Read Online This Wicked World by RICHARD LANGE - Free Book Online

selling crap to kids — cheap swords and ninja outfits.”
    “I had no idea you were an expert in martial arts,” T.K. says.
    “I’m not,” Spiller says, “but I
am
an expert in bullshit.”
    Spiller’s second stepfather, Jack, claimed to know karate, said he learned it in the army. He used it to beat up on Spiller’s mom until Spiller, barely twelve years old, snuck up on him one day while he was napping on the couch and bashed him in the face with an aluminum baseball bat, breaking his jaw in three places.
    Things didn’t work out like they were supposed to though. Spiller’s mom chose Jack over her son, packing Spiller off to Grandma’s house, where he stayed for two long years, until Jack finally left Mom for a waitress at the bowling alley where he worked. Spiller has never forgiven his mother for this. In fact, on a few occasions it’s taken everything in him not to lash out at her and get a little payback.
    “Well, my system ain’t horseshit; it’s deadly,” T.K. says.
    “Your system? You got a system?”
    “It’s called ‘Killer Instincts: Way of the Ghetto Warrior.’ It’s a self-defense and fitness program combined. I took a little bit from all the disciplines and blended it with my own techniques.”
    Spiller raises his eyebrows and flicks the ash from his cigarette out the window. “What kind of techniques?” he asks. “I’ve seen you fight. You ain’t nothing special.”
    “I’ve created unique combinations of punches, kicks, and blocks,” T.K. says. “And then there’s the Southside Sledgehammer, my patented move, which is guaranteed to stop anyone in their tracks.”
    Spiller laughs. “That I got to see,” he says. “The Southside Sledgehammer. Is that what you used on those two Russians who beat you down and I had to jump in and save your ass?”
    “You know what happened then,” T.K. says, narrowing his eyes, getting hot. “You know I had the flu.”
    Spiller’s phone rings. He shushes T.K. and answers.
    “Are you done with your manicure?” Taggert rasps. Someone slashed his throat in Folsom, and it messed up his voice for good.
    “You mean my doctor’s appointment?” Spiller says. “Yeah, I am.”
    “Good, because I have a thing for you two. Some junky defaulted on a loan, and now I get his house. You guys are going to go over and help him move.”
    “We don’t have to stop at U-Haul or anything, do we?” Spiller asks.
    “Nope, the furniture’s mine too,” Taggert replies. “Just put his ass out on the street.”
    “Okeydokey, boss.”
    Spiller writes the directions Taggert gives him on a parking stub, then hangs up.
    “We’re going to Echo Park, over by Dodger Stadium,” he tells T.K. “Gotta toss some doper out of his house. Maybe you can use the Sledgehammer on him.”
    T.K. is back to being above it all. He raises his hand to indicate that he’s about done with this subject and says, “Laugh now, motherfucker, but wait till the DVD comes out.”
    “Oh, now you’ve got a DVD too?”
    “I met a producer down at the club who did videos for Busta and DMX, all those cats, and he’s going to hook me up. It’s going to be bigger than Tae Bo.”
    It cracks Spiller up how every nigger in L.A. is one miracle away from being a millionaire. He lights another Camel. They’re stopped at a red light, and a little kid in the backseat of the car in the next lane is making goofy faces, staring at his reflection in the Explorer’s tinted glass. Spiller thinks how he could put a bullet right through the brat’s eye from here, open a fist-size hole in the back of his head, and spatter his brains all over everyone else in the car, really freak their asses out.
    B OONE LETS HIMSELF into Amy Vitello’s bungalow and walks back to the bedroom. He sets his red plastic toolbox on the floor and takes out a hammer and screwdriver. A few taps and a little prying, and he’s able to remove the wooden stops from the window frame in one piece. The sash lifts out easily