Read Online Start Shooting by Charlie Newton - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlie Newton
Tags: thriller
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the restaurant’s back room or the basement.
Shudder
. Tell the Koreans Ruben’s story and make them believe it. Actress. Actress. Actress. Do what you do. Own the stage.
No part of me exits the car.
C’mon, baby, the Koreans are gangsters and have to believe you are, too; that’s how you played it the first time. Played it perfect and they bought it. The Koreans want their property. If they’ll wait seven more days and stop trying to kill people, they’ll get their property back. Simple—wait seven and everyone’s happy. Seven days for Ruben and Robbie to coax their partner into capitulating—that’s the script; who knows what the truth is.
Ruben’s .38 bites into my skin. I could use stronger deodorant. The Valium must have been a placebo. Two Korean women walk past; both peek at me.
Out of the car, Arleen, or out of the neighborhood. Brave the horror-house restaurant or give up
Streetcar
. My door opens before I can stop my hand. ’Cause I’m a goddamn actress and we can’t help it.
Lawrence Avenue is hundred-degree hot. Standing mid-block, five tiny storefronts before Mr. Choa’s restaurant, is a blockish man in an inexpensive black suit, the sleeves bunched at his elbows. The man squares up, obstructing my path. Late thirties, pockmarked cheeks, cruel hands, and a rose tattoo on his forearm.
“You have?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Choa.”
“You have?”
Arleen is a gangster. “Want me to leave, Chopstix?”
He stares. I stare back.
“You have?”
“Yeah. But not for you.”
On my right, a second black suit crosses Lawrence Avenue. He’s older, better dressed, a lieutenant in Mr. Choa’s family or whatever the mafia calls them in Korea. “Where is Ruben Vargas?”
“Couldn’t make it. Double homicide uptown.”
The three of us stare. Cars pass. The sun dips behind a cloud.
The lieutenant has a cell phone open in his hand. He grunts in Korean and nods the first man back toward the restaurant, then turns to me. “Mr. Choa is unhappy.”
Shrug. “Not my problem, but tell him I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Choa speaks with you inside. First, I must search your person.”
“No.”
“We go to the back, not to interrupt those who eat.”
“No.” I’m a gangster and
will
my hand away from the pistol.
“First, you must be searched, then we meet Mr. Choa.”
Where they’ll torture me for any information I have, then slaughter me to make their point to Ruben. The Korean nods small and smiles smaller. His open palm invites me to walk between shadowed buildings to the back.
“The front, Chopstix; not the back, not the basement, either.”
Negligible Korean headshake. Veins in his neck.
“New deal; Mr. Choa comes out here.” I step back as my hand drifts to my waist. “Find some other girl to kill.”
His eyes go tight to my hand. “Furukawa will be
our
client, not belong to you. You must do as told.”
Blink.
Furukawa?
I flash on the Olympic headlines, their table in Hugo’s for lunch, Ruben lingering. What does Furukawa—
A Ford Taurus screeches to the curb. I jump back and reach for the pistol. The driver’s door pops. It’s Ruben’s partner, bull-necked, six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound TAC cop Robbie Steffen. The silk Tommy Bahama camp shirt doesn’t soften Robbie’s appearance. Robbie reaches the sidewalk in two steps, squares up on the remaining Korean, slaps the man’s chest with a butcher-paper package that bounces off and lands on the sidewalk. The butcher paper unravels, revealing the meat—a man’s severed hand and forearm, a rose tattoo obvious on the gray-yellow skin. I gag and stumble backward. Steffen cocks his head sideways, then screws his face into the Korean’s.
“Next time you wanna kill somebody, motherfucker, send Luca Brasi.”
The Korean’s eyes cut to the severed arm, hesitate, then refocus on Robbie. The Korean’s cell phone rises slowly to his ear. My part in this play has ended. Robbie Steffen pivots to tell me something I know I
Shudder
. Tell the Koreans Ruben’s story and make them believe it. Actress. Actress. Actress. Do what you do. Own the stage.
No part of me exits the car.
C’mon, baby, the Koreans are gangsters and have to believe you are, too; that’s how you played it the first time. Played it perfect and they bought it. The Koreans want their property. If they’ll wait seven more days and stop trying to kill people, they’ll get their property back. Simple—wait seven and everyone’s happy. Seven days for Ruben and Robbie to coax their partner into capitulating—that’s the script; who knows what the truth is.
Ruben’s .38 bites into my skin. I could use stronger deodorant. The Valium must have been a placebo. Two Korean women walk past; both peek at me.
Out of the car, Arleen, or out of the neighborhood. Brave the horror-house restaurant or give up
Streetcar
. My door opens before I can stop my hand. ’Cause I’m a goddamn actress and we can’t help it.
Lawrence Avenue is hundred-degree hot. Standing mid-block, five tiny storefronts before Mr. Choa’s restaurant, is a blockish man in an inexpensive black suit, the sleeves bunched at his elbows. The man squares up, obstructing my path. Late thirties, pockmarked cheeks, cruel hands, and a rose tattoo on his forearm.
“You have?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Choa.”
“You have?”
Arleen is a gangster. “Want me to leave, Chopstix?”
He stares. I stare back.
“You have?”
“Yeah. But not for you.”
On my right, a second black suit crosses Lawrence Avenue. He’s older, better dressed, a lieutenant in Mr. Choa’s family or whatever the mafia calls them in Korea. “Where is Ruben Vargas?”
“Couldn’t make it. Double homicide uptown.”
The three of us stare. Cars pass. The sun dips behind a cloud.
The lieutenant has a cell phone open in his hand. He grunts in Korean and nods the first man back toward the restaurant, then turns to me. “Mr. Choa is unhappy.”
Shrug. “Not my problem, but tell him I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Choa speaks with you inside. First, I must search your person.”
“No.”
“We go to the back, not to interrupt those who eat.”
“No.” I’m a gangster and
will
my hand away from the pistol.
“First, you must be searched, then we meet Mr. Choa.”
Where they’ll torture me for any information I have, then slaughter me to make their point to Ruben. The Korean nods small and smiles smaller. His open palm invites me to walk between shadowed buildings to the back.
“The front, Chopstix; not the back, not the basement, either.”
Negligible Korean headshake. Veins in his neck.
“New deal; Mr. Choa comes out here.” I step back as my hand drifts to my waist. “Find some other girl to kill.”
His eyes go tight to my hand. “Furukawa will be
our
client, not belong to you. You must do as told.”
Blink.
Furukawa?
I flash on the Olympic headlines, their table in Hugo’s for lunch, Ruben lingering. What does Furukawa—
A Ford Taurus screeches to the curb. I jump back and reach for the pistol. The driver’s door pops. It’s Ruben’s partner, bull-necked, six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound TAC cop Robbie Steffen. The silk Tommy Bahama camp shirt doesn’t soften Robbie’s appearance. Robbie reaches the sidewalk in two steps, squares up on the remaining Korean, slaps the man’s chest with a butcher-paper package that bounces off and lands on the sidewalk. The butcher paper unravels, revealing the meat—a man’s severed hand and forearm, a rose tattoo obvious on the gray-yellow skin. I gag and stumble backward. Steffen cocks his head sideways, then screws his face into the Korean’s.
“Next time you wanna kill somebody, motherfucker, send Luca Brasi.”
The Korean’s eyes cut to the severed arm, hesitate, then refocus on Robbie. The Korean’s cell phone rises slowly to his ear. My part in this play has ended. Robbie Steffen pivots to tell me something I know I
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