The Last Chicago Boss by Kerrie Droban

Author:Kerrie Droban
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Pete pouring Crown Royal with gold rings, index finger bare so he can pull a trigger.

Das Jew wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Six years ago.”

Six years ago? Why was the fucker still crying?

“Sorry, Boss, I just miss her, you know?”

I did know.

But what did it matter?

Hitler loved his mother too.

15

GUNS N’ ROSES

“Hey, I know you,” the broad with white hair and rope tattoos shouted across the bar. I sat at my same corner table again, hidden in plain sight, sipping a shot of Crown Royal. Soon Mr. Happy, Bastardo, The Hound, and Junior joined me.

The Hound grinned. “Look who’s back.”

“I thought we went through this already,” I said to the broad.

She stumbled toward me holding a rose. Her strange brown eyes had flecks of gold like crushed glass in them. She was bone-thin; her skin barely tucked in her ribs.

“We’ve met,” she said, then coughed.

Did she once work for me? After a while they all blended together.

“I don’t like you.” She twirled the stem. A thorn pricked her thumb, and a trickle of blood bubbled out.

“There’s nothing I like about you either.”

Mr. Happy gulped his glass of warm water. If I ordered him, he would drop the waif to the floor and pistol-whip her with the butt of his Glock until it broke apart. But there was something spooky about this broad, like she was a ghost from my Christmas Past and had a message for me.

She handed me the rose.

“What’s this for?”

“A peace offering.”

The Hound sat back and stretched. Most broads he devoured; this one he just looked at, as if marveling at the various “packages” women came in.

“No thanks.”

“It won’t hurt you.”

The bar grew suddenly quiet. The few people inside stopped to watch the showdown involving the flower. A large, pasty-faced farm boy with a drawl blurted out, “Take the fucking rose, asshole.”

Mr. Happy shot to his feet.

I took the rose, motioned for Mr. Happy to stay put. I slid my chair back. Farm Boy didn’t move. Instead he took a long pull from his beer. The waif slipped into the shadows.

Behind me, guns racked.

I walked up to Farm Boy, smiled.

“Say it again. I didn’t hear you the first time.”

Farm Boy swallowed, swiveled to face me, and said, “You’re an asshole.”

I whipped the rose across his face. Petals exploded around him. Then the punches flew, random, swift, hard, and not just from Farm Boy. Patrons tumbled out of nowhere. I swung wildly, striking anyone that moved. Screams erupted. A pool stick shattered the front window. Mr. Happy tossed an assailant across the counter like a human bowling ball headed full force into stacked pins.

I dropped Farm Boy to the floor, surrounded by roses. I squeezed his throat, fascinated as the tiny capillaries in his eyes popped brighter.

Mr. Happy pulled me off him and said, “We need to go.”

Sirens sawed the night. Ambulances alarmed. The bar resembled debris from a bomb blast. The bar mirror shattered, and in the shards of broken glass our reflections elongated like a jagged Picasso.

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