This is one of 'em. The two-novella set featuring the early novellas of Smitty, my dark eyed wunderkind of a hit-man.
Yes, the novellas were published earlier in a collection of combined short-stories and longer pieces. But I've felt for a long time the two longer stories should be back-to-back showpieces in a separate offering. And then somehow pushed out onto the market more vigorously.
We've talked about Smitty before. How he came along in a serendipitous-like accident. How he seems to have made himself truly unique in a sub-genre filled with hit-man/assassin characters.
(Look back in previous posts. You'll find a number of discussions about Smitty. Along with a few short stories)
Today I thought I might share the opening chapter of novella number two in the collection. Called, A Killing Kiss, it's basically about the dark eyed man becoming . . . of all things . . . almost like a shinning knight in black armor. Yes, he actually does save a damsel in distress!
Hope you like it. Hope this might whet your appetite for both of'em.
A Killing Kiss
Through the gloom of the night he
saw the flash of bright tail lights of the Mercedes as it slowed before turning
off the highway and onto the paved county road. The black top road was miles outside the
city. It cut a narrow swath through a
thick forest as it wound its way around the bases of small hills and generally
meandered toward the Mississippi River .
In the darkness of the heavy four
wheel drive pickup he was driving his thin lips pulled back into grim little
sneer. Down shifting into third he
slowed as the black top road approached and then rolled the big Ford F-150 onto
the county road and sped up rapidly. Two
miles ahead was a steep, narrow curve in the road he had chosen for the hit to
go down. On one side the black mass of a
steep hillside filled with trees crowded up against the road’s pavement. On the other side a ditch. Actually a deep creek filled with trees and
underbrush on its steep sides and deep, fast moving water down at the bottom.
The perfect spot.
Ideal for what he had in mind.
The perfect resting place for victim
number one.
The big Ford engine up front
increased in volume as he pushed the vehicle well past eighty in an effort to
catch up to the Mercedes. In moments the
tail lights of the German luxury car came into sight. Inside the car he knew its driver would be
suspecting nothing as the head lights of his big truck came up fast on its rear
bumper.
Just
another good’old boy heading down to the river to do some fish’n. Maybe fishin’ and sippin’ the suds some. Big boys and their big powerful toys. Always ran this road a little too fast–a
little too recklessly.
Yes . . .
That’s exactly what Charlie Rich
would be thinking as bright headlights lit up the rear view mirror on his
windshield. Just another good’ole boy . . .
Except.
Except the front end of the big
truck had a tubular steel pipe bumper system strong enough to smash through
brick walls. So just as the giant
machine smashed into the left rear fender of the Mercedes Charlie Rich had no
time to react. The truck hit him with a
tremendous blow–throwing the car’s tail around to the right so violently the
big car began sliding out of control and heading straight for the drop off down
into the creek below.
Tires screeching, Charlie sawing
desperately back and fourth on the steering wheel in a useless effort to bring
the care under control. But it was a
useless gesture. With the big Ford
engine of the pickup behind him screaming in anger poor Charlie had no
chance. The right set of wheels slipped
off the pavement and down into loose gravel.
The sudden change was enough to flip the car on its side. Sparks
One final blow and the Mercedes
titled dangerously for a half second on the edge of the creek . . . and then
disappeared altogether in a blinking of an eye.
Smitty screeched to a halt only inches away from the creek’s edge and
threw open the pick up’s door and jumped out.
In the darkness the tumbling roar of the Mercedes rolling and crashing
through the underbrush and bouncing off the rocky walls of the creek filled the
dark eyed man’s ears. A grinding,
ripping, shattering series of explosive sounds as he stood on the creek’s ledge
and looked down.
Ninety feet.
Ninety feet to the bottom and then .
. . distinctly . . . the splash of the car diving, roof top first, into the
swiftly moving deep stream. If the drop
of ninety feet didn’t kill the
overweight, wheezing mobster the fast moving water would. Charlie Rich didn’t know how to swim. If by some miracle Charlie survived the fall
he wouldn’t have time to unstrap himself and climb out of the car. The water was frigid cold. The car was a smashed and twisted heap of
metal. He made sure of that. No way to get out of the car easily. No way.
A grim little smile stretched across
Smitty’s lips as he turned and climbed back into the Ford. Charlie Rich was a dirty little bastard who
needed killing. The small time hood who
liked to hurt people. Liked to inflict
pain. He wasn’t a nice man. One of Jacob Menten’s henchmen, Charlie Rich
had thoughts of taking over his boss’s operations. Becoming the boss himself. The boss–Jacob Menten–was dead. Dead from a massive heart attack. His organization was without a leader. A leader strong enough to keep the organization
together. There was a void at the top
and if someone didn’t step up soon and take over the organization was going to
fold. And some other underworld kingpin
would move in and take over the territory.
But not Charlie Rich. Charlie was out of the picture. Permanently.
One down. Five more to go.
Closing the door the dark eyed man
pushed the gearshift up into reverse and backed up. It was time to leave. Time to start working on hit number two. Time to start working down the list. One at a time. Time to make Jacob Menten’s wife and young
son safe. Safe from the wolves gathering
to feast on the corpses of their leaders if something wasn’t done. Something drastic.
****
It all began a week earlier. A week earlier on a day that was a cold, gray
overcast day in the middle of a cemetery.
