The Big Enchilada by L. A. Morse Read Free Book Online Page B

face was white and covered with sweat. He was close to passing out.
    “I understand. I understand. Please stop.”
    “Because if I hear that he’s received any more funny Packages, or any threats, or he has any kind of accident, you better believe that I’m going to come after you. I’m going to rip your balls off, and I’m going to smash both of your knees, and both your ankles, and both your elbows and both your hands. And every minute you live after that will be nothing but pain—ask your friends about it. You better believe me, Georgie. Do you believe me?”
    I shoved my hand up hard one more time, nearly lifting him off the floor.
    “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
    I let him go and he crashed to the ground, clutching himself and crying in pain and fear.
    I went to the door and drew the bolts. As I opened the door I heard that the band was still playing. That was good. They were so loud I could have set a bomb and no one would have been the wiser.
    I went into the main room, pulling the door shut behind me. Directly in front of me stood Fat Belly, a wicked-looking sawed-off shotgun cradled loosely in his hands.
    “Okay, tough guy. Let’s see how tough you are now.”
    I noticed that he didn’t even have his finger on the trigger. Obviously he was not used to guns and thought the sight of it alone would be enough to put me out of business. He would be easy to take, and I doubted if I would ever get a better opportunity than I had.
    He was still smirking, thinking about what he was going to do to me, when I ripped the gun out of his hands. Surprise showed on his face, and then fear, and then pain as I jammed the stock a good six inches into his stomach. He doubled up, and, holding the barrel like a baseball bat, I clubbed the side of his head. I put my foot on his fat ass and pushed him toward the wall. He hit it face first. Blood poured from his broken nose as he fell backward to the floor. He was out cold, spread-eagled. I shoved the business end of the gun down into the front of his pants. If he wasn’t careful when he came to, he might do himself some more harm.
    As I left the place, I looked at my watch. Hardly five minutes had passed.
    I went to my car and saw that some burly biker was sitting on the front fender. He was an ugly son of a bitch with a shaven head and an earring in one ear. His torso was bare except for an open, sleeveless denim vest. He was heavily tattooed with snakes and skulls, and he was busy impressing a couple of teeny boppers with how tough he was.
    “This is my car.”
    “So what?”
    “So get off it.”
    “I don’t think so, man. It’s pretty comfortable.” He slammed the fender with his hand.
    Christ, I thought, doesn’t it ever end?
    “Suit yourself,” I said. I got in and started the engine.
    He was laughing it up and mugging for the benefit of the girls. Quite a comedian.
    I waited until I saw a break in the traffic. I turned the wheels hard and floored it. He sat on the front of the car until centrifugal force took over. He went flying off, landing on a parked car.
    I didn’t bother to look back as I drove down the street. All I wanted was to get off the Strip, get home, and have a scalding hot shower and a big glass of gin.
    Things were starting to sort themselves out.
    And I had been right.
    It had been a pretty good evening.

    In my apartment, I turned on my answering machine to see if there were any messages.
    There was one from a happy-sounding Clarissa Acker: “Hey, Hunter. I’ve been thinking about your ass.”
    Shit.
    I had been thinking about hers.

SIX

    I woke up early to the sounds of summer in Los Angeles. Through the cardboard walls of my apartment I heard some clown on the television screaming about how you should be shot for using the wrong laundry detergent. From the apartment on the other side, some woman was screaming at her husband that she would shoot him if he ever came home drunk again. A radio somewhere was screaming about a series of unsolved shootings