Crimewave Read online

  I got to the room, swiped my card, and went inside. The air conditioner on the far side of the room was working overtime, making the room smell clean and crisp, but also artificial, the sort of thing one would expect from a hotel room. I walked slowly over to the bedside table and dropped my loot onto it. I would have to find someone to buy the cell phone tomorrow, but that wouldn't be too difficult. It was a BlackBerry, and those things are in high demand amongst criminal types who like to keep everything organized. I'd be able to sell the thing for $150 within ten minutes of arriving in NYC tomorrow. Combining that with the cash I'd already counted, plus the debit card and the ID, and this trip was almost worth it.

  I was making my way to the bathroom when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Wow...I'd seen better days, that's for damn sure. When I was running cons in Manhattan, I didn't have to dress up like a whore just to attract some attention. Back then, people admired me for my skill, my charm, and my ability to draw them into my game. When I'd swindled them on a fake real estate scam, most of them wouldn't even try to track me down...it was like they were grateful that someone of my skill and cunning had made them part ways with their money. They were just going to spend it somewhere else, why not spend it on me? But that was the past, and I had to leave New York for a while due to more reasons than I even wanted to bother counting right now. Now I was here, in Atlantic City, dressed in a bright orange dress that wouldn't have impressed a single person in NYC, and caked with more eyeliner and lip gloss than I put on when I was a wayward teenager. I was getting well acquainted with the depths a person would go to in order to nab a quick buck. I wiped as much makeup as I could off of my face, enough to allow me to look a little bit like myself again, then I slipped out of my clothes and into the bath.

  For as mediocre as the rest of the hotel room was, the best feature was the bath itself. It was made of solid porcelain, not the shitty fiberglass shell most places employed nowadays. The porcelain was bleach white, a testament to its cleanliness. It was huge, too, huge enough I could consider it more of a hot tub than a bath. It was probably designed so that a couple could spend a romantic interlude or two in it, but since I was flying solo tonight it just meant that I got to stretch out. I put my ears just below the surface of the water, letting it drown out everything around me. I was at peace, very Zen. The hot water enveloped my body and let me slip away. Where exactly I was slipping away to I couldn't really tell you, but I can tell you it was about as far away from Atlantic City as possible. I sat there, in the bath, and let my tension, my stress, everything slip away.

  *KNOK-KNOK-KNOK*

  Three pounds on the door caused me to jerk out of my tranquility, spilling a good amount of water all over the tiled floor of the bathroom. I sat there, head raised out of the bath but not yet ready to commit to actually getting out. It just felt too relaxing in here, and there was a really good chance it was a late-night drunk who just stumbled across the wrong room. These places are made to look so much the same from hallway to hallway that it's an easy mistake to make.

  *KNOK-KNOK-KNOK*

  Three more pounds, faster this time, and I realized that whoever's on the other side of that door knows exactly where they are. Whoever was on the side of that door was probably someone I didn't want to see.

  I hauled myself out of the bath and toweled off. I had time to put my bra, panties and a robe on before a series of six more knocks came. I cinched the belt of the robe around my waist and walked over to my bag to grab my 9mm. I tucked the gun into the belt of the robe behind my back. No matter who was out there, I didn't want them to know right from the get go that I was packing.

  I looked in the peephole, and my biggest fear was confirmed. I knew in the back of my mind ever since the con went down that he could come back to get me. It's always a chance with these kinds of things that it'll come back to bite you in the ass. I saw him standing there in my doorway, his charming good looks now twisted into a visage of rage and violence. I didn't want to open the door, but I was worried that if I didn't he'd kick the door down, drawing the attention of security to the both of us, which would force me to explain where the wallet and the cell phone came from, so I decided to just take care of him as quickly and quietly as possible. Then I'd the hell out of Atlantic City.

  I unlocked the deadbolt and turned the doorknob, using the door as a shield for my body as I opened the door, ready for him to charge in. And sure enough, he charged, probably assuming he'd be able to bowl me over. Not so lucky, my man. He rushed head first into the room, rushing past me and tumbling over a desk. He didn't fall on his face...I wouldn't be that lucky...but he did knock himself off balance enough to let me close the door and draw my gun on him.

  "Guess you figured things out, right?"

  "You...bitch..." he said, turning around but hesitating to jump me since I was the one with the gun.

  I walked a couple steps closer to him, keeping the gun aimed at his chest. I didn't know how much time I had before he did something rash, but I was hoping that I had some time.

  "So, I gotta ask, how'd you find me?"

  "The cellphone I gave you..."

  Shit, of course, the GPS in the cell phone was incredibly easy to track, and the accuracy on them was really good...good enough to put someone at the door of my hotel room.

  At this point, I had two real choices. I could either fight him, which would probably involve some shooting, or I could just give him his loot back. Even though I was in need of money, I was in even more need of staying out of jail at all costs. So, the money and the phone had to go back.

  "Take it all back...I'm sorry. It's just that...I just needed the money."

  "Oh yeah, you think this is going to end just that easy? Huh uh, not happening." He reached behind his back and brought his gun to the party. Now I didn't have quite the upper hand I thought I did. "You conned me, you fucked me over..."

