Mayor of New York, with the fat and dead receptionist of the Diamond, and with the blonde bitch who had drugged him twice. But above all, he was angry with himself for not being able to avenge a girl he never met alive: Christine, from Battle Creek.
"I think I know who was that guy, Cutfield."
The redhead didn’t know, but that phrase just saved his life.
"Jimmy Hummingbird" he continued. "They call him like this in the streets, at least."
Having said that he kept silent, perhaps waiting for a reaction from the detective. This did not take long.
"Redhead" said Cutfield, pointing straight at his head, "I hope that's not all you have for me, after you've done it. I hope it, really. Brains' stains are cleaned very badly."
"He has ... had" corrected himself "a store, or a warehouse, in the 130 West, if I'm not mistaken. I know he was involved in shady business, but I swear I had not heard he had any connection with those murders, nor blackmailing."
So the fucking Irish listened the conversation between Landers and reedy voice. Landers would surely not amused knowing that the redheaded snitch was aware that his boss had been blackmailed. A good reason to keep him alive, he thought.
"The 130 West? That's in Harlem, right?" Cutfield asked, and without waiting for an answer he continued. "You and I are going to take a look at that warehouse. Landers, grab your damn briefcase and go back under the skirts of the Mayor. Tell him not to worry about anything."
"Not to worry?" Landers, who was in silence a long while, could not avoid speaking at that very moment. "Fuck you, Cutfield, those guys will know we’d sent you. If they go to trial..."
"They won't" declared the detective. "They have tortured and killed nine girls, and I assure you they'll not have the opportunity to negotiate with any information they may have."
He could feel a smile on Landers' face, despite being unable to see little more than his silhouette.
Was beginning to see light through some of the nearby windows and muffled voices talking about the shooting they had been involved. It was a matter of minutes the police sirens were heard, and to face cops wasn't a desirable idea for any of the three men. So Landers went one way, and he and Alec went another, leaving behind the dark alley and the corpse that was in it.
A Warehouse in Harlem
"They are too noisy" Cutfield thought when they were still several meters away from the warehouse. He could distinguish at least three different voices, maybe more.
"Where the hell did you get that, redhead?"
The Irishman was holding a small black handgun. It’s too luxurious for a sewer rat like him, no doubt. Furthermore, the detective didn’t like seeing him armed. Yet, he alone had no chance of get in there and taking down that gang.
"Whatever. Go over there and stand at the rear entrance. When you hear the signal, come inside wiping out everything, okay?"
"What the signal shall be?" He asked. Cutfield cocked the gun and spat out the almost finished cigarette he was smoking.
"The sound of Hell’s gates opening," he replied.
It took a couple of minutes to take his position before heading to the huge metal gate that must be used as the vehicle entrance. He inhaled and prepared himself for confrontation.
Knock, knock-knock-knock.
The voices inside fell silent when was listened the sound produced by the detective knuckles hitting the door. Cutfield hoped their first reaction was not to shoot because the weak sheet metal would be scant protection against bullets. A sound of footsteps indicated one of them was about to open a small side door. They thought it was Hummingbird.
"Everything went well, Jimmy?" said the guy who opened it. It was a half-caste with a scar across half his face. Cutfield aimed the gun at him, while with the other hand he made a clear indication of silence, and then another so he approached to him. The mestizo obeyed without a murmur, same as he did when Cutfield gave the order to turn around.
"How many guys are you there?"
"Cuatro. We are four, sir. Listen, I don’t know why ..."
Cutfield covered his mouth with his left hand, while he lowered his gun hard against the right ear of the mestizo. Definitely, he would have to throw out that coat; so much blood would never be removed.
"Look, asshole, I know who you are and what you’ve done to these girls, okay?"
The other nodded slowly, his mouth still covered. What a bastard! He’d not even tried to deny it!
"Now we'll enter, and you'd better not make any sudden moves or I'll blow your brains out."
The mestizo, with Cutfield holding him from behind with the gun raised, crossed the small door. Inside, as expected, the other three members of that abominable bunch of murderers, torturers and blackmailers were found. He wasn’t very religious, and he didn’t care whether they would go to Heaven or Hell.
