Gangsta's Paradise

Dead, his eyes hadn't changed. Dull. Lifeless. Soulless. Yeah, no-one was gonna miss Marcellus 'n I hoped he was getting a hot welcome where I'd sent him on to. A real fuckin' hot welcome, and I sure wasn't going to be saying any prayers for the dead. Not for this motherfucker. Maybe a prayer that he stayed dead, but this wasn't some fictional horror novel. That fucker wasn't coming back after that intimate little parting of ours.

"No problem, chiquita. I'll take care if it." Raoul'd been real helpful when I gave him a call, the way he always was helpful when I occasionally called in the early evening, or late at night, or in the early hours of the morning, needing the kind of help that a guy running a small gourmet pet food factory offered for a friend.

A very good friend that you just couldn't say no to.

A friend like me, just to be clear.

Shame Marcellus hadn't figured that out before those negotiations went south, but shit happened and you dealt with it the way it fell. Well, maybe not you, but I sure did.

"Come on over, I'm working late. I'll meet you out by the loading dock, Mal." Raoul knew me. Knew when I called him up, it meant right away. It'd freaked him out the first coupla times, but he could handle it now. Do it half a dozen times 'n you get used to it, and I knew enough to help him wash the meat down, butcher Marcellus and feed him in. Went real fast with both of us carving him up, and it wasn't like the pieces were going on display. No need to be fussy.

Didn't turn a hair these days myself.

Speaking of, the grinder even handled the friggin' hair, which had surprised me that first time.

"Fiber in their diet, Mal," Raoul had said when I asked. "Gets ground up pretty fine though. I mix it up pretty good with the old horses. Forensics would turn up traces, but what's the odds?"

"Your girl? She doing okay now, Raoul?" I'd asked, tossing a forearm in. The hand was already going through.

The meat grinder handled it even better than the Ukrainian Army handled Russians. Ground up bones, finger and toe nails, fuckin' everything. Never looked when the head went in though. Listening to that skull popping and the squishing that followed was bad enough. No way I was gonna watch.

I always checked on Raoul's girl. She'd been a lot of work to find and return, but the long term payoff had been real good. No cash return, Raoul couldn't afford my rates. He had a good little business, growing fast, but my rates were steep. Real fuckin' steep. Didn't matter. For him, my services were free. His wife, she cleaned my apartment, and she was almost family now. She'd cleaned for me pretty much since I bought the place, and when she'd broken down on me, I kinda got to the bottom of it real quick.

Fernanda, their oldest daughter, she was sweet, she was cute, real cute, she was a good girl but she'd been old enough to start attracting boys back then, year and a half ago. As old as I'd been when I was eighteen myself and landed my first boyfriend, except that mine had been a lawyer, not the wannabe thug that she'd landed. Fernanda was a lovely girl, not bad tits on her either, but let's just say that while she'd been eighteen back then, she was never gonna work for NASA or go to med school and she wasn't too switched on when it came to reading guys, and let's just leave it at that.

He'd been trouble, right from the start, and Fernanda had found that out real fast. She'd disappeared on her first date, 'n yeah, well, cutting a long story short, I'd found her. Taken me a few weeks of real work too. Fernanda still was a good girl, even after I got her back, but she didn't date bad boys now, not after she'd found out the hard way what a lotta guys thought she was good for.

She'd been broken in and worked real hard for those three or four weeks before I tracked her down, but in the business she'd ended up in, the girls wereworked hard. Fuckin' hard. One look at Fernanda and if you knew what guys liked, you just knew she'd have fitted right in and been worked real fuckin' hard right along with all the other girls that mostly didn't wanna be there either, but the business they were in, most of 'em were like Fernanda.

They didn't get any fuckin' choice.

Which was kinda how I dealt with Fernanda's pimp. Didn't give him a single fuckin' choice either. Nothing against him personally, he was just another pimp, but I knew Fernanda. Well, I knew her mom, and that made it real personal. Let's just say that pimp was bagged and tagged before he had a fuckin' clue.

I'd paid for that three weeks in the clinic for Fernanda after I got her back too. Raoul and his wife, they could never have afforded that place, and I got a discount. Whatever, I'd gotten her back, but it hadn't been exactly the usual way I got girls back. Not back then.

First time for everything, I guess.

