Refried Beans and a Snub-Nosed .44 by Hugh Lessig

Author:Hugh Lessig
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

A sickening silence settles over the room. In death, Mary rests with her head bent forward. Her pouty lower lip and half-lidded eyes make it seem as if someone is telling her to sleep and she’s demanding to stay awake. Artie struggles to his feet and stares down at Mary. He’s not shocked or grieving. He’s assessing. He’s making sure she’s dead. This woman suspected something was out of joint on the second floor of Callie’s Sports Bar. Artie needed an opportunity to make her go away and I provided it. In his day, Artie was an expert at finding the right opening at the right time. Take two punches to deliver one. Or take a typewriter case to the head and come up shooting.

Sal chooses this moment to crank up his courage.

With a guttural roar, he charges Artie and knocks the older man sideways. Sal only has gym muscles, but they’re still muscles. The two men roll onto the floor. Artie swings his huge fists and Sal tries some kind of wrestling move to pinion the big man’s arms. The gun spins away. I grab it, but not before Artie lands several piledrivers to the kid’s midsection. The air whooshes out of Sal and the sound of it sets my teeth on edge. Sal curls into the fetal position, clutching his side.

A shot to the liver. Artie’s specialty.

Sal’s breathing returns in a gulp as he gets up and stumbles toward the desk, spitting blood. Artie stalks him like a bear, hands swinging at his side, snorting through his nose, eyes straight ahead. I’d seen that expression enough times to know he won’t stop.

“Artie, stand down,” I say. “It’s over.”

“You won’t shoot me, Stan. You could never do that.”

Artie swings at Sal. The gun kicks as I pull the trigger.

A pink mist covers the wall. Artie screams and falls backward.

Shit, he’s holding his hand. I shot his left hook.

The back door flies open and there stands Mike, no longer wearing his Cubs hat. He sees me, sees the gun and dives back into the darkness, closing the door behind him. Artie sputters a line of vintage curse words.

“We need to go, Sal.”

“But Mary—”

“We need to go. Grab the Smith-Corona, will you?”

Artie drops to his knees, clutching his ruined hand. We leave through the main door and close it, walking quickly down the hallway toward the stairs. I can’t run with my hip anyway.

Sal hugs the typewriter like a teddy bear and wipes away the tears as we hit the first floor. Suddenly we’re back in the world of baseball and twenty-three-ounce beers and chicken wings, back to people arguing about whether the ’85 Bears could have beaten the Dolphins in the Super Bowl. We walk briskly across the main room, very much in a hurry and trying not to act that way. Pushing through the doors onto the sidewalk, I catch a reflection in the glass.

Mike.

We pile into the Toyota and I pull out. It’s after midnight now. Traffic won’t be a problem if I want to break a few speed limits.

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