The Dame Did It (2 page)

“I like to know what I’m getting into,” said
Killingsworth. “It helps keep me alive. Besides, can’t a woman be
curious?”

“You’ve got a heart of stone,” said
Blackheart.

“It helps in my line of business,” said
Killingsworth. “But you still haven’t told me the whole story. Why
isn’t Frankie G riding your tail for his money?”

“Because two nights after I got nabbed the
tong put a hit on him and machine-gunned his limousine, killing
him, his chauffeur and Benny L.”

“I knew that,” said Killingsworth. “I was
just testing you.”

“What do you mean ‘you knew that’?”

“The tong wanted to stay a step away from it
and they brought in outside help. Thompson Keel and I did the
limousine job. It was messy, but the tong wanted it that way.”

“Keel,” mused Blackheart. “I’ve heard of
him.”

“Not his real name,” said Killingsworth,
“but nobody in this business does go by their real name. I’ve
nearly forgotten what mine is.”

“I’ve heard your name,” said Blackheart.

“Careful,” said Killingsworth. “If you know
too much, I may have to kill you.”

Blackheart looked at his blonde-haired
rescuer, trying to divine if she were joking, but no hint of a
smile split those lovely lips. He decided to chance it anyway.
“Killingsworth. I heard that Killingsworth and Keel were doing the
job for the tong.”

Now she smiled. “Very good, Joe. I guess
you’ve been paying attention. Killingsworth isn’t my real name, of
course, but I use it often enough.”

“What is your real name?” pushed Blackheart.
“If you turn me over to Hardwick you’ve condemned me to death,
anyhow.”

“You just keep calling me Blondie. I like
the way that you say it.”

“Blondie, do you mind at least undoing my
cuffs?”

Killingsworth shook her head, eyes still on
the road. “Those hands are very capable of snapping my neck. The
handcuffs and the ankle bracelets stay on. I truly am sorry. If we
had met during different circumstances, who knows how things might
have turned out?”

This seemed small consolation to Blackheart,
whose future looked very uncertain and he lapsed into a sullen
silence.

Killingsworth split off the main road,
taking a route that pushed into the dense woods that grew up along
the hillsides, which were only sporadically settled with farmsteads
and cabins. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that, Blondie?”

“You’re waiting for me to slow down a bit,
so you can throw your body against me, smash me into the door,
headbutt me, try to knock me unconscious.”

Blackheart didn’t deny it. “I really don’t
want to see Hardwick.”

“I just want you to know that if you try
anything I will shoot you in any number of uncomfortable
places.”

“Good to know,” said Blackheart.

“But I can’t help but like you, Joe. You
behave yourself, and when I send you over to Hardwick I’ll put the
key to your cuffs in your hand. What you manage to do with it is
all on you, but I’ll have fulfilled my end of the bargain with
Hardwick.”

“Is that all that matters to you? Keeping
your end of the bargain?”

“All a girl’s got is her reputation,” said
Killingsworth.

“So what’s my end of the bargain?” asked
Blackheart.

“You weren’t listening, babe” said
Killingsworth. “To hold up your end, you need to sit still and do
exactly as I tell you. If you’re a good boy, you get the key.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” replied the blonde assassin.
“But if you manage to escape and want to look me up, maybe we can
share a drink, and part on more pleasant terms.”

Blackheart smiled slightly. “If I manage to
live through this, next time we meet remind me to strike some sort
of bargain with you—something to ensure I never end up on the wrong
side of a Killingsworth contract again.”

“You got it, Big Boy.”

The Global Positioning System in
Killingsworth’s Mustang beeped, indicating that there was another
turn ahead. In five minutes time, and after following a series of
bewildering twists and hairpin turns, Killingsworth pulled the
Mustang into a remote field of high Kentucky grass. The dirt road
was marked by a ramshackle grain silo, the aluminum panels dented
and even peeling off. The road had been recently traveled, and
Killingsworth turned her Mustang onto it, passing the rat-infested
grain silo, and following the rutted trail until the silo was out
of sight, lost in a sea of yellow grasses, seed pods bending over
the high stalks. Amidst this tall grass a central area had been
plowed down, and a four door extended cab Ford truck was parked and
waiting.

A thug with an UZI machine pistol sat on the
tailgate and Hardwick, in suit pants and a sport jacket, leaned
against the side panel. Killingsworth left the engine of her
Mustang idling and stepped out.

“You’re three minutes late.” Hardwick
motioned and his hired thug dropped from the tailgate and covered
Killingworth with the snout of his machine pistol. “I thought you
had a reputation for punctuality.”

