Merrick

‘They blew me off.’

I asked

‘What’s with the two?’

Merrick rubbed his neck, trying to work out the ache there, said

‘Just him fucking with us, let us think he has an ally, maybe.’

I was spooked, Jesus, big time. But I reined it in, asked

‘So, we going to take a look?’

He was twisting the empty Bud like he could tear it’s head off, said

‘This is heavy shit now Tommy, won’t reflect on you or our friendship if you buck.’

I stood up, said

‘Let’s roll.’

Merrick had a beautiful 59 Camaro. Restored it lovingly his own self and added a supped

motor to the horsepower already under the hood.

We took off from the stadium like some meth bats outa meatloaf’s hell. Going over the

Jersey Turnpike, Merrick asked

‘You carrying?’

‘Just attitude.’

He nodded at the glove compartment, and I flipped it, A Glock 9 and a Browning Auto.

He said

‘Prime em.’

I did.

As we hit Manhattan, he asked

‘Why’d you leave the cops?’

Cut to the chase, said

‘I was on the take.’

He nodded, no judgment. Then,

‘You ever shoot anyone?’

Oh shite.

Tell the truth or string him along. I went with the truth

‘I used to be with the Boyos, back when Bloody Sunday happened.’

He nodded, no need for any more.

My turn, asked

‘You?’

‘On the job, shot a person of interest.’

‘Was he, of interest?’

He sighed, deep and yearning

‘To his family, to us, he was the wrong guy.’

We were at the Brownstone so I was saved any dumb comment. Merrick put the Glock in

his waistband, I put the Browning in the pocket of my Yankee’s jacket.

Asked

‘How do you want to play this?’

He nearly smiled, said

‘Careful.’

The building was boarded up, Merrick pulled the boards off, and we went in. Smell of

urine and curry, stale nicotine.

Swept the ground floor, Merrick whispered

‘Clear, going up.

I followed and at the base of the second floor, a figure came out of the shadows, laid

Merrick flat with a baseball bat.

Turned to me, said

‘I got three hundred bucks to do that, you want some of this ass-wipe.?’

I backed off, something in his tone, saying he was too lippy to be alone and a second

figure came rushing out of the darkness with a knife. I shot him in the balls. I was aiming

for his knee, I think. The first guy, shrieked

‘The fuck is with you man, why’d you have to go and do that/’

I shot him in the shoulder.

He was about to start screaming so I kicked him in the head and he shut the

fook up.

The dead child was on the third floor.

Spread-eagled, blood all over and a note pinned to his school blazer, reading

‘How sweet it is.’

………………………….GACY BY TWO.

I admit I lost it, went back down to the second floor, shot the first bollix in the face, then

hauled the second to his feet, said

‘See that piece of shite, you’re next, now tell me who hired you?’

Merrick had come around, grabbed me by the waist, soothed

‘Jesus, easy cowboy, ok?’

Gently took the Browning from my bloodied fingers, the blood from the child. Merrick

said

‘You got to go with the flow Irish, keep a lid on it.’

I said, keeping a lid on it,

‘;Have a look on the next floor.’

He tapped my face, added

‘You have a temper, need to chill, know what I’m saying?’

I repeated

‘Go to the third floor.’

He looked at the guy at my feet, said

‘Hang in there pal, my running buddy is a hot head, I’ll be right back and we’ll talk.’

The second guy sneered at me, said

‘You’re the hired help, that it, you Irish bogtrotter.’

I let it slide, knowing the third floor would be all the reply I needed.

Heard an anguished wail, like all the children in hell were chanting then rapid footsteps

and Merrick was pushing past me, leveled the Glock at the guy, emptied the mag in his

chest.

Guess Merrick hadn’t chilled.