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Authors: Alton L. Gansky
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an orphanage. Having never experienced love, having been deprived of anynurturing, he had grown cold and heartless. He started small, stealing change from other children, but he soon graduated to bigger things. He stole his first car at the age of fourteen and was arrested for battery when he was sixteen. While other boys his age were dreaming of their first date and driving their own car, McCullers fantasized about money and power.
The road to crime was not easy. He took his share of beatings, including one that left him lying close to death in a gutter in downtown Los Angeles. The drug dealer who, with the help of three “associates,” had pummeled McCullers had taught him important lessons: Trust no one, suspect everyone, make no attachments. So his life of crime had been solitary. No partners meant he could never be betrayed.
Strong-arm robbery was sufficiently lucrative to keep him housed and fed. There was money to be made and excitement to be had. By the time he was twenty, however, McCullers knew that he did what he did not for money alone but also for the thrill. Strong-arm robbery led to home burglary and then to office burglary, which required new skills to deal with locks and alarm systems. His activities also put him in touch with other criminals, including some who were willing to hire a young and upcoming man. McCullers accepted the jobs, but he neither made attachments nor revealed much about himself. He learned tricks that - could be learned no other place except prison, and he was determined not to go to that school.
On his twenty-first birthday, McCullers killed his first man, an elderly security guard who had stumbled upon him in the act of a commercial burglary. Assuming the guard was armed, McCullers shot him in the chest with a .25-caliber pistol. The guard had crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, a crimson circle of blood puddling around him. McCullers had waited for the guilt, waited for the wave of nausea to sweep over him. Neither came. McCullers finished his work and left, being smart enough to toss the gun down a nearby storm drain.
Killing came easy to him, and it was far more profitable than simpletheft. And more people than he had ever imagined were quick to hire a man without a conscience to clean up the “difficulties” in their lives. Of all the things he did, he enjoyed killing the most. Some killings were direct and simple; others required planning, patience, and genius. His genius was what prompted Massey to hire him in the first place.
“I asked you a question,” McCullers was saying. He stepped forward and put his face close to Massey’s. His breath was sickeningly sweet. He poked Massey sharply with his index finger. Astonishment registered in McCullers’s eyes. He had assumed that the portly man was a soft, flabby desk jockey who would get winded walking up a single flight of stairs. McCullers was learning that Massey’s dark gray suit concealed a stone-hard body.
Massey smiled, conveying a very clear message: He, too, had secrets.
“Just stay out of my way,” McCullers snapped. Massey recognized the hint of weakness in his voice, the chink in his armor. “Why don’t you get whatever you need from your truck and let’s go. Every second we stand here is another opportunity for her to put more distance between us.”
“I know that,” McCullers said bitterly.
Another sigh escaped Massey’s lips. He was not going to enjoy his time with Carson McCullers.
“Feeling better?” Nick asked as he raised his cup of soda and sipped from the straw. Before him lay the paper that had once wrapped three tacos and the cardboard that had contained a healthy helping of nachos. In front of Lisa was a half-eaten burrito.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
“Well, you should feel better,” Nick said with a broad, teasing smile. “After all, I have taken you to two of the finest restaurants in the state.”
“McDonald’s for breakfast and Taco Bell for
The road to crime was not easy. He took his share of beatings, including one that left him lying close to death in a gutter in downtown Los Angeles. The drug dealer who, with the help of three “associates,” had pummeled McCullers had taught him important lessons: Trust no one, suspect everyone, make no attachments. So his life of crime had been solitary. No partners meant he could never be betrayed.
Strong-arm robbery was sufficiently lucrative to keep him housed and fed. There was money to be made and excitement to be had. By the time he was twenty, however, McCullers knew that he did what he did not for money alone but also for the thrill. Strong-arm robbery led to home burglary and then to office burglary, which required new skills to deal with locks and alarm systems. His activities also put him in touch with other criminals, including some who were willing to hire a young and upcoming man. McCullers accepted the jobs, but he neither made attachments nor revealed much about himself. He learned tricks that - could be learned no other place except prison, and he was determined not to go to that school.
On his twenty-first birthday, McCullers killed his first man, an elderly security guard who had stumbled upon him in the act of a commercial burglary. Assuming the guard was armed, McCullers shot him in the chest with a .25-caliber pistol. The guard had crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, a crimson circle of blood puddling around him. McCullers had waited for the guilt, waited for the wave of nausea to sweep over him. Neither came. McCullers finished his work and left, being smart enough to toss the gun down a nearby storm drain.
Killing came easy to him, and it was far more profitable than simpletheft. And more people than he had ever imagined were quick to hire a man without a conscience to clean up the “difficulties” in their lives. Of all the things he did, he enjoyed killing the most. Some killings were direct and simple; others required planning, patience, and genius. His genius was what prompted Massey to hire him in the first place.
“I asked you a question,” McCullers was saying. He stepped forward and put his face close to Massey’s. His breath was sickeningly sweet. He poked Massey sharply with his index finger. Astonishment registered in McCullers’s eyes. He had assumed that the portly man was a soft, flabby desk jockey who would get winded walking up a single flight of stairs. McCullers was learning that Massey’s dark gray suit concealed a stone-hard body.
Massey smiled, conveying a very clear message: He, too, had secrets.
“Just stay out of my way,” McCullers snapped. Massey recognized the hint of weakness in his voice, the chink in his armor. “Why don’t you get whatever you need from your truck and let’s go. Every second we stand here is another opportunity for her to put more distance between us.”
“I know that,” McCullers said bitterly.
Another sigh escaped Massey’s lips. He was not going to enjoy his time with Carson McCullers.
“Feeling better?” Nick asked as he raised his cup of soda and sipped from the straw. Before him lay the paper that had once wrapped three tacos and the cardboard that had contained a healthy helping of nachos. In front of Lisa was a half-eaten burrito.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
“Well, you should feel better,” Nick said with a broad, teasing smile. “After all, I have taken you to two of the finest restaurants in the state.”
“McDonald’s for breakfast and Taco Bell for
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