Read Online All Due Respect Issue 2 by Owen Laukkanen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Owen Laukkanen
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Service.
The place was closed, kinda like I expected it to be. After I looked up Smith’s address, I shot out a window and left.
Smith lived in a little house in a field of little houses. I parked across the street and killed the engine.
I watched the place for maybe an hour, until the ugly blue paint got on my nerves. I was about to drive off and call it a day when the garage door opened, and some asshole kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen, started backing a motorbike out. Behind him was an older guy pushing a lawn mower.
The kid took off and the father disappeared around the side of the house. I picked my gun up off the passenger seat and slipped it into my waistband.
I got out and crossed the street. I was just about to round the corner of the garage when the lawn mower man appeared, almost like he forgot something and was going back to get it.
We startled each other.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Name’s Merlino,” I said, and grabbed him by the back of his head.
“Hey!” he screamed, and then the gun was in his mouth.
I looked around. To the right, another house. The only window in view was covered. To the left, wall. Behind us, the street stood empty and sun-dappled; dusk was drawing on.
“Look, motherfucker,” I said, “do yourself a favor and tell me the truth.”
His eyes widened.
“Okay?”
He nodded.
“Where’d you bury those kids?”
He said something, but the gun was in the way. I pulled it out and jammed it against his temple.
“Miller’s Quarry,” he stammered, “just past a chain-link fence and under a weeping willow tree.”
“Show me.”
I marched his ass across the street and forced him into the car. Just as I was climbing behind the wheel, Smith’s front door opened and a woman in a house dress came onto the porch, wiping her hands with a dish towel.
“Tell her you’ll be right back,” I said, jabbing him with the gun.
“I’ll be right back, Margret!” he called. “They need me at the club!”
“Okay!” she called.
I toed the gas, and away we went.
“Who are you, anyway?” Smith asked. We were almost to the quarry, or so he said.
“None of your business,” I said.
“I…”
“Shut the fuck up or I’ll blow your brains out.”
“Turn right.”
We took a narrow little dirt road, and followed it for about two miles through the woods before he told me to stop.
“We walk from here. It’s a quarter mile.”
I got out of the car and let him lead the way. Quarter mile my ass. It was more like a mile and a half. Finally, we came to a rusted fence with a man-sized hole in the center.
“Through here,” he said.
“Ladies first,” I said.
He glared at me.
So I punched him.
“Go on!”
He led me through hole, and a few feet later, we came to the willow. The earth below it was freshly turned.
“There.”
“What’d you do to ’em?” I asked.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah?” I asked. “Well, who did?”
He didn’t reply.
“Sheriff Parker and George King?”
A bird cried somewhere. Smithy looked scared.
“What happened?”
“Roscoe picked ’em up on the road,” he said at length, “brought ’em back to the club and tied ’em up. George helped. From what they told me, they beat ’em and shot ’em. Cut the nigger’s dick off. They were dead by the time I showed up.”
I shot him.
Back at the motel, I called Jackson and told them what I’d found. The director said he was gonna send some guys to check it out. If it was them, he wanted me to drive down to Jackson, pick up my pay, and then “Get your ass back to New York.”
I hopped in the shower at around ten. When I got out, I threw on a pair of briefs and climbed into bed to watch a little TV. Just as I was getting comfy, the window by the door shattered into a million pieces.
Knowing a gunshot when I heard it, I threw myself onto the floor and grabbed my piece.
I heard someone scream.
Another shot, this one slamming into the wall.
A motor revved.
The place was closed, kinda like I expected it to be. After I looked up Smith’s address, I shot out a window and left.
Smith lived in a little house in a field of little houses. I parked across the street and killed the engine.
I watched the place for maybe an hour, until the ugly blue paint got on my nerves. I was about to drive off and call it a day when the garage door opened, and some asshole kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen, started backing a motorbike out. Behind him was an older guy pushing a lawn mower.
The kid took off and the father disappeared around the side of the house. I picked my gun up off the passenger seat and slipped it into my waistband.
I got out and crossed the street. I was just about to round the corner of the garage when the lawn mower man appeared, almost like he forgot something and was going back to get it.
We startled each other.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Name’s Merlino,” I said, and grabbed him by the back of his head.
“Hey!” he screamed, and then the gun was in his mouth.
I looked around. To the right, another house. The only window in view was covered. To the left, wall. Behind us, the street stood empty and sun-dappled; dusk was drawing on.
“Look, motherfucker,” I said, “do yourself a favor and tell me the truth.”
His eyes widened.
“Okay?”
He nodded.
“Where’d you bury those kids?”
He said something, but the gun was in the way. I pulled it out and jammed it against his temple.
“Miller’s Quarry,” he stammered, “just past a chain-link fence and under a weeping willow tree.”
“Show me.”
I marched his ass across the street and forced him into the car. Just as I was climbing behind the wheel, Smith’s front door opened and a woman in a house dress came onto the porch, wiping her hands with a dish towel.
“Tell her you’ll be right back,” I said, jabbing him with the gun.
“I’ll be right back, Margret!” he called. “They need me at the club!”
“Okay!” she called.
I toed the gas, and away we went.
“Who are you, anyway?” Smith asked. We were almost to the quarry, or so he said.
“None of your business,” I said.
“I…”
“Shut the fuck up or I’ll blow your brains out.”
“Turn right.”
We took a narrow little dirt road, and followed it for about two miles through the woods before he told me to stop.
“We walk from here. It’s a quarter mile.”
I got out of the car and let him lead the way. Quarter mile my ass. It was more like a mile and a half. Finally, we came to a rusted fence with a man-sized hole in the center.
“Through here,” he said.
“Ladies first,” I said.
He glared at me.
So I punched him.
“Go on!”
He led me through hole, and a few feet later, we came to the willow. The earth below it was freshly turned.
“There.”
“What’d you do to ’em?” I asked.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah?” I asked. “Well, who did?”
He didn’t reply.
“Sheriff Parker and George King?”
A bird cried somewhere. Smithy looked scared.
“What happened?”
“Roscoe picked ’em up on the road,” he said at length, “brought ’em back to the club and tied ’em up. George helped. From what they told me, they beat ’em and shot ’em. Cut the nigger’s dick off. They were dead by the time I showed up.”
I shot him.
Back at the motel, I called Jackson and told them what I’d found. The director said he was gonna send some guys to check it out. If it was them, he wanted me to drive down to Jackson, pick up my pay, and then “Get your ass back to New York.”
I hopped in the shower at around ten. When I got out, I threw on a pair of briefs and climbed into bed to watch a little TV. Just as I was getting comfy, the window by the door shattered into a million pieces.
Knowing a gunshot when I heard it, I threw myself onto the floor and grabbed my piece.
I heard someone scream.
Another shot, this one slamming into the wall.
A motor revved.
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