Most Wanted

37

BILL FLANAGAN SNAPPED HIS CELL PHONE SHUT, A satisfied smile spreading across his broad red face. He hadn’t expected this gig to amount to much. But whaddaya know, a phone call out of the blue, and here he was looking at twenty-five grand. Fifteen, that scumbag offered him first, but he negotiated it up. Think Wild Bill Flanagan didn’t know the street price for a hit? Think they were dealing with a fucking amateur? Think again, my friend. The timing was good, though. Frankie Bricks was coming after him for that wad he dropped in Atlantic City. He needed a payday if he didn’t want to wind up kneecapped.

He’d have to think it through real careful, though. It was such an easy setup, what with him in the room anyway, it was tempting to jump the gun. She’d been sleeping when he left. He could walk back in and take care of it right now with the old pillow-over-the-face routine, then string her up with some rope or, better yet, a torn bedsheet. Make it look like a suicide, the man said. Twenty-five grand for a couple minutes work-not bad. He’d enjoy it, too, big-time. That snotty little bitch waking up terrified when she couldn’t breathe, trying to fight him off, writhing under him while he pressed the pillow down harder, then going limp. Wow. Just thinking about it, he got a hard-on for the first time in as long as he could remember. But if he decided to go that route, he’d have to set up his alibi real careful, or he’d get caught.

That was the problem. The easiest thing about this hit was also the hardest. He had total access. That meant they would come looking to him for answers. If they didn’t buy the suicide angle, they’d know it was murder; nothing in her condition far as he knew would suggest natural causes. So they’d assume he had something to do with it. Somebody else bodyguarding her might be able to say he’d stepped out to take a piss and get away with it, but not him. They had it in for him, the lousy motherfuckers. He needed something good, something that could be corroborated. He needed to be seen somewhere. The cafeteria, maybe? He could kill her, string her up, then go down there and pick a fight with somebody. That would get him noticed, and it would also have the added benefit of explaining any marks on him if the little bitch resisted. Then he’d come upstairs and pretend to discover the body. It was a possibility.

He went back into the room and sat in the chair in the corner, watching her sleep, thinking about how to do it. It was around ten o’clock. Bright light spilled into the darkened room from the hallway. Still a lot of activity on the ward. Middle of the night would be better, so nobody would hear the struggle. It had to be done tonight-that was a condition of the deal. So he didn’t have time to get no heart-attack drug or any fancy shit like that. A knife, a gun, he already had, but they wouldn’t fly if he was gonna fake the suicide. Suffocation, then, or maybe strangulation. Strangulation, now there was an idea. The white flesh of her skinny neck under his thumbs as he crushed her windpipe. Jesus, he was turning himself on again.

She stirred in her sleep, sighing and flopping her bandaged arm around on the blanket. He walked over and stood there looking at her. When he was sure she was sound asleep, he carefully tugged the blanket down to her waist, looking at the outline of her body under the thin hospital gown. She was too goddamn skinny. Pointy little tits, she had, needed a boob job. He liked ’em bigger, like that prosecutor today-now, she was a ripe one. The idea of fucking a girl after she was dead had always appealed to him, but this one here was a bag of bones. There was the DNA evidence, too. Hairs he could explain from bodyguarding her, but semen would be a problem. He better watch what he drank, or he’d find himself doing it anyway. Controlling himself was never his thing.

He went back to the chair, sat down, and stretched his legs out. He pulled out his pint, tipped it back and drank till it was empty and he felt that glow. It would be hours before he could do anything. He oughta save his energy. Time for a little snooze.

FLANAGAN WOKE WITH A START FROM A DEAD sleep. He’d heard a weird popping noise. Or was it just a dream? It was getting light outside. He pushed the button to light up the display on his digital watch, his head pounding. He’d slept most of the night away. Jesus, better get moving if he was gonna get this job done. He couldn’t afford to miss his chance; he needed the paycheck too bad.

The door to the hallway was closed. Funny, he didn’t remember doing that. Must’ve been a nurse. He stood up stiffly and straightened out his clothes, hawking to clear the phlegm from his throat. Sleeping in a fucking chair. Everything hurt. Something smelled funny, almost like blood. He hated hospitals, so depressing. Man, he was groggy. He needed a drink to clear his head. His hands shook as he reached for his pint. Fucking empty! Shit! He didn’t remember finishing it off. How the fuck was he gonna do this job without another drink? He might have to go out for some, he was getting the DTs so bad.

He walked over to the bed, remembering that he hadn’t decided whether to strangle or suffocate her. Looking down at her, though, it took him a minute to process what he saw. Amanda’s eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. A neat black hole sat square in the middle of her forehead, as a dark stain spread slowly across her pillow.

He was shaking all over now, trying to work out what had happened-could he have done it and blacked it out?-when he heard a noise behind him and turned. A Spanish guy with a pointy face and little bitty eyes stood there looking at him. Kid was fierce-looking, but small. Fucking prick, stealing his twenty-five Gs. Bill saw in his mind’s eye how he’d beat the kid to death with his bare fists.

“Hey, asshole,” he said, his voice hoarse, moving toward the kid, “what the fuck you doing? This is my gig.”

The kid smiled and raised his arm from where it hung at his side. He held a sleek nine-millimeter with a silencer a mile long coming off the muzzle, pointed straight at Bill’s face. Nice piece, Bill thought, listening to the loud pop it made when it went off.

HE WALK TO THE ELEVATOR AND GET ON, SIMPLE as that. It pretty quiet in the hospital this early in the morning. He like the early morning. When he get outside, the street feel real fresh. Garbage don’t stink the way it do later in the day, when the sun so hot. Nobody seen him. Even if they did, so what? He left the door closed. By the time they find the bodies, he be long gone and nobody gonna give him a second thought.

He been mad productive lately. It like he unstoppable. Kill people right in front of witnesses, and still ain’t no- body catch him. He on a mad winning streak. No reason to stop when you hot. He take care of that Chinese bitch today, that architect. Then maybe he finally get a payday off this fucked-up job.