Albert Clough came to VC with a buddy looking for girls that wouldn’t press charges. They had running bets on who could get away with the most, the only rule being they had to show up at the same bar or club the next night. His buddy, Korey Dotrice, had a trust fund, and they burned through a couple towns picking up girls under fake names. They came here two weeks ago to find out why they called it Victim City.
After the third night, Korey didn’t come back to the motel. Albert had hit the same club the next night and it had police tape across the doors. He stayed at the motel, running up Korey’s credit card, until he found out some cops came by while he was out partying. Albert started ripping off cash, jewelry, and pills from the women he picked up. He was in the process of moving from college girls to cougars, and was fancying settling down as a gigolo.
He was trying to sell a divorcee’s anxiety medicine in a pool hall when he was approached by Johnny and Chuck, last names unknown. They were going to hit a lick and wanted some more muscle. They said they might have to kill a guy. Albert was in.
They met up with Deuce at the warehouse. Deuce was scared, but Albert couldn’t tell if he was being coerced or if he was just nervous. He wasn’t tied down, no guns in his face, nothing like that, but he did sound desperate. “I can get the guy, I swear. He’ll come.”
Albert figured they were going to rob this Stonewall first, maybe kill him second. Johnny was definitely in charge, but he couldn’t tell if this was all Johnny’s plan, or if Deuce brought the idea to them.
Murdam got descriptions of their clothes and hardware. 9mms and a shotgun. They provided Albert’s piece. They had Deuce out in the open by the office while the three of them hid behind pallets of boxes. They got bored after a couple hours and started shooting the shit. Chuck wanted to call it off, Johnny kept saying we had to wait it out a while longer. That made Albert think someone else was calling the shots to Johnny. That’s when they had Albert go on a food run.
“Thank you, Albert. This helps a lot. I brought you a beer. I swear it’s not bum piss.” Murdam cracked open a tall boy. Albert sniffed at it before accepting it to his lips.
While Murdam held the can for Albert he worked it out what he knew. He doubted Deuce got the idea to rob him. Stonewall wasn’t known for carrying a lot of cash, and there were plenty of drug dealers and hookers within a block’s radius that would be easier pickings. Deuce wasn’t handcuffed to the floor, but he was probably under duress. Either this Johnny brought him in, or whoever pulled Johnny’s strings put them together. Time to talk to Johnny.
Murdam turned on Albert’s phone and dialed the number that last called. “Yeah.”
“It’s me. You ready to talk?” asked Murdam.
“Yeah. How you want to do this?”
“You’re probably hungry. You know the In a Jiffy’s on Melrose.”
“Yeah. We doing the swap there?”
“I haven’t said anything about any swap. Just breakfast. We’ll talk about it then.” Murdam turned the phone off.
Murdam set up at a taqueria diagonal to the In a Jiffy’s and nursed a cup of coffee and a breakfast taco. He saw a twenty-something man in a silk shirt and designer jeans get out of a convertible and scan the windows of the other cars in the lot. This must be Johnny. He either came alone or was smart enough to have Chuck back him up out of sight. Murdam bet on Chuck staying with Deuce at the warehouse.
He waited for Johnny to get a seat from a waitress, then brought his coffee outside across the street. Johnny left the top of his convertible down. There were no windows from In a Jiffy’s facing that side of the parking lot. Murdam hopped into the passenger side and took a look around. Johnny kept his ride much cleaner than Albert. Some change and a full pack of cigarettes in the center console. Nothing under the seat, but there were hollow pockets cut out of the foam for contraband.
The glove box was locked. Murdam dug his fingers in a crevice underneath and snapped the entire box out of the frame. The insurance card belonged to Johnathan Owens and was good for another four months. Some oil change receipts and the owner’s manual.
Murdam was interrupted by a steady rattle of shots. Four seconds, then another steady chain. A couple of isolated, louder shots. Murdam guessed at least two shooters, one with a machine pistol, one with a handgun. He hopped out of the car and ran to the back of the diner. The back door slammed open. A cook ran, arms outstretched, his body falling forward faster than his feet could keep up. Murdam passed him and stood to the side of the door.
