Chapter 4
Giovanni’s face dripped with perspiration at the stoplight on Bundy Drive in West Los Angeles at 11:37 p.m.
He gripped the steering wheel of his Volkswagen Beetle. But this didn’t stop his hands from trembling. He didn’t understand why he should be nervous, but he was. He had his pistol underneath his seat.
He should be blissful. It was other people that should fear him.
He looked to his right where a dark blue Mercedes idled beside him.
The scratch in his right cheek suddenly ignited with pain. Thirteen months ago, he got into a gang fight in East Los Angeles and broke a rib. That rib had been less painful than this little scratch now.
Giovanni turned away from the Mercedes, and the pain disappeared just as quickly as it had come.
He kept his eyes forward, watching the traffic signal, recalling the nineteen-year-old cunt--Jenny she said her name was--who gave him the scratch just three hours ago. He should have made her suffer more. He shouldn’t have choked her to death so soon after using her.
The traffic light turned green.
He waited for the blue Mercedes to go—to leave—but it did not. There were only two lanes on Bundy Drive, and cars began honking behind them.
Giovanni threw the Beetle into gear and jerked forward, pressing hard on the gas, whining the engine high before shifting into second.
The girl had been tender and fine. Laying beside her on her bed, he had relished the warmth slipping from her dead body. She had been so full of energy. The tenacity in which Jenny threw her skinny limbs at him hadn’t been enough to save her though. Her parents had gone on vacation, trusting her to be safe at home. It would’ve been wonderful to watch terror build beneath her sparkling brown eyes as he broke her weak arms and grinded the splintery bones together.
The Mercedes kept pace with him.
What the hell was up with this nut? Giovanni’s heart began pounding faster and he seemed unable to catch his breath. He had heard of panic attacks from talk shows on television, and he was sure he witnessed several when he murdered people slowly, but he never experienced one himself.
He jammed the shifter into third and popped the clutch out so quickly the tires chirped against the pavement.
He could feel the Mercedes to the right of him. But he avoided looking it. He didn’t know why it troubled him so much. He worked for the Mafia as a hit man since age eighteen, and he usually intimidated people. Though only weighing 159 pounds, he had mean, almost black eyes, and was a deadly shot. Why wouldn’t he want to meet the eyes of some goof in a Mercedes?
Giovanni flipped the shifter into fourth gear and slammed his foot onto the gas pedal.
He glanced right, and the scratch on his cheek sizzled.
Greasy sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging. He brought his shirt up to wipe his brows. Through folds in the material, he stole another glance at the Mercedes. It was still there, like a wasp that wouldn’t leave when shooed.
What is this guy's problem? I didn't do anything to him. Or did I?
Paranoia swooped in. The trouble with hurting so many other people is that you always have to be alert for retaliation.
He reached under his seat, retrieved his pistol, and used his legs to hold it close at hand.
Accelerating into the next intersection, at the last possible second, he threw the wheel left, all tires screaming, sliding the Beetle sideways, jumping the sidewalk, barely avoiding a fire hydrant, but successfully making the turn off Bundy Drive.
In his rearview mirror, he saw the Mercedes continuing down Bundy.
“Haa!” Giovanni breathed easier. He hadn’t been able to see who was inside. He didn’t care. The nut could drive to hell for all Giovanni cared. Really, he could handle anyone who came his way. By all rights, he was a monster. This street cut through a block of warehouses.
Behind him, two headlights glared angrily.
He swallowed hard. The Mercedes couldn’t have turned around so quickly. Could it?
The headlights were gaining. He couldn’t see the make of the car. Looking behind his shoulder to get a better view, wiping his sweaty forehead with his arm, he kept repeating aloud, “Nothing can hurt me. No one would dare try.”
The headlights mesmerized him. He thought he saw a third light coming out the front window, cold and vengeful. There was something about that light which scared the living shit out of him.
When Giovanni turned forward to the road—
—a parked Ford van was in front of him. He had drifted too far to the right and now—
Crash!