Bad Games 2 - Vengeful Games (20 page)

“I need you to come get the card and then take it to get copied. It’s in the city so I need you to leave now.” She gave him the suburban address to Steve’s place, the address to the place in the city, and then the confirmation number. “Leave now.”

John grunted and hung up. Fifteen minutes later he pulled up to Steve Lucas’ home in the battered Dodge Dakota. Monica was outside smoking a cigarette, waiting for him. He rolled the passenger side window down as she approached.

“Here.” Monica handed her father the card, then a piece of paper with the address and confirmation number.

“You already gave me all that over the phone,” he said.

“You never heard of being thorough?”

He rolled his eyes and took it anyway.

“Hurry back.”

John rolled up the window and drove off.

*

John Brooks did not like cities. He felt more at home in open spaces, in the wilderness. He tended to choose jobs based on this preference, his last being a family on a ranch in Montana. The husband of that family had sold some of his accomplices out in exchange for no jail time. This landed the husband and his brood presumably safe in the hands of a witness relocation program out in the middle of God’s country—the last place a wise guy would go looking for another wise guy. Except the wise guys weren’t doing any of the looking—John was.

He’d found them in less than a week. After disposing of security, John had cut the husband’s head off, shot the wife dead, left the kids unharmed (as instructed), and then packed the husband’s head in dry ice and hand-delivered it back to his employer. It went about as perfectly as any job could go.

Now, in a more than unsavory section of Philadelphia, John felt cramped and vulnerable. He’d parked the Dakota along the street a few blocks back, and took the remainder on foot. He always felt better on foot.

Beaten row homes lined both sides of the street. Some dark and barren, some dimly lit. Flophouses, he thought. Why would Monica have an affiliate do business here? Discretion, sure, but come on, he wasn’t buying fucking nuclear weapons or anything.

John had made it two blocks when he was approached—a young black man, late teens to early twenties, heavy coat, both hands in his pockets.

“What’s up, big dawg? You need some help?”

John was told he would not be met by anyone. He was to approach the address given and ring the bell. So he looked the kid dead in the eye and said, “No.”

The kid gave a casual glance around, inched closer. “You lost, dawg?”

“No.”

The kid’s right hand shifted in his coat pocket. John hit him immediately. One shot—an overhand right to the jaw with all the force of a train. The kid was unconscious before he hit the ground, the back of his head cracking concrete after descent stiffening him out like a mannequin as he seized. John calmly bent over the kid’s body to search his right coat pocket. He withdrew a .22 caliber pistol.

“A twenty-two?” he said, waving the small gun over the kid’s unconscious face. “You were gonna mug me with a fucking twenty-two?” John brought his boot up and stomped on the kid’s head once, twice, and then a final third. He then tossed the gun into a square of fenced-in yard across the street. “Give that fucking toy to some kid to play with,” he said before spitting on the young man in disgust and continuing towards the designated address.

*

On his way back to the Dakota with the original key card and now several perfect copies, John found the young man where he had left him. He bent and checked his pulse. Dead. Probably the stomps that finished him, he thought. He shrugged and carried on towards his truck.

Chapter 39

Monica was inside keeping an eye on Steve Lucas. He hadn’t moved from his spot on the couch—upright, head back, mouth open with a thunderous snore flapping out of his throat. She found it difficult to look at him for any period of time. She knew she was good, but how she managed to screw him as many times a she did without gutting him, she’d never know.

Her cell phone vibrated twice. A text message. She flipped it open.

From: Dad

HERE.

She snapped the phone shut and headed outside. John was parked along the street in the same spot he’d been when he arrived earlier. The passenger window was down. Monica leaned in.

“Here.” John leaned over and handed the key cards to Monica.

She took them and gave them a quick inspection.

“Do I get one?” John asked.

“No—why would you?”

“Well you’ve got three of them,” he said.

“Precaution, Daddy-O,” she said.

He grunted and leaned back into his seat.

“Wait,” she said. “I need you to come inside.”

“What for?”