The door burst open again. A shooter walked past Murdam and put three bullets from a pistol into the cook’s back. Murdam saw that the slide was back. The gun was empty. “Looking for me?”
Murdam was impressed that he didn’t try using the gun by reflex. The shooter spun around with a high hook kick that Murdam easily backed away from. It was a feint to get a butterfly knife out. Murdam grabbed the wrist with both hands and dug his thumbs in. Muscles tore, bone cracked. His hand went numb, and Murdam pulled the knife out of the man’s grip like a rattle from a toddler. The man inhaled sharply but hadn’t screamed yet. Murdam stopped that by driving the knife up under his chin, through his tongue, into his palate.
He stumbled backwards, his hands reaching near the knife, but pulling away as if he was afraid to touch it. It didn’t hit any major arteries, and little blood dripped down the handle. Murdam needed to keep one alive to talk, and this one couldn’t talk with a knife through his mouth.
Murdam grabbed his ears and brought his chin down against his knee, driving the knife handle all the way into his mouth. Murdam took a good look at the man as he fell twitching. Asian, young, thrift store clothes. A quick pat of the front pockets didn’t give Murdam another clip for the empty gun.
He returned towards the back door. The door opened casually. Another Asian man stepped out, pistol at his side, calling a name Murdam couldn’t figure out. Murdam had his hand over the gun before he could raise it. He slammed his other hand into his elbow, levering the gun up. The Asian pulled the trigger by reflex, sending a bullet into his own forehead.
Murdam pushed the man back through the door into a hallway along the kitchen. He took the pistol and slipped it in his pocket. Another chain of shots rang out from the dining area, followed by the chiming of shells hitting the linoleum. Murdam rolled the corpse in front of him over so it bled face down as he hefted it up by the waist and carried it down the hall.
“All your friends are dead!” Murdam shouted, and tossed the body through a pair of swinging half-doors. A burst of bullets tore into the meat before it fell to the ground. Murdam drew the pistol and ran into the dining room. Another Asian stood between booths, pulling a clip out of a MAC-10 machine pistol.
Murdam took aim. “Put it down.” The man reached into a satchel under his arm for another clip. “Don’t you reload on me, motherfucker!” Murdam barked, closing the distance between them. The man fumbled and tried to feed in the new clip upside down. Murdam slammed the barrel of the gun across the bridge of his nose.
As the man reeled, Murdam dropped his pistol and grabbed onto the MAC-10. He wrenched it from his grip, snapping his trigger finger on the way. Murdam soccer kicked him in the groin, lifting him off his feet. He reached into the man’s satchel and grabbed a clip, one of several in the bag.
“What’s your contact’s name?” Murdam asked as he reloaded. Murdam didn’t understand the response, but he could tell it was more of a curse than a name.
“Speak English, motherfucker!” He emptied a clip into the man’s right shin, more out of frustration than any expectation it would improve communication. The man fell back against a table. Murdam picked the pistol back up and put two holes in the man’s throat. He fell back across the table. His right foot stayed on the ground.
Murdam knew the response time for that part of town. He had eight minutes left, assuming someone actually called the police. He unrolled a napkin from a table and wiped down the weapons as he looked around. Two dead waitresses behind a counter. Two other male corpses slumped over pancakes and cups of coffee. Johnny Owens was in a booth with most of his torso missing, his phone in his hand. He sat next to man missing most of his head, wearing a grease stained mechanics shirt with the name “Roberto” monogrammed, phone sitting in front of him on the table.
Murdam avoided pools of blood, and shuffled his feet to avoid slipping on the dozens of shell casings on the floor. He took Johnny’s phone, wallet, and car keys. He checked the Asians on his way back through the kitchen to the parking lot. No phones, no wallets, no keys. Murdam scoped out the parking lot to see if they left a driver behind, then got in Johnny’s car.