Blood Rust by Hock Hochheim

Author:Hock Hochheim [Hochheim, Hock]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781647340469
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2020-07-21T22:00:00+00:00

Dawn.

Dawn on the rocky beach. I sat on a big grey rock, amongst hundreds of big grey rocks. The morning tide lopped in the crevices all around me. It was a red sky. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night. Sailor’s delight. Hey, my dad was in the Navy. I know these things.

It was wet and chilly, but with the collar up on my dead copper’s raincoat, I was just fine. I was exhausted. And, I was at some peace. Odd. Finally. Sitting here of all places. I bet I would not sleep standing up tonight. Long night. A very long night. We drowned the three bodies. Guns too, which was a real shame. I hate wasting good guns. Cleanliness matters when you shoot people.

Did I say three guns? Don’t tell anyone I kept Macelroy’s pistol. I kept the pistol I snatched from his hand. Yeah, ballistic-wise, if they find the bodies, and I get caught with this gun, a cop’s gun, I am in deep-dish trouble. I know. I know. This pistol in my pocket, its serial number is probably recorded in the NYPD books as Macelroy’s. But I have a plan for this gun. In facta-mundo, I plan on having it engraved with Macelroy’s name in fact. So, I convinced Peter to let me keep it. I would have to part with my nice, raincoat soon though. Maybe when the sun was really up, and I was toasty warm.

We drove out to the Melway Rock Quarry. It’s a special place I know of in south Jersey where mobsters ditch cars and dead punks that screw up. We ditch ’em, in their car into about 300 feet of fresh water. In about 30 years they will build a shopping center there, drain the quarry and find the missing car and all kinds of bad guys, all with the consistency of clam chowder. Maybe even Jimmy Hoffa soup?

We got back to the clinic at about 6 a.m. and, rather than go in with Peter, I took a stroll under the boardwalk and out to the shoreline of big rocks. Drawn to the water like a maggot, ah, I mean a magnet. I just wanted to sit by myself for a while, but I soon heard Peter walking up, and that’s okay. This Peter guy was growing on me.

I turned to him and winced and grunted as he navigated the rock tops and handed me a cup of carry-out coffee from the WaWa store. He sat down a few feet away with his own cup, on his own little rock island.

“Tired, me bucko?” I said.

“Tired,” Peter said.

“Last week I was knocking down old ladies for their change purse. Now I’m killing cops for Jesus.”

My twisted biography just seems to continue. I peeled back the lid and sipped the coffee. It was black. That was good.

“You look like hell,” I said.

“Feel like it, too.”

“How’s the Doc?”

“Resting. Resting. He is patched up really well. He needs to make some new blood.

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