Read Online The Coldest Mile by Tom Piccirilli - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tom Piccirilli
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said to him, Never let your heart dim, love.
S ometime after the moon had risen, with the severe gray light rolling in across the bed like foam drifting by the Asbury Park pier, Chase came awake to find a .44 pressed to his forehead, Bishop standing there giving the friendly smile.
“So what's this for?” Chase asked.
“You're not even worried?”
“Not much.” Chase tried to sit up but Bishop exerted pressure, holding his head down to the pillow. Chase very slowly reached out and pressed the gun aside, liking the way Bishop's eyes went wide like he couldn't believe Chase wasn't just going to lie there. He must've had nothing but easy kills lately. “If you were going to ace me, you'd do it on the ground floor so you wouldn't have to carry my body two flights.”
Raising the pistol, Bishop rubbed the side of the barrel across his chin, lulling himself like a child with a blanket, loving the feel of contained murder.
You couldn't do much with guys like this. Moneywas only a part of their action. They didn't get thrills the way everybody else did. Their juice was hardwired in the God complex.
Studying Chase, Bishop pursed his lips, really trying to see who was in front of him. Chase didn't like the look.
Bishop said, “No, that's not it at all. You're hoping someone will do it. You're a snuff case.”
“You're trying to slur me? You nearly creamed your pants touching that Magnum the other day.” Chase swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “You pop people for pay. I think I'd hold my own against you at Sunday morning mass.”
That got an earnest laugh out of Bishop. “What happened to the last load?”
“The last load?”
“The women. You came back empty- handed. Where's Ivanka? Where's the women? The kid?”
“I dropped them off in Staten Island, like she said.”
“They checked in but didn't stay. Where'd they go?”
“How's that my problem?”
“If I say it's your problem, it is.”
“Then don't say it.”
Dust in the moonlight looked like swirling snow drifting around them. The room a little cold now because Chase had left the window open and Bishop had left the door open when he sneaked in. Chase wondered how long he'd been in the room, watching him sleep, savoring his urge toward murder.
“Where are the women?”
That smile was really getting to Chase. He thought he might have to needle Bishop some, see if he could draw blood. “I sent them back.”
“What?”
“I sent them back home. I hate these loose immigration laws. The Mexicans and Norwegians and the Irish and all those Biafrans. They all come over and steal American jobs, put the workingman on welfare, and like that. So in the name of American values, I sent them back.”
“You want it, don't you? You want it right in the head.”
Stone killer eyes and flashing teeth in the silver moonshine. Chase hadn't met many hitters, but those he'd come across were just like Bishop. They liked to have a little fun before pulling the trigger. Liked to talk. These guys who were paid to kill, sometimes they'd buy their marks a beer first, pretend to meet them in a bar, get to know them a little. Spend a night talking about wives and kids and almost become friends with the patsy before putting two in the back of his head. Maybe it was instinct, a cat playing with a dying pigeon. Chase didn't know what it was all about, but he wasn't about to accept a beer from Bishop.
“Who are you working for?” Bishop asked.
“You people.”
“Did you deal yourself in? Did you score the merchandise?”
“ Black- market babies aren't a score,” he said. “And they're not merchandise.”
“You don't think so? It's a hundred-million-dollar-a-year industry.”
The two of them now in the dark, the wind rising outside in the frigid predawn, draft floating by, the house creaking and settling. Somewhere a tele vision was playing, the electrical hum of it working through the walls. Chase heard gruff asshole comments and low canned laughter
S ometime after the moon had risen, with the severe gray light rolling in across the bed like foam drifting by the Asbury Park pier, Chase came awake to find a .44 pressed to his forehead, Bishop standing there giving the friendly smile.
“So what's this for?” Chase asked.
“You're not even worried?”
“Not much.” Chase tried to sit up but Bishop exerted pressure, holding his head down to the pillow. Chase very slowly reached out and pressed the gun aside, liking the way Bishop's eyes went wide like he couldn't believe Chase wasn't just going to lie there. He must've had nothing but easy kills lately. “If you were going to ace me, you'd do it on the ground floor so you wouldn't have to carry my body two flights.”
Raising the pistol, Bishop rubbed the side of the barrel across his chin, lulling himself like a child with a blanket, loving the feel of contained murder.
You couldn't do much with guys like this. Moneywas only a part of their action. They didn't get thrills the way everybody else did. Their juice was hardwired in the God complex.
Studying Chase, Bishop pursed his lips, really trying to see who was in front of him. Chase didn't like the look.
Bishop said, “No, that's not it at all. You're hoping someone will do it. You're a snuff case.”
“You're trying to slur me? You nearly creamed your pants touching that Magnum the other day.” Chase swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “You pop people for pay. I think I'd hold my own against you at Sunday morning mass.”
That got an earnest laugh out of Bishop. “What happened to the last load?”
“The last load?”
“The women. You came back empty- handed. Where's Ivanka? Where's the women? The kid?”
“I dropped them off in Staten Island, like she said.”
“They checked in but didn't stay. Where'd they go?”
“How's that my problem?”
“If I say it's your problem, it is.”
“Then don't say it.”
Dust in the moonlight looked like swirling snow drifting around them. The room a little cold now because Chase had left the window open and Bishop had left the door open when he sneaked in. Chase wondered how long he'd been in the room, watching him sleep, savoring his urge toward murder.
“Where are the women?”
That smile was really getting to Chase. He thought he might have to needle Bishop some, see if he could draw blood. “I sent them back.”
“What?”
“I sent them back home. I hate these loose immigration laws. The Mexicans and Norwegians and the Irish and all those Biafrans. They all come over and steal American jobs, put the workingman on welfare, and like that. So in the name of American values, I sent them back.”
“You want it, don't you? You want it right in the head.”
Stone killer eyes and flashing teeth in the silver moonshine. Chase hadn't met many hitters, but those he'd come across were just like Bishop. They liked to have a little fun before pulling the trigger. Liked to talk. These guys who were paid to kill, sometimes they'd buy their marks a beer first, pretend to meet them in a bar, get to know them a little. Spend a night talking about wives and kids and almost become friends with the patsy before putting two in the back of his head. Maybe it was instinct, a cat playing with a dying pigeon. Chase didn't know what it was all about, but he wasn't about to accept a beer from Bishop.
“Who are you working for?” Bishop asked.
“You people.”
“Did you deal yourself in? Did you score the merchandise?”
“ Black- market babies aren't a score,” he said. “And they're not merchandise.”
“You don't think so? It's a hundred-million-dollar-a-year industry.”
The two of them now in the dark, the wind rising outside in the frigid predawn, draft floating by, the house creaking and settling. Somewhere a tele vision was playing, the electrical hum of it working through the walls. Chase heard gruff asshole comments and low canned laughter
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