  "Guilty as charged. Is that enough to kill me over, though?"

  "Enough for me."

  "Now come on--"

  "I had to shoot two security guards to get out of that goddamned casino, now I've got all of Atlantic City's cops on me just because you decided you wanted to pull one over on me. For that, you're gonna die."

  I didn't want to shoot him, not yet. Once the bullets started flying, they usually didn't stop until someone was dead. And the thing was, I didn't want to kill this guy, but I did know he wanted to kill me, so I had to do something about that. He cocked back the hammer on his gun, and I decided to get out of the line of fire. I ducked back into the bathroom, just to put some distance between the two of us. If I had any more sense, I would have realized how stupid it was to put myself into a room with only one exit, but at the moment, I just wanted to get away from him. I heard him walk a few steps over to me, and then he was staring me down, gun stuck out directly at my chest. I tried shooting him first, tried dodging out of the way, tried a lot of things, but none of them worked. He pulled the trigger on his gun and the bullet drove deep into my shoulder, forcing me backwards into the shower, bringing the curtain down with me as I collapsed into the tub. The pain in my shoulder began exploding into my arm, into my chest, all the way down my spine and out to my toes. Everything throbbed, and the globe lights of the bathroom became glittering spheres floating in the air. I was losing my grip with reality. I thrashed around on top of the plastic shower curtain for a little bit, the translucent material becoming stained with more and more blood as I tried to move, tried to get a hold of something other than pain.

  As I sat there in the tub, a slug in my shoulder, I could only help but wonder: When's the next bullet coming? But the thing was, that bullet never came. I heard him going back and forth in the room as I tried to block out the fiery pain radiating from my shoulder, then I heard the hotel room door open and close. I didn't really understand why he would commit to shooting me and then chicken out of finishing the job. Maybe he got freaked out when he saw the palpable violence of the whole thing, the vision of me flying ba
ck into the tub, blood everywhere.

  I pulled myself up out of the tub with my good arm, the other one not doing much more than just hanging there like a strand of pasta, utterly useless. I stood up and looked over at the towel rack. Of course the towels were white, they couldn't have picked a color that would be a little less conspicuous when it came to sopping up blood.

  When I took a look at myself in the mirror to assess the damage, I heard the fire alarm go off. Smart guy, that one. He created a diversion that would allow him to run out of the building at full bore without raising a bit of suspicion. The alarm blared in my ears, and since my senses were already cranked on adrenaline, the alarm was that much louder. I stumbled around the room, my shoulder still shedding blood quicker by the minute. Through my blurred vision, I saw that not only had the man taken his money and his cell phone back, but all of my stuff was gone as well. I wasn't quite sure what sort of use he'd have for a half dozen trampy outfits, on the other hand he'd probably have a much easier time making use of the six hundred in cash, a laptop and the two other pistols I had stashed in my bag.

  Defeated without more to my name than my room key and the robe on my back, I thought about what to do. Not a lot I could do except run. To where, who knows, but I knew I couldn't stay here much longer. I got up from the bed and walked toward my door, keeping the towel as tight on my shoulder as I possibly could. I walked out of the room into the hallway and joined the flow of panicked lodgers who were making their way out of the hotel, all bleary-eyed and bewildered, some wondering why the hell they had to get out of bed at three in the morning just because someone pulled a fire alarm. At first, nobody noticed my bloody towel and lack of appropriate clothing, but as I walked out with everyone, I got my fair share of long gazes.

  I exited the hotel into the cool night, the left side of my body now completely numb from the bullet wound. The street to the west, where the hospital was located, was choked with cop cars, so I had to go east. I was in a daze, wandering off into the night, toward the ocean. I was going to die, I was certain of that at this point. What better place to do it than the ocean. I walked down the empty streets around the hotel without a single car or late night wanderer crossing my path. The air began to fill with the salty, vaguely chemical smell of the ocean. I heard the waves lap against the shore, and soon enough I saw the black-blue water of the ocean in front of me. I was nearly blind by this point with blood loss taking a toll, but, you know, being the second largest thing on the planet, the Atlantic Ocean was pretty damn easy to notice. I walked down onto the beach, the sand feeling warm and inviting between my toes, and I sat on a bench, the bench where I was going to die. With each lap of the waves, things began to slip away more and more, until the world was just a low hiss in my failing ears. I'd get up to go to the hospital in a few minutes, but I just wanted to sit here for a while.

  Police sirens blared all around me, but I didn't know if they were coming for him or me, or both of us. I wouldn't be able to get to the hospital for a few hours, so resting was all I could do. I was losing my grip on the world, my vision getting blurry and then going out completely. I laid my head down on the sand, just to rest for a few seconds. Then it all went blank.

  The Ride of His Life

  "I just want to make something clear, right out of the gate." Jones said

  "What's that?" Walker took a deep lungful of smoke and blew it out the open window of the powder blue '72 Impala

  "I'm not doing any digging. None."

  "Yeah, well, that's great to think, but it's a two-man job if we want to get it done in a reasonable timeframe."

