One-Man Army by John Cutter

Author:John Cutter [Cutter, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2015-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

12. Against the Odds

Krinsky had named names, and Sullivan had them.

And Krinsky had given him an address. The house of the Gonzales brothers. Hector, Jesus, and Jose Gonzales worked for Crackwell, now and then. They were his contact with the gangs Legion had hired to terrorize the tenants.

Krinsky had told Sullivan that Legion had left the country. He was in Sicily. Would be there for weeks. Very well. Before this mission was over, Jack Sullivan, too, would be in Sicily.

But first he had to deal with Fabrizzio.

Krinsky had given him that name too. But after knocking out a handful of Krinsky’s teeth, breaking his collarbone and cracking a few ribs, Sullivan had come to the conclusion that Krinsky was telling the truth when he insisted he didn’t know where Fabrizzio could be found. Or where Crackwell could be found. Krinsky’s contact with Crackwell was through Hector Gonzales.

So Sullivan was going to politely ask Gonzales where Fabrizzio could be found.

Or maybe he would dispense with formalities. Maybe he’d do it another way. Yeah.

Yeah, he felt like doing it the hard way.

*

The Gonzales brothers lived in a renovated Victorian building. Brick-fronted with an old-fashioned facade, it was squeezed in between two others identical except for the color of their window-frame trimming. Not a gang hangout. This was home. Sullivan would have to be careful not to hurt the civilians.

He was being careful with himself. Trying to rein himself in. But it was hard to keep the boiling rage in check.

He pulled up across the street and looked up at the building. Lights on the top floor. Sullivan parked and crossed the street, rang the buzzer in the code Krinsky had given him — two longs, two shorts, and a long. He heard a buzzing as they unlocked the door from above. He opened it and went in, climbing the stairs to the top floor. Someone looked out at him through the peephole in the door. “Who zat?” someone asked.

“My name’s Richie,” Sullivan shouted. “Krinsky sent me.”

“What you want?”

“You hear what happened to Carlos Ajidas?”

“Yeah, we hear zat.”

“Well, I’m his replacement! I got some money to deliver for Mr. Crackwell!”

The door opened. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that loud in the hall, man,” said the man in the doorway.

Sullivan shrugged and stepped inside, shouldering brusquely past the man.

“Why you bringing it here, man? That ain’t the usual way he do it.”

Sullivan said, “Just following orders.”

There was an old woman sitting in an easy chair, its arms covered with doilies. She was watching a Spanish station on TV. A Spanish comedian in an absurd checkered hat capered on the screen. The old woman giggled. Beside her, in a rocking chair, an old man slept with his mouth ajar, a copy of El Diario on his lap. There was a plastic cover on each article of furniture, except on the wooden kitchen chairs.

Three Hispanic men sat around a kitchen table, playing poker. Only, now they were looking at Sullivan, sizing him up. Sullivan could have been one of Legion’s hard-men.

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