BOOM (9 page)

One second Weston was
standing there and then he was gone. Time seemed to have stopped and Punchy
became vitally aware of something else, a familiar sensation that had long been
dormant.

“Shut up, you little bitch.
You might be sold but that doesn’t mean I can’t knock the shit out of you.”

Punchy could hear again.

He forced his eyes open and
saw Weston pulling the girl through the bedroom door. She was screaming and
calling for help. Weston punched her.

“Shut up!” He threw the girl
down and she landed before Punchy. She looked at him pleadingly, and he could
hear her gasping for help as Weston approached.

Punchy could hear again.
Somewhere something had re-fused some synapses or cleared out some broken cogs
and sound infiltrated his mind. He could hear Weston’s expensive dress shoes as
they moved across the carpet. He heard the whoosh of the air conditioner
working to cool down the suite and the hum of the refrigerator coming from the
kitchen. He heard people yelling in the surrounding apartments. And he heard
something else far of in the distance: sirens.

“Get up. We got to move now,
whore.” Weston bent down to haul the girl from her knees. A sudden movement
caught his attention and he turned. Punchy socked him square in the face.

Weston lurched backwards
dropping the gun and hitting one of the sofas. He rebounded off the furniture
and lurched forward, right into a wicked left cross. Weston flipped over the
couch. Punchy stooped and picked up the butterfly knife.

He turned to the girl who was
slowly getting to her feet. She looked at him as she cried and reached her hand
out to him. He could hear her gentle sobs.

Punchy tilted his head
slightly, a simple acknowledgement. She returned the nod. He watched her run
from the suite. He turned his attention back to Weston.

The old man was struggling
back to his feet. There was a cut above his right eye, and snot and spit
dribbled down his face.

“You cocksucker,” Weston
sputtered. “You’re going to die, handyman. Dead man.” Punchy socked him again with
his left. Weston rolled across the coffee table. A tooth rattled off the
table’s surface. He still gripped the knife in his right hand.

“Stop. Please,” Weston
begged, “I got money. Women. Whatever you want.” Weston patted Punchy’s arm as
the boxer bent down and twisted the old man’s tie in his hand. “You can be
rich. I swear.”

Punchy jerked the old man up
by his tie and drug him to side of the room. He pushed Weston back against the
wall and grabbed one of the old man’s hands, laying it flat against the white
surface. Weston screamed as Punchy plunged the blade through the hand impaling
Weston to the wall.

Punchy stepped back as the
man flailed wildly with his free hand.

“Fucking,” Weston sputtered.
“Stupid……fucking…..die….you retard….” He tried to remove the blade from the
wall but it was stuck too deep.

Punchy spit blood and bile
from his mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. His stomach was on
fire and he was a plastered crimson mess of a person.

“Fu-fu-fuck y-y-youuuuuu,” he
answered Weston.

Punchy worked his heavy bag
like never before.

*****

Officer Raab surveyed the
mess in the suite. Two dead men. One from a gunshot wound to the stomach, the other
beaten to a pulp. He shook his head. The Liberty was too classy a place for
this business.

Stinson joined him in the
living room. “Damn, what a mess.”

Raab nodded. “How’s the
girl?”

“She’s still in shock but she
will be fine. Amanda King. 19 years old. Reported missing four days ago.”
Stinson flipped his notebook closed. “She’s damn lucky. They’re questioning her
now. Trying to get the story figured out.”

“What about the others?” Raab
bent down in front of the beaten man. His face looked like grape jelly.

“One dead in the basement,”
Stinson replied. “The other goon is alive but barely. The one outside in the
hallway is still ticking too. I’m sure they all got priors and are probably
wanted by someone somewhere.”

Stinson knelt down next to Raab.
“This one is the handyman?”

“That’s what they’re telling
me,” Raab answered.

“Huh.”

“What?” Raab looked over at
Stinson.

Stinson pointed at the body
in front of him. “I know this guy.”

“What?”

“Yeah. This is The Dynamite
Kid, Ricky Jones.”

“The boxer?”

Stinson nodded. “Yeah, he was
a hell of a fighter. Before he lost his hearing or something. I saw him knock
out Junior Wells in three rounds. Ate that schmuck up, I tell you.”

Raab stood back up and
Stinson joined him. “Damn. I remember him. I saw him fight Doc Collins. He had
this superfast jab that no one saw coming.”

“It’s a damn shame,” Stinson
nodded. “Too bad he never amounted to anything.”

Raab nodded and headed for
the door. He needed a cigarette.

Also by Michael
Whetzel

The Pied Piper of
the Undead

Bandwidth

The Black Rain
Journals

The Voice

The Widow and the
Orphan

Want to be
informed of the newest release from Michael Whetzel? Sign up for our
newsletter
today! We will send you
an email as soon as a new book is up for sale.

(The mailing list
is only used to inform you of a new release.)

Visit my website
at
www.michaelwhetzel.com
for news and announcements.

Like Michael
Whetzel on
Facebook

If you enjoyed the
preceding work, please leave a review on the sales homepage. Remember, your
feedback is very important and always welcome.