  Jones shifted in his seat and adjusted his gun from its previous position of digging into his hip. "I didn't agree to dig the guy's grave, I agreed to kill him"

  "And you should have known getting rid of the body would be part of the deal...I mean, come the fuck on, Jones, what did you think we'd need to do with him once we were done?"

  "I don't know, I thought Tortelli was a connected guy, he'd have a separate crew that came around to take care of that stuff."

  "Tortelli's not that connected."

  Jones grunted in disappointment and messed with the radio, tuning it to a country station. Willie Nelson was telling Walker and Jones that they were always on his mind.

  "No." Walker punched the button on the radio and shut it off.

  "Why not?" Jones hit the button and Willie came back.

  "Because it's my car, and there's no fucking way I'm listening to a country station." Walker hit the CD button on the deck and Li'l Wayne growled on top of a thudding beat.

  "You're kidding me, right?"

  "I don't kid, Jones, that's something you should get to know about me real goddamn quick."

  "Rap...I can't believe you actually tolerate this shit."

  Walker smiled at Jones' exasperation and turned it up.

  The Impala screamed down the interstate clocking a steady eighty. Fast, but not fast enough to get police attention. The last thing Jones and Walker needed was a cop to snoop around their car. The body of a mob witness in the trunk would create a pretty sour situation if the authorities came knocking.

  Their victim, that witness, was named Brian Madison, and he had made the huge mistake of agreeing to testify in an extortion case against the Tortelli crime syndicate. Madison's testimony, if he would have survived to give it, would have lead to four high-ranking Tortelli made men spending way too long in jail, which is to say they'd be spending any time in jail. That's why Tortelli called Jones and Walker in to fix the situation. The killing itself was easy, simple, especially for two pros like Jones and Walker. They faked their way into Madison's apartment posing as maintenance men looking for natural gas leaks in the building, which allowed them to get close enough to Madison to put two .22 rounds in his chest and one in his head. With that, the prosecution rested.

  In the car, Jones tapped his fingers on the dashboard. Walker kept his eyes on the road, the dashes swooping under the car's left tire every second.

  "You hungry, Walker?"

  "Why?"

  "Just asking...I'm fucking starving."

  "This isn't the time to pull over at the nearest In-and-Out. You know, with the dead body and all."

  "Fuck, man, I meant after we're done getting rid of the guy, maybe we should get some grub. Digging's gonna work up a hell of an appetite."

  "And I'm sure dumping a rotting corpse is just going to seal the deal."

  "He's not rotting, he died an hour ago. He won't begin to stink bad for a few hours at least."

  "You've obviously not spent enough time around dead bodies. I'm telling you right now, at this point Madison has both shit and pissed himself after losing muscle control, and that plastic tarp we've got him wrapped in is only insulating it. When we unwrap him to dump him out, get ready for a fucking horror show."

  "God...damn..." Jones cranked down the window and stuck his head out like a dog looking for a cheap thrill.

  "How's that appetite now?"

  "Shut up."

  Walker laughed and flicked his cigarette out the window. The still burning orange end traced a spiraling arc before hitting the pavement and scattering into a thousand glowing embers. Walker fished around inside his jacket pocket to find another smoke.

  "Where are we dropping him off, anyway?" Jones said.

  "There's a place a couple miles off Exit 92 that Tortelli said we had to drop him in. Said something about good soil for burying a body. Hell if I know why he picked it out. I just follow orders."

  "So you're just going to follow Tortelli's orders, not even gonna ask why he's making you do what he's making you do?"

  "Didn't really plan on it. Tortelli pays me to not go off the script."

  "Such a fucking sheep..."

  "I seek to make Mr. Tortelli happy, not to follow the beat of my own drum. Way I figure, if I scratch his back, he'll scratch mine eventually, and I won't have to put up with any shit from guys like you...guys who think their plan is just what the wor
ld needs."

  "Doing what I want has saved my ass more times than not, Walker. If I just followed what my last boss told me to do, I'd be dead by now."

  Walker jerked the car to the left to dodge out of the way of a slow moving minivan. The Impala's aggressive nose veered away just inches from clipping the minivan's taillight. The roadside signs blew past until Exit 92 loomed just a mile away. Walker coasted across three lanes of traffic to pull onto the off ramp. There wasn't much off of Exit 92 other than a Burger King that made Jones once again hungry as hell. They drove past an assortment of gas stations, a couple cash advance holes in the wall and a good helping of abandoned storefronts until civilization began to thin out and the wastelands began. Florescent lights gave way to complete darkness that only Walker's headlights were able to cut. The landscape got more and more desolate, more remote, more bleak. Not even the grass wanted to stick around this far out from everything, as large patches of ground were covered in dry, cracked dirt. Walker figured Tortelli picked this area to dump Madison's body because no person in their right mind would want to even visit this shithole of an area, let alone stick around long enough to notice a couple of thugs digging a grave and dumping a corpse.

  Walker drove until he was able to go a mile without seeing a single other sign of civilization, then he pulled off the road, his wheels tossing a plume of dust into the air that he would have to clean off the Impala at the next opportunity. He drove a half a mile off the road and came to a stop. He cut the engine and left the lights on. He left the music on, too. They'd need something to dig by.