“Can you just do it, please?”

John grunted again and switched off the ignition.

*

Monica and John stood staring at the near-comatose Steve Lucas on the sofa.

“Jesus,” John said, “How much did he have to drink?”

“A lot. But I slipped him a few mickeys, too.”

“Better hope he doesn’t fucking die.”

“He’ll be fine. The-mother-of-all hangovers, but fine.” She turned to her father. “I need you to carry him into his bedroom.”

“What?”

“I need it to look like we started to fool around.”

“Fine—just don’t ask me to undress the fucker.”

John scooped Steve’s limp body up with ease and followed Monica into the bedroom. He dumped Steve onto the bed. “Okay?” he said.

“Don’t leave yet,” she said. “Wait for me in the living room.”

John nodded and left the room. Monica quickly stripped Steve Lucas naked and tossed his clothes everywhere. She reached beneath him, snatched the blankets and pulled them to the floor in a tangled heap. She knocked some pictures over on his dresser and stamped on the frames. She kicked over a lamp, elbowed the mirror on his wall until it cracked, then went to the kitchen and returned with an open bottle of bourbon. She dropped the bottle onto the rug and let the amber liquid soak into the shag until only a swallow or two remained in the bottle.

Satisfied, she eventually returned to the living room. John was sitting on the couch reading a magazine. Steve Lucas’ wallet still sat on the coffee table. Monica took it, stuffed the original key card back inside, then placed it back on the table.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” John asked, still thumbing through the magazine. “Sounded like you were trashing the place.”

“I was,” she said. “Gotta sell it.”

“Sell what?”

“I want you to hit me,” she said.

John glanced up from the magazine. “You what?”

“We’ve got everything we need. You didn’t think I was going to keep fucking that idiot, did you?”

John glanced back towards Steve’s room, then towards Monica again.

“The booze and the Klonopin will erase his memory,” she said.

John nodded, stood and said: “Where?”

Monica pointed to her left eye. “Don’t go overboard, tough-guy. He’s not exactly Bruce Lee.”

John smiled, then punched his daughter in her left eye. It was a jabbing blow, but enough to rock her back several steps.

“
Ow, ow, fuck,
” she said, cupping both hands over her face.

“Let me see,” John said.

She took her hands away from her face and he studied her eye. He nodded as though appraising an antique. “You’ll have a decent shiner,” he said.

“Good.” She turned and headed back to the bedroom to give it a final going over. Steve was still naked and sprawled out on his back, snoring as loud as ever. She thought of cutting off his prick and shoving it down his throat to stop the snoring. Maybe one day.

Monica joined her father back in the living room. “Come on, let’s go. We need to be back here in the morning.”

“What?
Why?
”

She pushed him out the door and said, “Because I didn’t let you punch me in the face for nothing, dummy.”

Chapter 40

Steve Lucas woke up naked and disoriented. A quick survey told him he was in his own bed. A second, deeper survey told him his room was a mess. His lamp was on the floor. His mirror was splintered like a spider web in the corner. His dresser top was wiped clean—the pictures frames strewn all over the floor, some cracked and broken. Next to one of those frames lay a near-empty bottle of Jim Beam, a brown stain circling its open neck.

Where was Samantha? He pulled the sheets up from the floor, covered his lower-half and called for her. “Hello? Samantha?”

Nothing. Calling her name sent a shockwave of pain throughout his head and he pressed a palm to it, squeezing his eyes shut. How much did he fucking drink last night? More importantly, he thought, looking around his room,
what the hell happened?

A sudden bang on his front door startled him. He quickly dressed in last night’s clothes and hurried to the living room. He opened his front door, hoping for Samantha, and she was there, but so was someone else—a large someone else who gripped Steve by the throat with one hand and rammed him back inside his home, slamming him up against the nearest wall. The man’s grip was impossibly strong; Steve could feel his blood rushing upward, pulsating hot against his face, bulging his eyes. If the man didn’t let go, he would be out cold very soon. The large man seemed to sense this too and loosened his grip, but only slightly. He pressed his face to Steve’s and roared into it.