That clinic cost me big time, and it was all outta pocket, every cent, but her mom, she'd cleaned for me for three years by then. It was personal, and it wasn't like I couldn't afford it. I'd made it up on the next client. I'd thrown in a couple of freebies for Raoul, like dealing with the little shit that'd sold her, not that Fernanda ever knew about that. Raoul knew. He'd put him through the grinder for me.

Him and the pimp the boyfriend had sold Fernanda to. I'd put the pimp through first, while the former boyfriend watched, doing his best to scream. He'd wanted to struggle, too, but he'd had too many broken bones for that. Well, broken bones 'n two or three holes that'd started off with a 9mm entry, 'n he was pretty well zip-tied. He wasn't gonna be leaving the party until it was over and done. Sent Raoul out while I parted out the boyfriend and put him down, no need for Raoul to have that on his conscience. Raoul'd been happy to leave, but he'd been happy to help me put the pieces through the grinder afterwards as well.

Guess it's all in what you're used to.

Personally, I'd always liked science classes, and dissecting that mouse had been real interesting. Parting out Fernanda's old boyfriend, not so much, but it'd been kinda rewarding all the same. Raoul, he'd been a bit green around the gills when I called him back in, but he got over it fast enough.

First time for both of us.

First and last time for those two!

End result was Raoul did me favors now.

He was always happy to help out with the kind of favors I sometimes needed. He knew what my business was, just about the only dude that did outside the guys like Johan that I dealt with, and Greg of course. Raoul knew just how far I'd go for a friend, too, and he was the only dude that knew that, and he knew he could count on me if he ever needed the kinda help I offered, coz he did have three other daughters, lived in a shit neighborhood, and they were all little hotties, even if Fernanda didn't smile that much anymore.

Whatever, she was doing well at that hair dressing school now, and she was getting over it. Most of them did in the end. Pimp I'd dealt with wouldn't, and neither would that boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend now, I guess. Didn't ask if they'd been processed into cat food or dog food, coz that was Raoul's little business. Gourmet pet food. Didn't make any difference to me, but three or four hundred pounds of free prime meat on the bone would've boosted Raoul's profit margin, and the cats and dogs didn't mind the low fat content or the steroids at all.

The clothes? Dropped them in a couple of Saint Vincent de Paul charity bins. Sure hope they sterilized them. The bling? Tossed out the window into a collection of homeless dudes on the side of the street. Nothing left of those two except memories, and not too many of those, coz only their mommas gave a fuck. Or maybe they didn't. Didn't matter to me.

I sure didn't give even a single fuck.

I smiled, yawning. In the end, it'd been a long day, but it hadn't been a bad day. I'd called up Greg, called Marcellus's girls in, and I hadn't had to pay for the one I wanted back myself. Dropped her off with her folks, took that final payment 'n then checked her in to the clinic. Call those other girls a bonus for me, and a bonus for Greg, even if there were only half a dozen. Dude'd been new in the business locally. A one-man start-up, and his stable'd been small. I sure hadn't been counting on picking up the extras he had. Only the one on my list, but whatever. Greg'd been real happy with the freebies, looked good for him 'n the team, 'n those girls, all but one of them, they'd been even happier when Greg and his team turned up.

That one?

Well, there's reasons some girls don't ever wanna go home, and after we'd talked, I'd stashed her in my car while Greg did his stuff with the others, called Johan, and dropped her off on my way to return the one I'd actually wanted to her folks, 'n then last and least, I'd dealt with the bagged up body in the trunk before I'd called it a night.

Thing was, Johan always needed new girls. Wasn't like there was anything much else for her to do. She wouldn't be able to get even a shit job, and a looker like her that still wanted to be in the business 'n wasn't strung out on the drug du jour, well, the overhead was higher coz you had to pay those ones, but trained and willing and real enthusiastic was always good at that low end of Johan's bell curve, 'n Johan was real good to his girls, the odd ones that worked for him because they wanted to. He'd owe me one too, 'n I didn't feel bad about her.

Not after we'd talked, 'n fuck it, I wasn't a social worker.

They were fucking worse sometimes, 'n after she told me her fucking story, if I'd taken her back to her parents myself, she'd a been a fuckin' orphan about two seconds after her parents opened the fuckin' door. So we talked, and turned out she kinda actually liked what she was doing 'n she was a smart one. Head screwed on, 'n I figured she'd go far. Looker too. So yeah, she'd be better off with Johan, 'n I'd keep an eye on her. Make sure Johan didn't sell her on, 'n I'd told him that too. She could move on to one of those clubs when she hit that use by date for Johan's little niche, 'n Johan would handle that.

