Dead-End Jobs by Andy Rausch

Author:Andy Rausch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: All Due Respect, an imprint of Down & Out Books

Paul D. Brazill was born in England and lives in Poland. His books include Last Year’s Man and Man Of The World.

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Good Samaritan

Nikki Dolson

I WAS PRETTY sure I had at least one cracked rib, but I was also high on oxy, so when I heard the scream, I investigated. Not something someone like me, a regular breaker of the highest rule—thou shalt not kill—should do. I was coming off a job that proved more difficult than usual. I’d gotten worked over a bit before I killed the guy. Now I was bruised and a little battered, but mostly, I needed something in my stomach so I could take more oxy before the final push home and, yes, I was stalling. Home would be more of the same: shadow an actual private investigator as part of my hours required to officially get my license. It’s easier to get around when you’re licensed, but Frank would be intolerable when he found out I was hurt. Pain was a sign of weakness and he would never allow me to be weak.

I heard another scream, quieter this time, and I imagined a hand going over a mouth. I looked back inside the convenience store where I had just purchased teriyaki beef jerky and an orange soda. The cashier was reading her magazine again like she had been when I walked in. If she heard a thing, she wasn’t acting like it. The parking lot in front of me held only my car, and the streets and sidewalks were empty. As I looked around the corner of the building, the Frank in my head was saying, Laura, never be a hero. Walk away from someone else’s fight.

Please shut up, Frank.

Across the alley from the convenience store was Lehman Boys Garage, their name painted in a fading mural on the side of the building. In the alley between the two buildings, next to the garage’s open door, was a maroon Oldsmobile. A ’70s land yacht. It was huge and glinted in the light. The trunk was open and I couldn’t see who or how many were on the other side. I moved closer, set my bag of jerky and soda on the hood of the car, unhooked my baton, and flicked it to its full length. There was scuffling and cursing.

“Get her legs.”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Fuck if I know. Dammit, get that purse!”

“Purse or legs, what do you want me to hold?”

I peeked around the trunk lid and saw two men struggling with a woman who was admirably swinging her purse and throwing elbows, mostly missing but connecting often enough that the men had a hard time getting her into the open trunk.

The Frank in my head said, Don’t. Oxy said, Why the fuck not? Oxy won.

I ran up and whacked the guy holding her legs across the back of the head with my baton. As he fell forward onto her and the guy in a black shirt sputtered in confusion, I came around the wriggling mass of woman and dumbfounded man and cracked Black Shirt in the face.

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