Merrick by Ken Bruen Page B

and
    you’re thinking, Motherfuck, I got shot.’
    Charley asked
    ‘So, you going to wrap this up, the case I mean, seems solid?’
    Merrick made a decision that would haunt him all his days. Could call it the booze, anger,
    post traumatic stress. But the truth was, he wanted to be back in the driver seat, he would
    decide when they moved on the perp.
    He said
    ‘I’m going to wait two days, let Ryan stew and make sure we’ve got it right. Don’t want
    to go gung ho and then get our asses handed to us.’
    Charley asked
    ‘You still following The Jets?’
    Merrick mock sighed, said
    ‘Now that is really green frustration.’
    And they got into sports.
    The bar got busy, Charley had to go and Merrick waved him away, said
    ‘Go, earn, shalom.’
    Merrick finally got out of there, no sign of Charley to say Thank you, the tab had of
    course been paid, he’d left a fifty tip on the table and got a cab to take him home.
    He was tired but feeling good, even felt less resentful to Ryan.
    The guy would learn.
    And who better to teach him?
    You got it.

………………………… LOOSE LIPS
    …………………..SINK SHIPS.

The large man had been busy, very.
    Sat back now, savoring his first Seven ‘n Seven of the evening
    Jesus H……………what a blast.
    First, meet with the psycho, and being real careful. The fuck was in meltdown, who knew
    when’d go seriously postal? The large man could see it in his eyes, the fevered glint,
    some psychotic shit waiting to be fused. He met with him in Queens, business closed for
    the day, the large man had his Nine in his jacket right hand pocket, one crazy flicker from
    the crazy, he’d blow his shit to kingdom come. He kept in macho pose, no choice, said
    ‘Give me the fucking money.’
    Got it.
    Tried not to show his joy at the what might be the clincher on Boca. Kept his face in cold
    neutral, demanded
    ‘The Heckler and Koch?’
    Tricky moment.
    The psycho was having some conflicting thoughts. Time to ride roughshod, he said
    ‘Don’t be fucking stupid, I have to have the gun that matches the slug they took out of
    Merrick, then put it in the hand of the dentist in Tribeca, with a typed note of remorse and
    believe this shitkicker, we are seriously on the clock. You want to continue enjoying your
    ………..interests? Then be smart.’
    Got the gun.
    Had to cross town, in traffic for Chris sakes, meet with the dentist, and blow the bastard’s
    brain to fuck and gone.
    Not that he found that difficult, who wouldn’t want to waste a freaking dentist, give it to
    the son of a bitch in the teeth, no, the worry was being seen and his luck held. He’d hate
    to have had to waste the Barbie doll Receptionist. He might yet have plans for her.
    Then a call to 911 and let justice roll.
    He laughed out loud.
    Sometimes, it was just too fucking easy.

‘LIGHTS OUT’
    JASON STARR.

I was grabbing a coffee, bagel with lox, before I took the elevator up to the ninety-th
    floor.
    Trying not to ask myself
    ‘Nervous
    Apprehensive
    Scared?’
    Jesus. Stop already.
    Put on my helmet, got up there. There was a wind, that high? There is always a wind. But
    nothing like…………..
    Shook myself, knew, you cannot be thinking.
    A new guy, asked
    ‘Need the harness?’
    Tempted.
    No.
    Swung out there, high and wide, like a dancer.
    Ok.
    Slight sheen of perspiration on my forehead, blame the coffee.
    Got out on the steel beam, swinging a little precariously, got my boots squared on the
    next beam
    Froze.
    Fucking froze.

I don’t remember getting down. Crow had come up, and gone out to get me himself.
    I was on the ground, in Crow’s porto-kabin, He’d given me a hot drink, laced with sugar.
    Put a blanket round me, then sat opposite. He asked
    ‘How you doing buddy?’
    I’d stopped shivering, said
    ‘The last thing I remember is smelling Irish stew?’
    He stared, asked
    ‘Food?
    ‘No, it’s a stress gig.’
    I reached for my cigs, got one in my mouth but my hands