Nope. Cindy Chu didn't get to go home to her folks. She didn't get to disappear into the social services system either, which was mostly fuckin' worse, n' Johan got himself a free girl. Well, he'd have to pay her, but no upfront cost, so he could call it a wash. She'd be just about pure profit for him and she was fuckin' happy. Apart from running most of his girls as sex slaves, Johan was pretty good to them so I didn't feel bad about it. Not at all. I sure as fuck didn't get into this business to be a fucking social worker, but sometimes that's what it fuckin' felt like.

See what I mean? It'd been a long hard day. Tired and sleepy. Bed was good.

When that mobile buzzed this late, it wasn't a friend calling.

It was usually..."Got another job for you, Mallory."

Yeah, fuck! It was him. Again.

"Fuck me, Greg," I said sleepily. "As if today wasn't busy enough. Couldn't it wait until the morning?"

It never could when he called like this, though. We both knew that.

"Wouldn't say no to the offer, Mal, but they called me back in a couple of hours after we were done with that gaggle of girls you dropped on me, and it's the usual, wouldn't have called you otherwise."

Asshole laughed. "If you're not interested, I'll call Spade & Archer, or Marlowe & Sons. Whoever wants to come out. Tonight. Now."

He snickered, because we both knew he wouldn't, and I would. There were other jobs he used those guys on, and he called them for those. When he called me, it was for the work I did. Niche business, that was me. Very niche, and for what I did, there wasn't anyone else in the game, not around here, and we both knew that, too.

"Okay, okay," I groaned, sitting up. Good thing I hadn't been out clubbing. "On my way. Text me the address."

"Check your messages, Mal," Greg said dryly.

"Got it," I said, after I had. "Be there in an hour."

"Grab yourself a coffee on the way, Mal," he chuckled. "Maybe two. Sounds like you need them, and make it fast will 'ya? I don't wanna be here all fucking night. Bad enough having to be here at all."

Yeah, well. I could hear some woman crying in the background. That happened pretty much every time, and I understood why. Part of the job, dealing with that, but it didn't mean I enjoyed listening to them and it wasn't part of my job to dry their fuckin' eyes.

"I'll put it out you're coming through so they'll give you a pass if they see 'ya," he added.

"Fuck you," I said, not laughing, but he'd already terminated the call. By then, I was outta bed and standing, reaching for the baggy black cargo pants that I'd tossed at the laundry basket an hour ago. I'd missed. They were on the floor.

Clean black bra and panties out of the lingerie drawer. Black tee, clean too. Tight as well. All my tees were tight. You didn't want any material getting in the way when you needed to draw, and when I needed to draw, I needed to draw, fast. So yeah, tight black tee. Black socks outta the drawer, but I better do the laundry soon or I was gonna be recycling from the basket. Been there, done that. Preferred not to. Shoulder rig off the nightstand. Checked my handgun. Always always always check your handgun. Day you don't is the day you'll fuck up and fuckin' die, and I mighta been a PI, sort of, but my life wasn't a fuckin' movie.

I'd die just as badly as anyone else if I took a coupla hits.

FN Browning Hi-Power. 9mm. Customized grip made from old mastodon ivory. Really old. Last ice-age old. Loved that grip. Dropped the mag, checked, then press checked, and yeah, fully loaded. All 13 rounds. One in the pipe. Slammed it back in, slid it into the rig. Made sure I had those half dozen extra mags, because when the shit hits the fan, there's only fire, reload, and fire again. In my business, you don't ever wanna run out of reloads if the shit hits the fan.

The guys I did business with, once was enough if things went south. You could kiss your ass goodbye.

Taser in a thigh pocket, easy to reach for. Combat knives tucked away. One in its sheath on my rig, where I could reach it in a hurry. The other in its ankle sheath, the other ankle, the one that didn't have my Ruger SR9c in its ankle holster strapped on, and I checked that one too. That one was my backup, and backup's always good, especially in my business. Especially if you look like me, and you're walking in alone. When I was a cop, there were backups, even if the useless bastards didn't show in time. I wasn't a cop anymore though, and I worked alone.

My only backup came in 9mm, .45, or razor-edged steel.

The Colt Model 1911A1 .45 ACP tucked in a concealed holster inside my cargo pants wasn't backup. It was insurance, and when that 1911 came out, the shit had already well and truly hit the fan and sprayed far and wide. I'd never used that 1911 seriously, only down on the range, but the day it wasn't there'd be the day I fucking needed it. The old guys on the unit had drilled that one into me until I didn't even think about it.

