S M O K I N G G U N

A long, low sighed whistled through my lips. As I watched her smoke my cigarette, I started to regret letting her in.

"When did you see her last?"

"Two nights ago. She went to gets some food."

I hadn’t heard of any raids in the last few days. Not that she’d be any safer in custody. Carl Gray ran the local precinct. Young whores were his favorite. The old woman read my mind.

"I knows the Order got her." For months stories had circulated about the Order picking up the flotsam, trying to turn them around. The tales hinted at a grim ending for those who didn’t repent. As far as I was concerned it was another urban legend. The police hadn’t investigated, but that didn’t mean anything. Until someone more important than a whore or a sidewalk alcoholic vanished, the police would save their energy for more pressing matters.

"The Order took Barking Jack." The old woman offered.

"Who the hell is Barking Jack?"

"You knows Barking Jack. He used to stand outside the subway entrance, begging and thieving. He was the one that yells all the time."

The description prodded a memory. "Old man with rotting teeth, always wore a black coat and a Dodgers cap?"

"That’s Barking Jack. He was trouble, but I didn’t wants the Order to have him.” I checked my watch. It was past five; the snow had been flying for hours. The subway would be bedlam. And what the hell is waiting at home for you? The Voice wanted to know. "

"Okay. I’ll check it out."

The old lady smiled and stood up. For a moment I was afraid she would hug me. "

Thank you, Mr. Graves. Theys was right about you helping us people."

"We’ll see."

I waited for her to leave, then opened the window and dropped her chair into the alley fifty feet below. One more piece of garbage added to the pile. Christ, the whole building was a dump. I wondered why the place hadn’t been condemned. There were only a dozen tenants spread across six floors. The rest of the building had been abandoned to the rats and cockroaches. It fits your budget though, the Voice chimed in. But this time I didn’t hear it. I was too busy loading my pistol.

SHATTER

Vazzupo hadn’t liked Joey either, but nobodytouched his people. Finding the fifty thousand dollars Joey’d been carrying to bribe a boxing official came in second to restoring Vazzupo’s honor. I signed for the corpse using an alias, then disappeared into the heat shimmer. Around dark I walked into the bar Lina had made her second home. It wasn’t much, but neither was Lina anymore. I ordered a bourbon, lit a smoke, then took the seat across from her in a corner booth. She should have seen me coming, but her eyes were lost on the glass in front of her.

“Hello, Lina.” My English was good, but there was still some Marseilles in it. She looked up with unfocused eyes. The accent was all she got.

“Oh my god. Marco!” I gave her a cigarette. “It’s been a while.” Time is a convenient fall-guy, but it couldn’t take the rap for Lina’s appearance. She’d put her forty-four years in the hard way, with plenty of help from a bottle. After she wedged the cigarette into the corner of her mouth, she wrapped her hands around mine. There were tears in her eyes, but I had no trouble staring into them.

I was paid for worse. Worse followed me around. “Been awhile is right,” she said cautiously, not totally lost in the booze.

“Joey? He left town last week.” I didn’t say anything; just took a long drink and let the silence work on her. She played her next hand.

“Something happen to him?” It couldn’t have sounded good even to her. I drained my glass and put it softly on the table. “Still have that place off Ellis Avenue?”

“Yes.” She managed more tears, probably worried because I’d taken the trouble to find out where she lived. “Why?” I figured the tears were real. She ought to be afraid.

Life hadn’t always been the shits for Lina Caputo. When I’d first arrived in Manhattan ten years ago she’d run a private gaming house for the Vazzupo family. She’d done all right by it, had a Mercedes and some good clothes and jewelry, and it beat the hell out of being a whore for one of those fat wise guys that lost money at her tables. Augie had brought me over to the States on the say so of a cousin in Sicily. It wasn’t easy being French and making it with those guys. You had to be better than good, and they had to need an outsider. Augie had required someone to handle a power struggle that had brewed up while he recovered from minor surgery. A quartet of gruesome corpses settled the coup, and Augustino Vazzupo was stronger than ever. Manhattan was his, and his gratitude mine.

I walked into Lina’s and caught her eye in a heart beat. My accent might have intrigued her, but not as much as my reputation. It was the day after I’d put Joey the Nail into hospital and word was out on me; I was Vazzupo’s ace. Lina ate it up. Too bad not everyone was an Agustino Vazzupo disciple. A thug called Salvatore Mora was also hitting the tables that night. He was a trigger man for the Fiori’s, the family that had thrown in with Augie to keep him at the top of the food chain. Their support had paid off an old debt, and Augie knew it had come grudgingly. Mora gave me a few hard stares, but out of respect for Augie I let it go. Didn’t matter. Fate doesn’t care about respect. Mora wandered into the back room to play poker, but the game was winding down. Large piles of chips were stacked in front of me and the other players were tired of me pocketing their money.


