“Goddamit, Ice, I’ve paid you good money, a dozen fuckin’ times. Now I need a job done…I’m willing to pay double, and you fuckin’ wimp out on me,” Rocco spat, his puffy, pig shaped face twisted in anger.
Angela Marie “Ice” Fratanelli sat in the passenger seat of Rocco’s Mercedes in Grant Park and listened, eyes cold, heart colder. She saw Rocco eyeing her double D’s. One attempt to touch and he was a dead mu’fucker.
“Rocco, I done plenty of jobs for your ungrateful ass. You want me to dig up that last sumbitch and drive that pipe further up his ass…see if he gets any deader? Dude, it’s just that I never let the hammer down on no chick before. Killin’ that bitch would bring in a hundred cops and about a thousand Feds. It’s a goddam three needle cocktail story, Rocco…the fuckin’ death penalty.”
“Jesus Christ, a chick who won’t off another chick. Fuck me. Ice, I’ll pay you $50,000. You catch the bitch comin’ outta Liveri’s fuckin’ apartment, cap her ass on the sidewalk…nobody’s gonna know shit.”
“Damn, Rocca, fifty large is a shitload of cash. Man, just forget the bitch. There’s plenty of pussy out there for Christ’s sake.”
“Goddamit, Ice, I’ve had a thing for this bitch ever since she drifted in from Kansas City last month. Now I see she’s droppin’ her drawers for that fat fuck lawyer, Liveri. I personally watched the bitch come outta his place last night.”
“Kansas City? That’s where I’m from, Rocco.”
“Well hunky fucking dory. Got sentimental problems?”
“No, hell, no. I just told ya’ the problem. Off a chick and on comes all the heat in the territory. Why not just knock off Liveri, Rocco? I’ll do it for twenty…and the cops would be tickled shitless to see Liveri’s brains on the sidewalk.”
“No, fuck a bunch o’ that shit. She dies now. I’ll make sure that lawyer gets his later.”
“Rocco, I know a guy from New Orleans who’d come up here and shoot the fuckin’ mayor for twenty-five large. Lemme call him.”
“Not a goddam chance, Ice. I know you and I can trust you to do the job with no bullshit.”
Ice sighed. “Awright, awright…twenty-five thou up front. What’s this bitch’s name and I gotta have some kinda photo.”
“Only name I got is ‘Kitten’. She’s jumpy and never would give me her real name. The pussy was so good, I didn’t give a shit.”
“Photo?”
“I gotta phone shot of her comin’ outta Liveri’s last night.” He held up his cellular. Taken in the dark in limited light, Ice saw she could ID the chick for the kill shot, but the quality was so poor, her features were indistinguishable.”
Ice sat across from Liveri’s swank north side apartment for two evenings, sipping coffee and straining not to piss her panties. At midnight on the third night, just as she was about to call it a night, she recognized the target walking out to the sidewalk. Before Ice could make a move, Kitten hailed a cab and was gone. Ice followed, angry at the missed timing. She’d now enjoy letting the air out of this bitch.
The cab dropped Kitten in the parking lot of a low-rent hotel, which fortunately for a hired killer, was poorly lighted. Ice rolled down the window of the 350Z, pulled beside the target as she walked, head down across the cold, windswept parking lot, and without a word, put two in her chest with her silenced, .22 High Standard piece.
Ice saw the familiar expression of shock and death on Kitten’s face as she fell on her back beside the car. But she saw something else, causing her to pause, open the driver’s door, and lean down for a better gander at the victim’s face.
Kitten opened her eyes and gasped, “Why”?
“For fuckin’ around on Rocco with that fat ass Liveri. Rocco sends his regards, bitch.”
Kitten gasped in her death rattle, “Angela? Is that you?”
Astonished, Ice blurted, “Amelia?”
Kitten whispered, “Liveri was my lawyer. I just come up from Kansas City to find you, Angela. Rocco paid my bills, but he was a fuck. Angela, mama’s dying and you need to come home for the funeral.” She then choked and died.
Ice sat handcuffed in the back seat of a squad car. A pudgy sergeant standing beside the car said to his lieutenant, “This chick ain’t making a bunch of sense, Loo. Keeps babbling about murdering her twin sister.” He gestured at the corpse laying nearby. “Goddam, you do this job long enough and just when you saw it all…”
*
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued, lied to and about, and frequently misunderstood. With a hundred short pieces published in various venues, a novel: Burn Sugar Burn published in national paperback, and an anthology of short stories on Amazon.com: Biggest Balls in Sanderson County, he is now retired to a dusty North Texas ranch where he doesn’t much give a damn if school keeps or not. Clifton blogs at http://www. bareknucklethoughts.org/
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