Chapter Eighteen
Kevin
KEVIN FROWNED. HE’D wasted enough time. He had to get ready. Where was that address he’d gotten from Steve? The night he’d been released, he’d dug the paper from his jeans and put it in a safe place. Oh, yeah, it was under the coffee can.
Sticking the scrap of paper into his back pocket, he yanked at the door of his rusty clunker. It stuck. One of these days he’d work on it.
He turned the key. The engine, the loving object of his attentions, roared with eagerness to transport its master to whatever destination he desired.
With little effort he found the rundown warehouse. It was exactly where he’d heard it would be, in the Uptown District. Its ground floor housed a sporting goods store. He’d heard rumors of what the entire subterranean length of the building contained.
An African American Mexican pushed open a curtain and stepped out, holding an oil rag and a rifle.
“Are you Max Gonzalez?” Kevin asked.
“Yeah, that be me.”
“My buddy, Steve, said you could help me find something.”
“I been waiting for you. What’ll you be needing?”
“Something powerful and efficient.”
“No problem. Follow me.”
Still holding the rifle, Gonzalez locked the door, then led Kevin through a long corridor and down a dark flight of stairs to a room which seemed to be all counter. Only after Gonzalez stepped behind it, did the man lower his rifle and lean it to the side.
At sight of what the man was guarding, Kevin understood his paranoia. This was a dangerous business. His heart pumped double time as Gonzalez pulled open a felt-lined drawer and withdraw a gleaming .357 Magnum.
He aimed it at Kevin.
It had to be a test. Kevin stood there unblinking, then said, “I hear you also give shooting lessons. How much?”
The man chuckled and lowered the gun. “Since you know Steve, you get a special deal.”
Kevin agreed to donate a substantial portion of each of his paychecks for Max’s instructions. That meant subsisting on hot dogs or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a while, but it would be worth it.
With the business end settled, he was granted a grand tour of the adjoining soundproofed rooms. He took pleasure in picturing Callaway’s face on each target.
HE CARRIED OUT his lessons faithfully. The rooms where he learned and refined the art of shooting became almost as familiar as his tiny cell at Heartland Penitentiary.
“Stop canting,” Max screamed, straightening the gun when Kevin tilted his wrist.
“Stop flinching,” was another favorite gripe.
Often Kevin got so pissed he felt like turning around and plugging his instructor. That wouldn’t work. The gun was loaded with blanks.
Perhaps it was his determination. At any rate, it didn’t take long before Kevin’s instructor said, “Hey man, you’re a natural. It’s like you were born to shoot.”
That was true. Kevin enjoyed the feel of the rubber grip as well as the recoil sensation speeding up his arm. Both spelled power.
Bang, bang, take that, Callaway.
KEVIN RUBBED HIS eyes. He’d worked eight hours, then had gone for practice at the shooting range. It had been a month since he’d sent out his feelers. He better check the mail just in case. Maybe this time it would be there.
As he riffled though the junk mail, a plain white envelope fell to the floor. What was that? With heart skidding, he swooped it up and tore it open. The single index card inside read, T. Walker, 7.
His hands trembled. He’d expected it, but couldn’t believe it was happening. Finally he’d be able to bust out of the repair shop. It couldn’t have come at a better time. Barnes was driving him crazy. Also, there was that matter of Constance Jennings. His face grew warm at the thought.
He wished he’d never dug up the bitch’s phone number from the invoice. When he’d made his proposition to her, he should have had a clue.
The cool voice had said, “My man’s out of town. You’ll do.”
Well, a fuck’s a fuck, he’d thought. Beggars can’t be choosers. She’d be the first in forever. She came on cool, but underneath she had to be hotter than hell. The possibilities stiffened him.
Afraid to jinx anything, he’d kept word of the rendezvous from Mike Evans, intending to fill him in on it later.
From the start, she was different from the others. In the old days, the babes he’d had were shy, young and willing. This number was composed, well-preserved and at least forty.
When she’d slipped off her slinky dress, he’d gaped. He wasn’t prepared for the sight of huge breasts jutting out over tiny abs.
His eyes darted to the blonde thatch peaking between her legs. He swallowed hard.
“Do you like what you see?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
He nodded quickly. Not taking his eyes off her, he hurriedly discarded his clothes. Were those boobs real? He reached out to check.
“Don’t waste your time on the incidentals. I want it now,” she ordered.
“All right. Let’s do it,” he said, flicking off the switch to darken the room.
“No, leave it on. It’s my turn. I want a good look at you.”
Whatever. He turned the light back on. He hadn’t counted on Constance’s eyes fastening on his dick like a pigeon eyeing a morsel. Did he meet her expectations?
She shrugged. “I’ve seen larger, but yours will do.”
He felt himself shrinking. That had never happened before. His face burned.
Frowning, the bitch put her hands on her hips. “I’m not wasting my time.”
Before he knew it, she’d pulled her dress back on and vanished out the door, leaving him alone and mortified, thanking heaven he hadn’t bragged to Mike.
That embarrassing crap was behind him. He was back in the big time.