Underneath a big elm tree a small knot of men in women, most dressed in
various shades of black, stood around a freshly dug grave and mutely watched as
a large bronze colored casket was slowly lowered into the ground. In the middle of the gathering was a young
woman dressed in black with a black veil over her face. Yellow hair, the color
of ripened wheat, cascaded down past her shoulders. A startling bright splash of color in a sea
of mourning. Tall, slender, almost like
a Greek statue of Aphrodite herself, she stood in the middle of the mourners
holding her month old baby close to her.
She was Jacob Menten’s wife. Charlene Menten.
Unbelievable gorgeous. And more–the mask of her Hollywood
kind of beauty hid a brilliant mind. A
brilliant mind intellectually matched with the soul of a giving, loving, tender
mother. Marking her, unfortunately, a
prize beyond compare.
Encircling her were the six henchmen
Jacob Menton relied on to keep his organization running smoothly. Charlie Rich.
Harry Bosley. Will Marconi. Greg Tarkanian. Stu Sheppard. Mick O’Toole. Six strong, ruthless, greedy men who stood
respectfully by the boss’s wife and paid their respects to the dead. Yet stood each eyeing each other and
wondering how and when the first one would begin the process of taking over the
business. Meaning . . . who would be the
first to be knocked off.
From a distance, standing beside a
large tree, he had watched the funeral service in silence. Watched the six men standing close to the
beautiful widow. Watched as they lowered
Jacob Menten in the ground. Watched as
each of the six henchmen stepped toward Charlene with a few words of
condolences and then moved away. Watched
as, one by one, each of the hoods drifted back to their cars and drove away. Drove away leaving the woman and her baby
standing alone by the heap of freshly dug ground of her husband’s grave.
Charlene lingered by the grave a few
minutes more. Stood holding her baby in
his layers of warm blankets and stared down at the fresh grave. And cried.
Cried silently but forcefully. Tears flowing down her cheeks and ruining
her makeup.
Eventually the weeping
subsided. Eventually she tried to wipe
the tears from her face. Eventually she
took a deep breath, looked up at the gray overcast sky, and turned to walk back
to the limousine waiting for her. Head
down, carefully watching how she moved across the dead grass of the cemetery in
high heels, she didn’t look up and see the man standing beside the open rear
door of the limo until she stepped onto the paved road.
A thin man. Not tall.
Not short. With a sharp, angular
face oddly attractive. Wearing jet black
shades covering his eyes. Dressed in a
black, tailored and quite expensive suit.
Handsome . . . yet, somehow . . . with an air of menace to him. Of violence kept under control. Barely.
“I’m your friend, Mrs. Menten. A friend of yours and your son’s.”
“Who . . . who are you?”
“Shall we get out of the cold? I’m sure the baby is beginning to feel
uncomfortable,” the soft voice of the menacing man answered, opening the rear
door for her and the baby.
Charlene Menten pressed the soft
bundle of blankets closer to her and nodded, long blond hair rustling softly
across her shoulders in the process.
Sliding into the rear seat she moved over some, giving room for the dark
men to slide in as well. When he did and
closed the door the driver of the limo–a man close to her husband–said nothing
but started the car up and began driving.
“He knows me, Mrs. Menten. Knows why I am here. Your husband didn’t trust too many
people. But he trusted Otto. You can be sure of Otto’s loyalty. As you can of mine.”
“But who are you? Why are you here? How did you know my husband?”
Charlene Menten had a husky
voice. A voice that captured your
attention immediately. A voice he knew
Jacob Menten could not have disregarded.
Her beauty–her voice–would have, did actually, capture Jacob Menten’s
heart the moment she spoke to him the first time.
“Most people know me as Smitty. I worked, shall we say, on assignment for
your husband down through the years. On
mutually beneficial business transactions more as partners than as employer to
employee. Over the years Jacob began to
trust me. As I trusted him. That’s why I am here. My last assignment he asked me to complete
when the time came.”
“I . . . I’m confused. What assignment? When did Jacob talk to you last?”
Confusion. Consternation.
A vague portrait of growing panic
filling the green eyes of the beautiful woman beside him. He almost smiled. The smell of her perfume drifting to his
nostrils. The luster of her dark blond
hair almost making the interior of the car glow. Her voice.
Her youth. An image of
unattainable beauty sitting beside him.
A woman of desires. A woman to be
desired. Coveted and desired. A trophy waiting to be snatched up and
claimed by the one strongest enough to take over the organization.
Unless. Unless . . .
“Jacob called me two weeks ago. Said he wanted me to do something for
him. Said it was important. Made me promise. I agreed.
And so here I am. Fulfilling that
promise.”
“What promise?” she asked, a gloved
hand coming up to pull back the thin black veil which had partially hidden her
face. “What are you talking about?”
“Your husband knew he was going to
die, Mrs. Menten. Knew someone within
his organization was going to kill him.
He didn’t know who. Or how. But he was sure someone was after him. So he made me promise him. Made me promise him that if he died within a
year of our conversation I was to come to town.
Come to town and find his killer.
Find his killer and protect you and his son from harm.”
“His killer,” the beautiful woman’s
husky voice repeated, her eyes widening in horror. “Jacob was murdered? You’re saying one of his friends murdered my
husband?”
Smitty, dark eyes hidden behind the
black wrap around shades, said nothing as the black limo moved silently past
the hundreds of headstone of the deceased.
But beside him the soft whimper of a woman quietly crying again–crying
and trying not to at the same time–came to his ears. And in her arms the baby stirred and made the
first little squeak of a hungry child.
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