guns in their mouth, don’t look down the barrel and pull the trigger. Human idiots, it’s so irritating. Got to work with Mark Wahlberg some, he’s the hero on this one.”

  “Cool. How’s he to work with?”

  “Not bad. He listens when you tell him stuff, and cares about trying to do it right. His brother Donnie’s in it too. Donnie did Band of Brothers, so he knows not to scratch his nose with his gun. But we’re doing crowd scenes, military versus zombies, and it’s been a nightmare. Sixteen, eighteen hour days.”

  “Poor baby. I bet you’re
only making, what, twenty grand a day?”

  “Dude, nobody makes twenty grand a day doing this. Well, maybe Marky-Mark. I was making that much money, I’d have naked sprites sucking on my toes right now.”

  “Don’t you have a friend goes by the name Poptart Sprinkle?” Dave said with a smile. He’d met her. She was very nice.

  “Whatever, she’s just a friend. Pervert. Listen Gunfighter, we wrapped early today, and my flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow night. There anything to do around here? I’m stuck downtown, and I can’t see nada from my hotel. You maybe want to catch a flick or something tomorrow?” There were very things more entertaining in the world than watching a movie with Taran Butler. Especially if he was in the mood to start imitating the actors. He could do a perfect Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  “Dude, I can’t, I’m shooting the Sectional tomorrow, the State Championship.”

  “Oh.” Taran sounded seriously disappointed.

  “Hey, why don’t you shoot it with me?” Dave said. “That’d be cool.”

  “I don’t have any gear with me,” Taran said.

  “You can borrow my spare gun and gear. I’ve got everything you need.”

  “I don’t know. What is it?”

  “A Glock 35. I’ve got an extra rig, magazines, ammo, all of it.”

  “What kind of rig?”

  “Blade-Tech holster and magazine pouches.”

  “I don’t like using somebody else’s gay gun.” Even though he usually competed with a custom high-capacity 1911, Dave knew Taran could shoot Glocks well. Very well.

  “Dude, it’s one of your guns. You customized it. Or one of your people did, it’s a TTI Custom. Stippled grip, trigger job, your sights with the fiber optic front. I’ve got two of them. You built my rifle and shotgun too, don’t you remember?”

  “No. What kind of shotgun?”

  “Beretta M2. I swear, you have the memory of a goldfish. Come on, shoot with me.”

  “You think they’ll let me in?”

  “I’ll get you in, don’t worry about it. You can shoot with me, I’m on the Super Squad, such as it is.” Most of the national championships for the shooting sports were attended by professional shooters, but amateur average shooters were welcome as well. To keep the pressure as fair and even on the pro shooters as possible, they were usually squadded together over the three or four days needed to complete a major match. The squad filled by the pro shooters was nicknamed the Super Squad, or the God Squad.

  “Do I know anybody on it? Other than you?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Come on, let’s do it. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  He heard Taran sigh. “I don’t have a ride, you’re going to have to pick me up at the hotel.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “I told you you should come to the match,” Dave said to his girlfriend when he got off the phone. “Now you really have to. You can meet Taran, he’s kind of a celebrity. He trains all the actors in Hollywood how to shoot, or at least look like they know how to shoot.”

  “Yeah. Like who?”

  “You remember Collateral? That movie where Tom Cruise played the hit man? Do you remember that scene in the alley, the quickdraw? ‘Yo, Homie, that my briefcase?’”

  “Yeah. It was fast, but it wasn’t that fast.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’ve seen me practicing my draw. Trust me, it was fast, and that’s the kind of stuff Taran does, even though half the time he doesn’t get the credit for it.” It was especially impressive considering the crappy pistol, an HK USP, Cruise had been saddled with for most of the movie. Poor ergonomics, and worse trigger. “You can’t teach it unless you can demonstrate it.”

  In fact, Taran had told Dave one day that Tom Cruise had been the best student he’d ever seen. “That guy was a machine,” he’d admitted. “He practiced for hours every day, until he got it perfect.” Taran had been visiting with Tom Cruise’s trainer, Mic Gould, during pre-production of Collateral, and that’s how he’d met Michael Mann, and got hired to work on Mann’s movie Public Enemies with Johnny Depp and Stephen Lang.

  Gina was no stranger to celebrities, she saw a few local and the occasional national famous faces drop by the strip club, but you never knew where or when you might catch that big break. Plus, Taran was from California, and worked in TV and movies. “Sure, why not,” she said. “But I’m not getting up early with you when you go pick him up at the hotel. I’ll meet you there.” Her bodyclock was on strip club time.

  “Okay, but don’t forget eyes and ears.”

  “What?”

