Moonlight Runs by Vincent Zandri

Author:Vincent Zandri
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

24

Raising both hands like I was surrendering, I muttered, “Ummmm, don’t, ummmm, shoot.”

“Fuck you,” said a man with a deep, pack-a-day smoker’s voice. “How long you been out here filming us, asshole?”

“No need to use vulgar language,” I said.

He spanked my head with the gun barrel. Even with the whiskey flowing through my bloodstream it hurt like a son of a bitch.

“Who you working for?” he added. “The cops? FBI?”

“I look like a cop to you?” I said. “And the FBI are commies.”

“You look like an asshole,” he said. “A commie asshole.”

“What’s politics got to do with anything?”

He hit me with the barrel again. This time, like the first time, it hurt. But it also pissed me off. I had a choice here. I could either sit there and take a beating and maybe even a bullet to the brain, which would be the end of Captain Headcase. Or I could somehow disarm the bitch.

Maybe it was the whiskey muscles speaking, but I decided on the latter. With Big Tony Fuscilli eyeing me from a distance, I turned around quick, grabbed hold of the pistol barrel. He triggered a round that went through the windshield, but I was able to snatch the piece out of his hand.

Throwing the door open, I planted a bead on his face. If I shot him from a distance of only a foot or less, I would blow his entire head off. And he knew it too because now it was him who had his hands raised high. Making a fist with my free hand, I belted it in his mouth. His head snapped back, and his upper lip exploded, painting his teeth dark red.

He spit some blood onto the puddle of yellow piss I’d made earlier.

“You fucker,” he said, the word fucker coming out like “fwucker.”

The freight train that ran into the back of my head sent me down onto my side. I swear, for a split second or two I was knocked out. Why do I say that? Because I had no recollection of dropping to the frozen ground like a sack of bad potatoes. I also dropped the gun and when I went to retrieve it, the gorilla who owned it kicked it away.

Turning my head slightly I saw a second man. It was Big Tony Fuscilli. He was standing over me in his loose trousers and short sleeved black button-down shirt, the tails hanging out. He looked like he should be sitting at an outdoor bar in Florida or maybe playing the slots in Vegas. His gray/black hair was thick and slicked back on his round, clean shaven face like an Elvis ducktail. A pump-action shotgun with the barrel sawed off was gripped in both his meaty hands. He must have hit me with the shotgun’s solid wood stock.

“You realize you’re trespassing, mister?” Fuscilli said.

I reached around and felt the egg-sized lump growing on the back of my head. How that bullet inside my brain hadn’t shifted and turned me into a vegetable yet was beyond me.

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