Read Online Sin City Homicide by Victor Methos - Free Book Online Page B

the front of his pants, tucked in tightly against the belt.
    Parr slid off his hood and ducked behind his car. The El Camino was about thirty feet away. He waited until they were closer… just enough. When the men were ten feet from their car, Parr bolted out, his sidearm drawn. He was there so quickly that the men stood frozen. Then the man with the handgun went for it, and Parr fired.
    The round went clean through the man’s hand , and he screamed and doubled over, pressing on the wound, trying to stop the flow of blood.
    “What the fuck?” yelled the oldest man, who had a bad mustache.
    Parr ran up, grabbed him by his throat, and spun around, slamming him against the hood of the El Camino. He turned and grabbed the handgun out of the other man’s pants. The injured man was sitting on the grass with his shirt wrapped around his hand, shrieking about needing to go to a hospital. The third man raised his hands.
    “Get on the ground,” Parr said. He complied , and Parr turned his attention to the man he had pinned on the hood. “You lied to me, Mateo.”
    “What? About what?”
    “You told me Rico was gonna be at the drop with two keys he took off that barbequed body.”
    “What body, man? I don’t know what you talkin’ about, white boy.”
    Parr punched the man in his genitals.
    “Fuck me! Besa mi culo, puto !”
    Parr grabbed Mateo’s genitals, felt for the testicles, and began to twist. Mateo screamed.
    “You remember now?”
    “All right, man. All right!”
    Parr let go. “The body in the car. That’s all I care about. I don’t give a shit about the keys. You can keep those. I want the concha who merced the body.”
    “Somebody told Rico ’bout it.”
    “Somebody or you?”
    “No, man, it wasn’t me. I swear it, man. On my moms, I swear it.”
    “Who then?”
    “I heard it was a cop.”
    Parr grabbed Mateo’s testicles again and violently pulled, making him scream again and swear in Spanish.
    “Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, Mateo.”
    “I ain’t lyin’. I swear, man. I ain’t lyin’.”
    He released his grip. “What cop?”
    “I don’t know, man. I don’t know.”
    “Well, you better gimme somethin’ if you wanna have kids, ese .”
    “I heard from my boy, Chico. He said some cop took five G’s and told Rico and them ’bout it. Said you’d be waitin’ for him when he went over there. That’s why Rico didn’t go.”
    “What cop? What does he look like?”
    “I don’t know, man. On my moms, I don’t know.”
    “Give me Chico’s address.”
    “All right, man. I’ll give it, I swear.”
    Parr pulled out his phone and opened a notepad app. “Type.”
    Mateo typed in an address and handed the phone back. “Yo, you gotta call an ambulance.”
    Parr looked at the address then away put the phone. He glanced back at the man on the grass. He was pale, and his shirt was soaked in blood. “Drive him, Mateo. He ain’t gonna die yet.”
    As he walked to his car, Parr tried to look in his side mirrors. He had kept the handgun he ’d taken from one of the men, but he was certain the other two were armed as well, and they would definitely have firearms in the car. They stared at him with venom but didn’t reach for anything. He got in, started his Mustang, and peeled out before speeding away.
    The address was in a nearby low-income housing project, and he knew the area. The homes had been government-subsidized during the real estate boom, and after the crash, owners couldn’t give them away because no one thought they were even worth the taxes. A few of the wealthier residents had bought them and rented them out to illegal immigrants and vagabonds, people who didn’t have identification, credit, or steady employment.
    The one thing that always struck Parr about th ose neighborhoods was the corners. Sometimes, as many as twenty young men were wasting their days away there. Streetcorners were the ghetto forums where gossip was traded along with goods—mostly guns and drugs, but