“I had some unavoidable delays. You still
want Blackheart?”

“Of course I want Blackheart,” said
Hardwick. “Don’t tell me he’s been bending your ear with some crazy
stories?”

Killingsworth crossed around to the driver’s
side of the Mustang and opened the door for Blackheart. “He’s a
good storyteller, but I prefer my cash cold and hard—not pie in the
sky.”

“You’re a smart cookie, Killingsworth.” Once
Hardwick saw Blackheart emerge from the Mustang he picked up his
phone.

Killingsworth’s eyes narrowed behind the
screen of her sunglasses. “Who you calling, Hardwick?”

“You want your money, right?”

“You know it,” replied Killingsworth.

“You have a reputation as a woman of your
word, Killingsworth, but I understand that there have been
imposters who used your name in the past. So, I thought it wise to
keep the money separately, until I could confirm that you had
Blackheart.”

“Just how far away is my hundred grand?”
asked Killingsworth.

Hardwick spoke a few terse words into his
phone and broke the connection. “It will be here in two minutes.
Why don’t you send Blackheart over here to keep me company, in the
meantime?”

Killingsworth stood a step behind
Blackheart, now, just a shadow in his hulking frame. “When hell
freezes over, Hardwick. You’ll get Blackheart the instant I get my
hundred large, and not a moment before that.”

Hardwick shrugged. “Have it your way,
Killingsworth. I’m just trying to expedite the process.”

Killingsworth was armed with the pistol she
had stolen from the prison guard, as well as two Colt .45’s which
were tucked behind her vest in the small of her back. It made for
uncomfortable driving, but she hadn’t dared remove them with
Blackheart grasping at any possible means of escape.

“I’ve behaved myself,” muttered Blackheart.
“Can I get that key now?”

“After I get my payment,” said Killingworth,
“and not a moment before.”

Blackheart bit at his lower lip. “That’s
Eddie Gaines, over there with the UZI. He’s cozy with a stacked
bomb-maker named Frampton. Never see ’em apart.”

“Gia Frampton?”

“Yeah, I think that’s her name.”

“So why bring her up, Big Boy? You trying to
make me jealous?”

“Nah, it’s just that I’ve literally never
seen one of them without seeing the other one. We called ’em the
Siamese Twins.”

“I worked with Gia on a job about three
years ago,” said Killingsworth. “She keeps a brace of grenades
under her jacket.”

“You and her on good terms?” asked
Blackheart. “Because she could be sitting in the grass with a
sniper rifle—assuming they decided they don’t want to pay you the
rest of your fee.”

Killingsworth considered this. Hardwick did
have a reputation for frugality, and she wouldn’t put it past him
to try and stiff her on her completion fee. Still, helpful as
Blackheart was being, he was probably playing on her paranoia in
the hopes that she might smell a rat and break her contract with
Hardwick. “Gia’s good with a pistol, but explosives are her
thing—not rifles.”

“Okay,” said Blackheart, but he obviously
remained unconvinced. “But would she pull the trigger on you… if
the price was right?”

“We’re on good terms… but if the price was
right I might pull the trigger on her. There’s no reason to think
that she would hesitate to do the same thing.”

“That’s where you and me are different,”
said Blackheart. “I’ve got my friends’ backs… thick and thin.”

Killingsworth’s response was dry. “That’s
where you and I are different, Big Boy. My philosophy is that
business comes first.”

Blackheart glanced back at his blonde-haired
rescuer and captor. “Why does business come first?”

“Because you can’t rely on friends.”

“Sure you can,” said Blackheart.

“Aren’t you the one that was spending time
in the pen because you caught your best friend messing with your
girl?” Killingworth reminded him.

Blackheart scowled. Obviously, the betrayal
still stung him. “That’s an exception… a deviation.”

“It’s the norm,” said Killingsworth. “People
can’t be trusted, so use them for what you need, but don’t get too
attached.”

“You live a sad life,” said Blackheart.

Killingsworth pressed her lips into a thin
smile. “Oh, I don’t know. It has its moments.”

They could hear the sound of an engine
coming down the rutted dirt road, and in a few moments a dark gray
Mercedes emerged from behind the screen of high, yellow grass. It
stopped about twenty yards behind the Mustang, and Killingsworth
couldn’t help but notice that it blocked off her escape route. She
scanned the grasses, but could see no sign of any one hidden for an
ambush. However, the grass was thick and plentiful, and it would be
next to impossible to detect a well-camouflaged sniper.