Yeah, told you I wore cargo pants, right? They didn't exactly show my butt or my legs off. They didn't show all those guns and knives off, either. Or the extra mags, the suppressor and the medical kit that was tucked away outta sight too. Body armor? Wouldn't need that tonight and I didn't wear that much these days anyways, too obvious, but I had a set in that bag in the trunk along with the Remington 12 Gauge, shells, and a few other odds and ends we don't need to talk about in any fuckin' detail.

You wanna know?

Really? Takin' a bit of a risk aren't ya?

Tarps. Duct tape. Gags. Zip ties. Tool kit. That kind of thing. Never knew when that Black and Decker would come in handy. Most of those scumbags told me everything I needed to know when that ¼" bit smoked through a kneecap first time round. Hadn't had to take it that far too often, thank Christ. Only wore the body armor for those first meets with someone I hadn't done business with before. Going in to see a potential client when Greg asked me to come over didn't count, but it was there if I needed it.

Tonight? These'd be clients. They needed me, or someone like me. Probably only me. That was why Greg'd called, after all, but the guns and the knives came anyway. Never left home without 'em. Part of the package. The Uzi was in its custom holder under the seat, where it always was, along with enough ammo for a half hour firefight. Hadn't had to use it yet either, but you never knew....

Coupla' the guys on my old team 'd been in Special Forces before they got out and joined the cops. Taught me a few things, 'n I kept in touch. Saw each other down at the range we all used now 'n then. Good dudes, 'n I listened. They knew what the fuck they were talking about.

Picked up my keys and my mobile, slipped on my old black leather coat coz it was cold out there, as well as wet. Hated wet fucking weather. Slipped my feet into my old, black, comfortable Doc Martens at the door, laced them tight, pulled on those old black leather gloves that were like a second skin, took a long slow breath, and I was ready for whatever tonight had in store. Already knew what was in store, more or less, because why else would Greg have called me?

Sure wasn't for a date.

He was gay.

Greg was there, waiting, outside the front door, under the overhang and out of the rain, rain that was falling from a leaden sky like dead bullets, smoking one of his goddam Gitanes. He'd watched too many of those old noir movies. The fedora he wore, along with the goddamn pinstripe suit and tie, really laid it on too thick. Thought he was Jules Maigret or Arsène Lupin, or some hotshot like that Bogart dude played in those old movies.

Raincoat was new though.

"What brand?" I asked, eyeing it, taking the Gitane he flicked out of the pack for me, leaning into the lighter. We knew each other.

"Burberry," he said.

"What the fuck's that?" Dude looked even more like Bogart than he had last time I saw him. Right down to the height. He was only a couple of inches taller than me. Made up for it in attitude. You met Greg, he could be right in the middle of a dozen bruisers, but one look and you knew who was the boss.

"English. They make 'em for women too. You should get yourself one. That black leather and those cargo pants and Doc Martens you always wear make you look like a carpet munching lezzie. You need to look the part, Mal. You know, sophisticated private investigator."

He grinned. Yeah, well, of course he knew. Wasn't like I pretended to be what I wasn't, never had, and neither did he.

"Fuck that," I said, yawning. One coffee hadn't done it. "Cut to the chase. We've both had a long day." I knew he had. I'd dumped those girls on him earlier. "What's the scoop?"

"Jap girl's gone missing," he said, losing his grin. Inhaling. "High school student, eighteen, just. Had her birthday a week or two ago for fuck's sake. Parents are from Japan. They moved here a month ago. Her dad's some high-powered exec for some huge fucking Jap tech company with connections. Never heard of 'em, but the Jap consulate called up the line as well, high up, and their Consul's in there with them right now. He was here before me, and the Commissioner called me just now too."

Political? Fuck! Those were the worst. Might have to do some real work.

"Girl?" I asked, inhaling myself, and fuck, those Gitanes were awful.

Jap girl? As soon as he said that, I already knew where this was going. I mean, Greg wouldn't have called me if it hadn't already gone there. We'd been doing this for a while, him and me. There were distinctions. Young girl. Teenager. Young woman. We didn't usually go further than young woman. A lot depended on what they looked like and how old they were. Older they were, the more likely they'd just done a runner. The younger they were, well, let's not go there quite yet.