BOOM Page 7
Weston was standing now, still pointing the handgun at Punchy. He was talking but Punchy could not make out what he was saying. His vision blurred and he slumped down to the floor, leaning against the wall. Blackness faded in and out across his eyes. His pants were soaked and he realized it was from blood.
One second Weston was standing there and then he was gone. Time seemed to have stopped and Punchy became vitally aware of something else, a familiar sensation that had long been dormant.
“Shut up, you little bitch. You might be sold but that doesn’t mean I can’t knock the shit out of you.”
Punchy could hear again.
He forced his eyes open and saw Weston pulling the girl through the bedroom door. She was screaming and calling for help. Weston punched her.
“Shut up!” He threw the girl down and she landed before Punchy. She looked at him pleadingly, and he could hear her gasping for help as Weston approached.
Punchy could hear again. Somewhere something had re-fused some synapses or cleared out some broken cogs and sound infiltrated his mind. He could hear Weston’s expensive dress shoes as they moved across the carpet. He heard the whoosh of the air conditioner working to cool down the suite and the hum of the refrigerator coming from the kitchen. He heard people yelling in the surrounding apartments. And he heard something else far of in the distance: sirens.
“Get up. We got to move now, whore.” Weston bent down to haul the girl from her knees. A sudden movement caught his attention and he turned. Punchy socked him square in the face.
Weston lurched backwards dropping the gun and hitting one of the sofas. He rebounded off the furniture and lurched forward, right into a wicked left cross. Weston flipped over the couch. Punchy stooped and picked up the butterfly knife.
He turned to the girl who was slowly getting to her feet. She looked at him as she cried and reached her hand out to him. He could hear her gentle sobs.
Punchy tilted his head slightly, a simple acknowledgement. She returned the nod. He watched her run from the suite. He turned his attention back to Weston.
The old man was struggling back to his feet. There was a cut above his right eye, and snot and spit dribbled down his face.
“You cocksucker,” Weston sputtered. “You’re going to die, handyman. Dead man.” Punchy socked him again with his left. Weston rolled across the coffee table. A tooth rattled off the table’s surface. He still gripped the knife in his right hand.
“Stop. Please,” Weston begged, “I got money. Women. Whatever you want.” Weston patted Punchy’s arm as the boxer bent down and twisted the old man’s tie in his hand. “You can be rich. I swear.”
Punchy jerked the old man up by his tie and drug him to side of the room. He pushed Weston back against the wall and grabbed one of the old man’s hands, laying it flat against the white surface. Weston screamed as Punchy plunged the blade through the hand impaling Weston to the wall.
Punchy stepped back as the man flailed wildly with his free hand.
“Fucking,” Weston sputtered. “Stupid……fucking…..die….you retard….” He tried to remove the blade from the wall but it was stuck too deep.
Punchy spit blood and bile from his mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. His stomach was on fire and he was a plastered crimson mess of a person.
“Fu-fu-fuck y-y-youuuuuu,” he answered Weston.
Punchy worked his heavy bag like never before.
*****
Officer Raab surveyed the mess in the suite. Two dead men. One from a gunshot wound to the stomach, the other beaten to a pulp. He shook his head. The Liberty was too classy a place for this business.
Stinson joined him in the living room. “Damn, what a mess.”
Raab nodded. “How’s the girl?”
“She’s still in shock but she will be fine. Amanda King. 19 years old. Reported missing four days ago.” Stinson flipped his notebook closed. “She’s damn lucky. They’re questioning her now. Trying to get the story figured out.”
“What about the others?” Raab bent down in front of the beaten man. His face looked like grape jelly.
“One dead in the basement,” Stinson replied. “The other goon is alive but barely. The one outside in the hallway is still ticking too. I’m sure they all got priors and are probably wanted by someone somewhere.”
Stinson knelt down next to Raab. “This one is the handyman?”
“That’s what they’re telling me,” Raab answered.
“Huh.”
“What?” Raab looked over at Stinson.
Stinson pointed at the body in front of him. “I know this guy.”
“What?”
“Yeah. This is The Dynamite Kid, Ricky Jones.”
“The boxer?”
Stinson nodded. “Yeah, he was a hell of a fighter. Before he lost his hearing or something. I saw him knock out Junior Wells in three rounds. Ate that schmuck up, I tell you.”
Raab stood back up and Stinson joined him. “Damn. I remember him. I saw him fight Doc Collins. He had this superfast jab that no one saw coming.”
“It’s a damn shame,” Stinson nodded. “Too bad he never amounted to anything.”
Raab nodded and headed for the door. He needed a cigarette.
Also by Michael Whetzel
The Pied Piper of the Undead
Bandwidth
The Black Rain Journals
The Voice
The Widow and the Orphan
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