Killingsworth called to Hardwick. “If I
smell anything fishy, the first thing I’ll do is put a bullet
through your eye. If I happen to miss—which doesn’t happen very
often—I’ll put a bullet through Blackheart’s skull, and you’ll
never find what you’re looking for.”

Hardwick didn’t seem in the least concerned
by Killingsworth’s threats, but he had always been a cool,
unflappable, customer. “You do know that Blackheart’s a sociopath,
don’t you Killingsworth? He enjoys messing with people’s heads… and
he’s very good at it. He’s probably got you convinced that he’s got
some secret stash of drugs or a lottery skim and I just want him
for the information. The truth is much simpler.”

“Oh,” responded Killingsworth, her eye upon
the Mercedes which had yet to disgorge any of its passengers.
“What’s that?”

“The truth is that I find his ability to sow
distrust and suspicion very useful, and I have some work for
him.”

“I don’t care what you do with him,” said
Killingworth. “Make good on your end of the deal, and you can have
him. Good riddance to you all.”

Hardwick got on his cellphone and a moment
later, the front passenger door of the Mercedes opened up. Gia
Frampton stepped out, long auburn hair flowing over the collar of a
stylish Gavord-Sabatini trench coat that was open far enough to
reveal a voluptuous figure which was covered in a gray ribbed
turtleneck sweater, and a faded pair of denim gauchos. She carried
a stuffed leather satchel, which she opened up as she drew nearer
to Killingworth, the better to display the stacks of hundred dollar
bills contained within.

Gia’s green eyes darted to and fro. “Monica?
Hardwick didn’t tell me you were working this job.”

Killingsworth plucked off the top stack of
bills and rifled through them. They looked, felt, and smelled real,
but the bills at the top would be. “What
did
Hardwick tell
you, Gia?”

Gia hesitated.

“Tell me or I’ll shoot the man with the
UZI.”

Gia cursed under her breath and shot a hard
glance at Blackheart. “He told you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” said Killingsworth. “Siamese twins
and all that. Give me the scoop and I promise that I won’t kill
hi—”

“What’s the hold-up, Killingsworth?” shouted
Hardwick. “Send over Blackheart or I’ll have Gaines ventilate you
both!”

Gia looked directly into Killingsworth’s
eyes, though she could catch just a glimpse of them moving behind
her sunglasses. “Whatever you do, don’t leave this field with the
satchel.” She turned around, trench coat flapping around her knees
as she retreated to the Mercedes.

“What about me?” said Blackheart. “Hardwick
screwed you over. Your contract’s null and void. You don’t have to
turn me over.”

“If I want to walk out of here alive, I do,”
said Killingsworth. She pressed the security guard’s pistol against
Blackheart’s spine as she leaned down and unlocked the shackles on
his feet. Then she uncuffed his hands. Blackheart groaned and
brought his arms around, rubbing at his wrists. “Thanks,
Blondie.”

She jabbed the pistol into his back. “Don’t
thank me, Big Boy. Get over there and make your case with Hardwick.
Maybe you can be useful enough that he’ll keep you alive.”

Blackheart began walking across the field.
“See ya, Blondie. It’s been fun.”

“It’s been fun.” Before Blackheart could
reach Hardwick, Killingsworth tossed the satchel into the driver’s
seat, climbed into her Mustang, and spun it in a tight
one-hundred-eighty degrees, throwing up clods of turf. The road was
blocked so she sent the Mustang plowing through the high grass to
the left, jouncing over the furrows until the car slewed back onto
the roadway, past the Mercedes.

Killingworth kept going until she was out of
sight, but before she left the field she pulled the Mustang to a
halt and dumped out the contents of the satchel on the passenger
seat next to her. She took the top two bundles—the ones she had
examined at the scene of the exchange—and shoved these into the
pockets of her jacket. Quickly, she flipped through the other
bundles and found that they were fronted by a few real bills, but
the others were poor counterfeits. Killingsworth had handled more
than her fair share of counterfeit bills. The texture of the paper
was wrong and the coloration slightly off. She briefly held up one
of the bills to the sunlight that poured through the windshield and
noted that the security strip on the left side of the bill was
printed on. The C-note was probably one of the hundreds of
thousands of counterfeits printed by the prolific Freddy Gomez who,
for a couple of years had worked under the auspices of the Mexican
crime cartel La Familia Michoacana which had, oddly enough, started
out as a vigilante group to defend the Mexican citizenry against
crime cartels just like the one that it had become.