What he cared about was they commence their journey sooner the better.
A blond and burly guy near the front door was the first to get a bullet. Although the projectile went through his chest, Cutfield briefly thought he would stand. He didn’t for a long time, of course.
"¡Te mato, cabrón!" Cried another mestizo, who could be a relative of the one he was using as a human shield. Or not. All these mestizos seemed ludicrously equal to him. The half-caste cabrón took a shotgun from who knows where and fired at Cutfield. Even with his hostage's body in the middle, the detective felt a strong pressure in the chest and fell to the ground, releasing his late protection. If the Irish was going to enter, it was now or never.
The two bastards who remained inside turned to the back door when it burst open due to a kick from Alec. The mestizo with the shotgun received the first volley of shots. He was dead before hitting the ground.
Only one left.
"Don’t kill him, red!" Cutfield shouted, standing up. The last of them, a tall thin man who had a blond mane and a beard, was with their hands up, as if that would save him. The detective walked slowly toward him, still aiming.
"Please ...” begged the blond guy. Cutfield smiled.
"Boy, is anyone else around here?" He cocked the gun and put the barrel in front of his eyes. The other shook his head vigorously as a gesture of denial.
"The girls begged too, kid? Did they do it while you and your friends were breaking their arms? You are scum!"
The blond lowered his arms a little, causing the detective was about to pull the trigger. He quickly raised them again.
"We had not hurt them! We only drugged and drew them the information about those rich guys!"
What did that motherfucker want? When he was about to ask a new question, an explosion sounded behind him, and the head of the little blond was decorated with a new hole from which blood began to flow as if it was a fucking fountain. Just then, perhaps due the surprise, maybe for the rumbling in his ears or possibly at random, he remembered the sentence that the Irish said in that Chinatown alley.
"… I had not heard he had any connection with those murders, nor blackmailing."
That son of a bitch. Those murders? At that moment he thought the other was talking about Roger, but was referring to the girls. And he had never mentioned to Alec there was any relationship between those crimes and the case wherein he was involved.
Unfortunately, the revelation came a little late.
"Don’t do it,” said the Irish defiantly behind him. "Don’t even think about turning around."
He was fucked. How could he have thought of relying on that scumbag?
"How much have they paid you, bastard?" the detective asked.
"Pretty much, boss, but the bloody truth is I would have done this for free. You cannot imagine how much I wanted to be in this situation."
"Sure, throwing me your breath on the neck forms part of your wettest dreams, motherfucker."
He sensed a heavy blow on the back, below the neck, and could not help dropping to his knees along the hard floor of the warehouse. The Irishman was getting mad, and that would take him to make a mistake.
It was his only hope.
"Shut up and look at you now, great detective. On the floor deceived and humiliated by someone you considered a nobody. Who's now in charge?"
"Let me think, redhead. Maybe a blonde girl? ‘Cause, of course, you’ll never stop being a thug."
"So you think you know everything, Cutfield, but don’t know a goddamn shit! I brought you here and I will end your miserable existence!"
He was close, very close. The detective lifted his head swiftly, hitting the nose of the Irishman and disorienting him long enough so he could grab him and make him drop the pistol. Without firearms, Cutfield's physical superiority became evident in seconds; Alec held up his hands in surrender, but he wasn’t willing to stop beating.
Before he became unconsciousness, Cutfield stopped and placed his right foot on the Irish’s neck.
"You're a piece of shit, red, and you’ll always be." He spat on him and, without lifting the foot that imprisoned him, began to light a cigarette. "Where is she?"
"I do not know that, Cutfield. Fuck, I don't know!"
He tightened his grip, while throwing the match he’d just used; took a long drag and blew the smoke on the Irish. That bastard wasn’t able to do many moves, so the detective stepped away from him and returned with something into his hand.
"We can do this either the hard way or the really bad way," he said. Thereupon he raised the iron bar he was carrying and slammed hard on the arm of the fallen, who howled in pain. "Do I must use the really bad way?"
"A house," said the Irishman finally. "I met her in a small house in the suburbs, at