Death Song by Marc Olden

Author:Marc Olden [Olden, Marc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-6076-0
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

“YOU’RE A RECORD BREAKER.” Chris Cotten took his arm as she said it, her voice teasing him. They had walked the last block in silence.

“Why’s that?” John Bolt winced as his fingers found the swelling on his temples. A present from Candyman and a two-by-four. The concert had ended an hour ago, but as the two of them walked through Greenwich Village in the humid darkness, Bolt imagined he could still hear rock music echoing in his head.

Fucking Candyman. He had really rung Bolt’s bell with that piece of wood. If it wasn’t for Masetta yelling his ass off as he ran up the fire escape, Candyman would have killed him. The bastard had gotten away. I owe you something for that, Candy, baby. Gonna pay you back, my man.

“Why the record? Well, all night long the house doctors were treating kids for, you’ll pardon the expression, drug abuse. But you, well, Mr. Bolt, you get yourself treated for a lump on the head. Always go your own way like that?” She smiled at him, mocking him gently but not coming down on the narc too hard.

“Give me another shot at it and Candyman will get a chance to break the record.” Shit, that little bastard had almost beheaded Bolt with that piece of wood. Just thinking about it was a bitch. Seeing the wood come at him out of the darkness, feeling sudden pain rocket through his head. Dropping to the gravel-covered rooftop and hearing muffled sounds of rock music blasting up from under him, while Masetta screamed his name.

Music to remember Candyman by.

Bolt and Chris Cotten stood on a corner, waiting for a light to turn green. A squad car, siren wailing, red rooflight spinning, was a blue-and-white streak as it sped by them. Two black winos, leaning on each other, laughed drunkenly, waving and cheering the speeding squad car on. Greenwich Village. An armpit. Drugs, junkies, runaways who whored and got killed. Fast-food joints, piled-up garbage, decaying housing, cheap hotels and a dozen different stinking smells on hot summer night air.

Bolt hated the Village.

“Why do you live down here?” He frowned as he asked her the question.

“Why do you do what you do?”

He shrugged. He did what he did because he loved it more than anything in the world. At times it made him sick and he hated it. He was almost sure he’d be killed on the job one day. But shit, being an agent was going to the moon and back in one day, with a naked broad as your co-pilot. Wasn’t anything on God’s earth he’d rather do. His answer would have made sense only to another agent, so he said nothing.

“That’s why I live down here.” She sighed, looking up at the starry night. Then— “Were you surprised that I asked you to walk me home?”

He wasn’t. She had been eyeballing him as women did, and he hadn’t minded it at all.

But he gave her pride an out. “Sort of. I thought you’d stay back there and whoop it up with the noisemakers.

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