  “Ear protection and eye protection.” He reminded her, “It’s a shooting match. That means there will be shooting.”

  Al Safie was sitting at the back of his Durango in the gravel parking lot, putting on his Salomon cleats, when Dave parked his Mustang next to him. Safie recognized the kid’s ride, and was going to give him a friendly greeting, then he recognized the guy climbing out of the Mustang’s passenger seat. What the hell?

  “You fucker,” he called out to Dave. “Thanks a lot. We’re all going to be shooting for second place now.”

  Dave smiled at the guy he knew was an FBI agent as Taran grinned apologetically. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over that loud whining sound. You want to repeat that? Maybe you can arrest him, then he won’t be able to shoot,” he called out over his shoulder.

  “Smartass,” Safie grumbled. There was going to be a lot of competition at this match. It was going to be tough even before Anderson brought in a ringer, and any slipup, no matter how slight, would probably bump him down a slot or two in the standings.

  “Randy,” Dave said to the guy handling the registration, “I found Frank Stallone wandering around downtown, homeless, you think you could fit him in on my squad?”

  Randy looked up from the pile of injury release forms and saw Dave. “Hey Gunfighter,” he said with a smile. He looked over Dave’s shoulder and saw Butler in his brightly colored professional shooting jersey. Plastered across his chest and back, around his sleeves and shoulder were all the names of his sponsors, and he looked a bit like a NASCAR driver. A NASCAR driver with hair that…. shit, he did look a bit like Frank Stallone. Taran had a big mane of glossy black hair, like an extra from Saturday Night Fever. “What? Hey, uh, Taran. Wow, uh, sure, we can fit you in. Cool!”

  Dave looked at Taran. “Told ya,” he said with a smile. “It’s like getting to play golf with Tiger Woods.”

  Shooters at USPSA were classed according to ability, and while only one person could win the overall title, everyone hoped to win their “Class”. Dave had just earned a Master Class ranking. There were two other Master Class shooters on the squad, Al Safie and Brian Caffrey, and competition would be fierce among them. Caffrey worked in a tool and die shop. Taran Butler was a Grand Master in USPSA and nearly in a class by himself at a State Championship.

  “Check out the snapdragon,” Taran said. He and Dave had put on their pistol belts and were talking to the other members of the squad while waiting for the shooters’ meeting to start. They all looked up and Dave saw his girlfriend walking across the parking lot toward them in a tight tank top, short shorts, and pink tennis shoes. She’d remembered eye protection, in the form of giant sunglasses that would have made Kim Kardashian jealous.

  “Wow,” Brian murmured.

  She was aware of all the stares and ignored them even as she soaked in the attention. There didn’t seem to be a lot of other women at the range, but that was fine with her. She stopped next to Dave with an extra bounce and said, “Hi honey.”

  “You’re with him?” Taran said, the look of surprise on his face priceless. “What are you doing hanging around with this sack lunch?”

  “Gina, Taran, Taran, Gina,” Dave said, then introduced her to everybody else on the squad as well.

  “That’s just not fair,” Brian muttered.

  “What?” Gina said.

  “Bringing a hot chick to the range.” />
  She just smiled. “Why not?”

  Brian looked at Dave. “You’ve never explained the point system to her?”

  Dave smiled. “No, she doesn’t come to a lot of matches.”

  “Okay, well here it is,” Brian said to her, doing his best not to talk to her chest. Jesus. “First off, this is a major match, and winning or losing is usually as much about focus as it is shooting ability. Speaking as a heterosexual male, it’s always harder to focus when there’s a hot chick around. Always. And then there’s the point system.”

  “The point system?”

  “Let’s take your average girl. Say she’s a seven out of ten. Since most of the people you’ll see at the range shooting are guys, any woman who shows up and is interested in guns, and in shooting, automatically moves up at least a point.”

  “Two,” somebody else said.

  “If she shoots,” Brian continued, “she automatically moves up another point. So a 7 that comes to the range and straps on a gun automatically gets bumped up to a 9. You,” and he looked her over, “just walking down the street, you’d be a nine, maybe a nine and a half. At the range, on a hot day, in those clothes, when we’ve got a major match going on? You’re a twelve. Your boyfriend’s a real asshole.” He flashed Dave an evil look that also had a twinge of jealousy in it.

  “I’ll take any advantage I can get, perceived or real,” Dave said with a grin.

  “Only a nine and a half?” Gina said with a twinkle in her eye.

  Brian shrugged. “I don’t believe in perfection. You could have a hideous birthmark or something.”

  “I dance at Goldfinger’s five nights a week,” she told him. “My stage name’s Krembrulay. You could come down and look for yourself.”