	""
	ORDER "The tales hinted at a grim ending for those who didn’t repent..." Order, Blue Murder Magazine Issue #16 A long, low sighed whistled through my lips. As I watched her smoke my cigarette, I started to regret letting her in. "When did you see her last?" "Two nights ago. She went to gets some food." I hadn’t heard of any raids in the last few days. Not that she’d be any safer in custody. Carl Gray ran the local precinct. Young whores were his favorite. The old woman read my mind. "I knows the Order got her." For months stories had circulated about the Order picking up the flotsam, trying to turn them around. The tales hinted at a grim ending for those who didn’t repent. As far as I was concerned it was another urban legend. The police hadn’t investigated, but that didn’t mean anything. Until someone more important than a whore or a sidewalk alcoholic vanished, the police would save their energy for more pressing matters. "The Order took Barking Jack." The old woman offered. "Who the hell is Barking Jack?" "You knows Barking Jack. He used to stand outside the subway entrance, begging and thieving. He was the one that yells all the time." The description prodded a memory. "Old man with rotting teeth, always wore a black coat and a Dodgers cap?" "That’s Barking Jack. He was trouble, but I didn’t wants the Order to have him.” I checked my watch. It was past five; the snow had been flying for hours. The subway would be bedlam. And what the hell is waiting at home for you? The Voice wanted to know. " "Okay. I’ll check it out." The old lady smiled and stood up. For a moment I was afraid she would hug me. " Thank you, Mr. Graves. Theys was right about you helping us people." "We’ll see." I waited for her to leave, then opened the window and dropped her chair into the alley fifty feet below. One more piece of garbage added to the pile. Christ, the whole building was a dump. I wondered why the place hadn’t been condemned. There were only a dozen tenants spread across six floors. The rest of the building had been abandoned to the rats and cockroaches. It fits your budget though, the Voice chimed in. But this time I didn’t hear it. I was too busy loading my pistol. Copyright © Steven C. Price 2001 SHATTER "I ordered a bourbon, lit a smoke...She should have seen me coming, but her eyes were lost on the glass in front of her." Shatter, Blue Murder Magazine Issue #20 The first thing I did in Vegas was I.D. the corpse. It used to be Joey Napoli, aka Joey the Nail. I called him Joey the Wail after the way he’d howled during a bitch slapping I’d given him not long after arriving in the States. He’d never called me a Frog again. Someone had gone one better on that beating, and capped it by slitting his throat. The jagged line running from ear to ear was an ironic smile, like he was laughing at the punishment his killer would get from Augustino Vazzupo. Vazzupo hadn’t liked Joey either, but nobodytouched his people. Finding the fifty thousand dollars Joey’d been carrying to bribe a boxing official came in second to restoring Vazzupo’s honor. I signed for the corpse using an alias, then disappeared into the heat shimmer. Around dark I walked into the bar Lina had made her second home. It wasn’t much, but neither was Lina anymore. I ordered a bourbon, lit a smoke, then took the seat across from her in a corner booth. She should have seen me coming, but her eyes were lost on the glass in front of her. “Hello, Lina.” My English was good, but there was still some Marseilles in it. She looked up with unfocused eyes. The accent was all she got. “Oh my god. Marco!” I gave her a cigarette. “It’s been a while.” Time is a convenient fall-guy, but it couldn’t take the rap for Lina’s appearance. She’d put her forty-four years in the hard way, with plenty of help from a bottle. After she wedged the cigarette into the corner of her mouth, she wrapped her hands around mine. There were tears in her eyes, but I had no trouble staring into them. I was paid for worse. Worse followed me around. “Been awhile is right,” she said cautiously, not totally lost in the booze. “You still work for New York?” “Seen Joey around?” That was enough of an answer. “Joey? He left town last week.” I didn’t say anything; just took a long drink and let the silence work on her. She played her next hand. “Something happen to him?” It couldn’t have sounded good even to her. I drained my glass and put it softly on the table. “Still have that place off Ellis Avenue?” “Yes.” She managed more tears, probably worried because I’d taken the trouble to find out where she lived. “Why?” I figured the tears were real. She ought to be afraid. “I’ll drop by later.” I left some money on the table and walked away. • • • Life hadn’t always been the shits for Lina Caputo. When I’d first arrived in Manhattan ten years ago she’d run a private gaming house for the Vazzupo family. She’d done all right by it, had a Mercedes and some good clothes and jewelry, and it beat the hell out of being a whore for one of those fat wise guys that lost money at her tables. Augie had brought me over to the States on the say so of a cousin in Sicily. It wasn’t easy being French and making it with those guys. You had to be better than good, and they had to need an outsider. Augie had required someone to handle a power struggle that had brewed up while he recovered from minor surgery. A quartet of gruesome corpses settled the coup, and Augustino Vazzupo was stronger than ever. Manhattan was his, and his gratitude mine. I walked into Lina’s and caught her eye in a heart beat. My accent might have intrigued her, but not as much as my reputation. It was the day after I’d put Joey the Nail into hospital and word was out on me; I was Vazzupo’s ace. Lina ate it up. Too bad not everyone was an Agustino Vazzupo disciple. A thug called Salvatore Mora was also hitting the tables that night. He was a trigger man for the Fiori’s, the family that had thrown in with Augie to keep him at the top of the food chain. Their support had paid off an old debt, and Augie knew it had come grudgingly. Mora gave me a few hard stares, but out of respect for Augie I let it go. Didn’t matter. Fate doesn’t care about respect. Mora wandered into the back room to play poker, but the game was winding down. Large piles of chips were stacked in front of me and the other players were tired of me pocketing their money. CCopyright © Steven C. Price 2001