“You sick motherfucker! Give me one reason why I shouldn’t crush your fucking throat!”

Steve had no words. He only hoped his shocked expression would plead his ignorance.

“You think you can slap around my baby sister and not have it come back to you?!”

Steve hadn’t noticed when he first opened the door—everything happened too fast. But now, as he looked over the shoulder of the big man, he saw a furious Samantha glaring back at him with a swollen purple eye.

Steve instantly said: “Oh God … oh shit,
did I do that?
” He took his eyes off Samantha and put them back on the big man, praying they shone as big and remorseful as he felt. “I’m so sorry … I don’t know what happened … I … everything’s a blank. I don’t remember—”

The big man tightened his grip again, cutting Steve off. “You listen to me, you sick little fuck. If you come within one hundred yards of my sister again, I
will
be back here and I
will
end your fucking life.” Like a shotgun blast, the big man drove his right fist through the wall just inches from Steve’s head. He then let go of Steve’s throat with his left and watched him slide down the wall until he sat hugging his knees like a terrified child. The big man slapped the top of Steve’s head. “Are we clear?!”

Steve nodded quickly, afraid to look up.

The big man turned to leave and Steve’s gaze fell on Samantha. He was too afraid to speak to her; he could only stare his regret through desperate, pleading eyes.

“Asshole,” was all she said before she turned and followed the big man, slamming the door behind her.

Steve Lucas dropped his head between his knees and started to cry.

*

Monica lit a cigarette once they were inside the Dakota. “‘Baby sister’?” she said.

“What?” John said, cracking a window. “I could pass for your older brother. Daddy rescuing his daughter felt too cliché.”

“But you
are
my daddy,” she said in a mocking, child’s voice.

“Well that whole scene was a crock of shit anyway, so who cares?”

She inhaled deep, grinned, and blew a stream of smoke at him. He frowned and fanned it out his window.

Chapter 41

It was just past ten and Patrick was still clacking away on his laptop at the kitchen table. A glass of Glenlivet neat sat to his left.

“Oh I see,” Amy said, sneaking up behind him, kissing his neck, then picking up his drink. “You can drink at home, but I can’t?”

Without turning around he said, “I don’t plan on going cruising after.”

She bonked him lightly on the head, then sat on his lap. He took his hands away from the lap top, wrapped them around her waist and kissed her.

“You’re so funny,” she said once their lips separated. Amy was glad they were now at a point where they could make light of “that night.” It wasn’t stand-up material yet, but it had definitely reached breezy status.

He kissed her again and said, “I shouldn’t be much longer.”

She scanned what he was writing. “Looks like a screenplay.”

He chuckled, looked back at the laptop, and spoke while glancing over what he’d written. “Yeah—PowerPoint slideshow will give me a good ten seconds before changing photos, but I need to be smack-on-cue with each frame like I
am
acting. And if I can convince these people that something as lethal as Megablast is the be-all, end-all, I think I’ll be ready for Hollywood.”

She chuckled softly then kissed his cheek. “You’ll be fine.”

He took a deep breath. “Hope so. Ten days and counting.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “So are you almost done?”

His left arm still around her waist, he typed a few more things with his right hand and said, “I think so. Why?”

“I thought I’d give you a blowjob before bed to relieve some of your stress.”

Patrick clicked save, closed his laptop, and said: “Done.”

Chapter 42

Patrick was double-checking various graphics on his PowerPoint presentation when co-worker Todd Hartnett rapped on his office window. Patrick spun away from his computer and waved Todd in.

“Hey, Todd, what’s up?”

“Wondering if you’ve heard from Lucas.”

“
Steve
Lucas?”

Todd nodded. “Hasn’t shown today.”

“Somebody call him?”

Todd nodded again. “Just voicemail.”

“Maybe he’s sick.”

“He never called in though,” Todd said. “He’s got to pitch that software account soon, doesn’t he? The foreign language program?”