Read Online Head Games (The Hector Lassiter Series) by Craig McDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Craig McDonald
Tags: Novel
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thing, firing for flesh wounds with a machine gun at close range. I hit him, but not squarely enough. Howling, he turned, drawing a bead on me. I had to let him have it then. I went for his upper body, but my would-be assassin lost his footing, dipping a bit. All those slugs I hurled his way decapitated him. There it was --- another head, rolling there on the boardwalk, but much too fresh for our collection. I patted his torso down, trying hard to avoid all the spreading and spraying blood. No wallet and no papers to be found on this fella. Ditto on the first shooter. They were pro enough to leave all the incriminating or useful stuff elsewhere, just in case they were caught or arrested.
They were nasty as hell --- and hot, too, from all the firing --- but I couldn't bear to leave the twin Thompsons. I grabbed 'em up with a couple of drums left by the first shooter. Loaded down with firepower for Bud's and my arsenal, I trotted down the alley.
There were sirens in the distance now. I could hear 'em better as I put some buildings between me and the muted roar of the ocean.
Thank Christ and Bud Fiske. My beautiful blue and white Chevy was sitting there like Trigger, or Rocinante --- or maybe Siete Leguas, Pancho Villa's legendary doomed mare.
Alicia opened the passenger door and slid over to make room. I tossed the Thompsons on the floor of the backseat and swung in, the pretty Mexican girl sandwiched between Bud and me. I smelled her perfume and dark hair, her sweat and fear and vibrancy. She smelled like Mexico.
I told Bud, "Cops are on the way, so drive slow and easy and like we own the place."
He did.
I checked my hands --- they were shaking badly. Alicia took my left hand in hers and squeezed, careful to go easy on the Orson-inflicted cuts across the back of my hand. "You are unhurt?"
"From that particular fray? Yeah."
"And the other men?"
I shrugged and rooted around my sports jacket's pocket for my cigarettes. " Día de los muertos time back there, darling. I'm no Tracy Richardson, but I can hit some things with one of those choppers." I jerked my head in the direction of the machine guns in the back seat. "Papa and me used to use them on the Pilar to kill sharks."
Two California Highway patrol cruisers whipped past us then, headed to the place we'd left. The cops' cruisers were the same make and model as my own --- '57 Chevrolet Bel Airs --- but black with white doors and roofs, blue sirens screaming.
"We'll let things cool down, then see you get back to the set," I told Alicia.
The wind through the open windows fingered her raven hair. She shrugged. "It wasn't much of a job. You have all those connections with Hollywood; I say you owe me a real film role, Héctor."
"It's a deal, sweetie," I muttered, unlit cigarette dangling from my lips as I looked for my Zippo. "I've got a picture for you in mind," I said, hand still fishing around for my lighter. "Sam Ford's the director. And we're filming in Mexico. He owes me large." Ah, my old Zippo . I fired her up and lit my Pall Mall. Soon as it was going, Alicia appropriated the cigarette. I got a second coffin nail going. She took that one from my lips and stuck it in Bud Fiske's mouth. Three's the charm: I got to keep the third one. But the girl took my old Zippo from me. She turned it until the dash light fell just so. She read the engraving aloud:
To Hector Lassiter:
'One true sentence.'
--- E.H.
Key West,
1932
"What does it mean?"
I took my Zippo back. "Something from an ex-friend you've been lately reading. A kind of shared credo. I remember it. Not sure he does anymore." I felt the weight of twin gazes from Bud and Alicia.
Astute Bud went for a change-up. "This Rodolfo Fierro, or ' el Carnicero ' --- what's his story?"
I looked to Alicia. I was curious to see how much she knew of her country's revolutionary history. She exhaled a thin stream of smoke and tipped her head back on the seat. It was very tight up front. I stretched my left arm along
They were nasty as hell --- and hot, too, from all the firing --- but I couldn't bear to leave the twin Thompsons. I grabbed 'em up with a couple of drums left by the first shooter. Loaded down with firepower for Bud's and my arsenal, I trotted down the alley.
There were sirens in the distance now. I could hear 'em better as I put some buildings between me and the muted roar of the ocean.
Thank Christ and Bud Fiske. My beautiful blue and white Chevy was sitting there like Trigger, or Rocinante --- or maybe Siete Leguas, Pancho Villa's legendary doomed mare.
Alicia opened the passenger door and slid over to make room. I tossed the Thompsons on the floor of the backseat and swung in, the pretty Mexican girl sandwiched between Bud and me. I smelled her perfume and dark hair, her sweat and fear and vibrancy. She smelled like Mexico.
I told Bud, "Cops are on the way, so drive slow and easy and like we own the place."
He did.
I checked my hands --- they were shaking badly. Alicia took my left hand in hers and squeezed, careful to go easy on the Orson-inflicted cuts across the back of my hand. "You are unhurt?"
"From that particular fray? Yeah."
"And the other men?"
I shrugged and rooted around my sports jacket's pocket for my cigarettes. " Día de los muertos time back there, darling. I'm no Tracy Richardson, but I can hit some things with one of those choppers." I jerked my head in the direction of the machine guns in the back seat. "Papa and me used to use them on the Pilar to kill sharks."
Two California Highway patrol cruisers whipped past us then, headed to the place we'd left. The cops' cruisers were the same make and model as my own --- '57 Chevrolet Bel Airs --- but black with white doors and roofs, blue sirens screaming.
"We'll let things cool down, then see you get back to the set," I told Alicia.
The wind through the open windows fingered her raven hair. She shrugged. "It wasn't much of a job. You have all those connections with Hollywood; I say you owe me a real film role, Héctor."
"It's a deal, sweetie," I muttered, unlit cigarette dangling from my lips as I looked for my Zippo. "I've got a picture for you in mind," I said, hand still fishing around for my lighter. "Sam Ford's the director. And we're filming in Mexico. He owes me large." Ah, my old Zippo . I fired her up and lit my Pall Mall. Soon as it was going, Alicia appropriated the cigarette. I got a second coffin nail going. She took that one from my lips and stuck it in Bud Fiske's mouth. Three's the charm: I got to keep the third one. But the girl took my old Zippo from me. She turned it until the dash light fell just so. She read the engraving aloud:
To Hector Lassiter:
'One true sentence.'
--- E.H.
Key West,
1932
"What does it mean?"
I took my Zippo back. "Something from an ex-friend you've been lately reading. A kind of shared credo. I remember it. Not sure he does anymore." I felt the weight of twin gazes from Bud and Alicia.
Astute Bud went for a change-up. "This Rodolfo Fierro, or ' el Carnicero ' --- what's his story?"
I looked to Alicia. I was curious to see how much she knew of her country's revolutionary history. She exhaled a thin stream of smoke and tipped her head back on the seat. It was very tight up front. I stretched my left arm along
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