The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright Read Free Book Online

about this Brian Tessyier? Has our man, what’s it . . . Gager, contacted him yet?”
    Murthy was reading ahead as fast as he could, but it was obvious he’d not seen any of this before. “Noooo. . . He got another lead on the way to see Tessyier. It says, ‘One day detour. Well worth it.’”
    “Where is this Tessyier?”
    “He lives in one of our Cubes, in Pittsburgh,” said Murthy. He winked at Virginia, a victorious glint in his eye.
    Virginia stood. “There’s nothing between here and Pittsburgh but mountains. Big mountains. The Delaware Water Gap. The Poconos. The Alleghenies. The ass-end of nowhere.”
    “And Quakers,” inserted Thomka, watching the alarm grow in Petey’s eyes. “That’s their turf. Penn’s woods.”
    “Call that guy in Pittsburgh,” said Petey. “You know the one.”
    Everyone’s eyebrows arched querulously.
    “You know the guy. The Wall guy. The Irishman. The one with the crazy town that runs along the Pittsburgh Wall. The one-street nation.”
    Thomka paled. “Efryn Boyne? New Hibernia? You don’t want to get involved with the Black Hearts. They are not like us. They hate us. They serve us, but only for their own purposes.”
    Murthy chuckled. “Thought you said they’re not like us?”
    “Everyone’s like us,” said Petey. “Enlightened self-interest is everyone’s prime motivator.”
    “God looks out for those who look out for themselves,” sloshed Virginia.
    “We all live in our own little bubble,” said Murthy, missing the point but toasting her sentiment.
    Thomka hadn’t expected things to get this ugly. “What do we do with Tuke if we find him? He’s an international figure. A Nobel laureate.”
    “I want to talk to this contractor,” said Petey. “What’s his name? Gager. Have the Irishman find him. If need be, he can deal with Mr. Tessyier as well. They’re both in Pittsburgh. If we can’t find Tuke the easy way, we’ll use his friends to flush him out. And another thing. And this is important. We need the NPF. They’re respected everywhere. Why? Because they thumb their noses at us. That has to stop. We have to privatize them. We’ll confer upon them shoot-to-kill status, no questions asked, and a substantial pay hike. We’ll portray them as saviors of the state. A uniting force. They’ll become the de facto — Church Police.”
    Thomka considered this Petey’s most cockamamie scheme yet. “The NPF is an autonomous force already,” he said. “They answer to no one. They already shoot anyone they want. The NPF will never cooperate. They’re worse than Quakers.”
    Virginia shook her woozy head. “Fuckin’ Quakers.”
    Petey’s tone turned black. “The NPF is funded by an endowment set up for them when D.C. fell. A portfolio of international debt obligations, mostly Burmese gold. A few inside deals, you know the drill.”
    “Representative Daniel Burfield oversees that,” said Murthy. “Dan’s a good man. Drinks a little . . .”
    “Like his liver’s on fire,” mumbled Virginia.
    “We’re going to crash that endowment,” said Petey. “Representative Daniel Burfield is about to become the embezzling bastard who destroyed the dearly beloved National Police Force, just when the country needed them most.”
    “Burfield’s got his beak in the NPF fund?” asked Murthy.
    “I don’t think so,” said Petey. “But when the time is right, we will expose Burfield for the corrupt politician we need him to be. Then we, The Church, will swoop in and save the day. We’ll rescue the NPF. Prosecute Burfield. We’ll pay for everything.”
    Thomka’s smile failed to disguise blossoming disgust.
    Murthy bobbed his head in adulation.
    Petey took a bow. “We will ostensibly buy the NPF.”
    “It’s a thing of beauty,” said Murthy.
    Petey tipped his cowboy hat and raised an empty glass to Murthy — want one? He pulled the tap and a golden stream of frosty beer filled the glass. “We fell into this charade and now we have to go