Read Online Start Shooting by Charlie Newton - Free Book Online Page A

don’t want to hear. Mid-turn, Robbie stops, draws a blue-black .45 automatic from the back of his jeans, slams it into the Korean’s hip. And pulls the trigger. The Korean screams, spins in the explosion and blood spray, and lands in a pile.
    Robbie steps over him, aims the smoking .45 at the Korean’s head, and … I’m already running when I hear the second shot.
FRIDAY , 7:45 PM
    Drive. Steer. Talktofuckingme—My skin won’t quit vibrating. Dan Ryan, southbound, never setting foot on Lawrence Avenue again. Are the car doors locked? My knees are butter, pistol on my lap.
Streetcar
pages on the passenger seat. I’m breathing in fits, sweating.
Sweet Jesus—
    The DJ voice says Chicago is sweltering. I’m shivering in some kind of fog. The DJ segues my car radio into “Highway to Hell.” I can’t quit seeing the severed arm, hearing the explosions, then—cold-blooded first-degree murder. Mirror check, window check.
Robbie Steffen sawed off somebody’s arm—Then he executed … a made man in the Korean mafia
. I have to get help, apologize. The Koreans are old-school butchers, Ruben said. Guys who massacre entire families to prove a point.
    I can’t know people like this, not for real. I’m an actress.
    And Robbie Steffen’s not afraid of them. And Robbie Steffen knows where I live. Make a plan. Go home, get my Blanche clothes and—
You can’t go home—
But Robbie shouldn’t want to hurt me, should he? The sun drops the last inch behind the West Side. Shadows cover the rear-view mirror and my mom’s crucifix but not the blood splatter on my arms and blouse. OFF-RAMP. I veer, miss the concrete abutment, back off the gas, and drop my window. The scent of storm replaces blood and fear-sweat. I can ID Robbie for murder,
of course
he’ll want to hurt me. Kill me—
    My brain’s not working, won’t keep thoughts together, just jumbled flashes …
    Go to the cops.
    Robbie
is a cop
. His father’s one of the most powerful players in the city.
    Thunder crashes to the east. A siren wails, then another. Rain sheets across the windshield. I hurry the window up and hit the wipers. The light ahead blinks to green as a CPD cruiser shoots across the intersection. I duck and steer toward the inside lane. Sweat drips onto my lips; my hand squeezes the wheel. Mirror check—blurry cars crowd behind me—oh, God, Robbie Steffen.
No, stop it. You’re not Coleen
. Lightning drills into the city.
Not a victim. Not alone in that alley … their hands, their … tearing you apart
. I suck air to scream but fight it down. Morelightning—the city goes staccato black-and-white—the gun on my lap, the crucifix hanging on the mirror. Thunder crashes again. The night Coleen was attacked I started screaming and couldn’t stop, woke up and knew Coleen was dying. Spent the next six nights in a child psychiatric hospital.
    Go to the FBI, the U.S. attorney.
    Right,
innocent good guy
was a tough sell
before
I was an accomplice to first-degree murder.
    You can
try
to convince them.
    And then, win or lose, you can
give up everything
.
    The steering wheel sweats in my hand. My radio says the police are at a gangland murder scene on Lawrence Avenue … 
Wake up, goddamnit
. Out of the fog. Shift gears. Eyes in the mirror. Don’t end up alone in that alley.
Don’t be Coleen
.
    Sorry, sorry, I love you, honey. This is for us. Matching hopes and dreams. I’m the actress for us both. We are one, then and now, identical twins forever. I tell the windshield: “
Streetcar
. Twenty years for one chance. The Brennan sister who didn’t die. Who didn’t quit.”
    Actress. Both of us brave and bold. Venice Beach. L.A. Hollywood. Santa Monica. We bought this ticket.
Paid
for it. Paid
big
. It’s
ours
, goddamnit.
    Since we were three feet tall, actresses were what we wanted to be. Coleen died; I ran. By the ’90s I’d made it to
actress
. Two waitress jobs in L.A.—not just one—in Hollywood, that’s how I knew I was