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The two men exited the small house on Central. Although it was almost eleven, the heat had not dissipated. The temperature hovered at a hundred and nine, it had been a hundred and twenty-one that day and over a hundred and fifteen for a week.
Both men wore sports coats, concealing pistols in their waist bands, each carrying a duffel bag. They had parked two blocks away. Lopez lit a cigarette as he walked.
“Hell ain’t gonna be any big deal for me. Forty-two years in Phoenix has been good practice.”
Gallagher said nothing. He had been flown in from San Francisco for this job. By the time they reached the car he was sweating. Once the air conditioning kicked in, he said,
“Don’t know how the fuck people live here.”
Three men were dead in the house, men who got into something they shouldn’t have. Men who should have known better. Men who wore looks of surprise when they saw Lopez -who hoped Gallagher wouldn’t notice.
They stopped at a bar on Seventh St. Got a couple of cold beers.
Lopez pulled out a cell phone. Made a call that wasn’t answered.
“Funny thing,” he said. “I usually work with Charlie Vega, but I haven’t heard from him since you got to town. That was a run of the mill hit, don’t know why the boss thought he needed out of town talent.”
Gallagher didn’t respond. In fact, the remark he had made about the heat was the most he had spoken all night.
Lopez ordered a shot of bourbon.
“Want one?” he asked Gallagher. Gallagher shook his head no.
“Jesus, you don’t say much do ya?
Gallagher just stared at him. A look that made him shiver.
After a second beer, they left the bar. It had not cooled down any.
Both men wore sports coats, concealing pistols in their waist bands, each carrying a duffel bag. They had parked two blocks away. Lopez lit a cigarette as he walked.
“Hell ain’t gonna be any big deal for me. Forty-two years in Phoenix has been good practice.”
Gallagher said nothing. He had been flown in from San Francisco for this job. By the time they reached the car he was sweating. Once the air conditioning kicked in, he said,
“Don’t know how the fuck people live here.”
Three men were dead in the house, men who got into something they shouldn’t have. Men who should have known better. Men who wore looks of surprise when they saw Lopez -who hoped Gallagher wouldn’t notice.
They stopped at a bar on Seventh St. Got a couple of cold beers.
Lopez pulled out a cell phone. Made a call that wasn’t answered.
“Funny thing,” he said. “I usually work with Charlie Vega, but I haven’t heard from him since you got to town. That was a run of the mill hit, don’t know why the boss thought he needed out of town talent.”
Gallagher didn’t respond. In fact, the remark he had made about the heat was the most he had spoken all night.
Lopez ordered a shot of bourbon.
“Want one?” he asked Gallagher. Gallagher shook his head no.
“Jesus, you don’t say much do ya?
Gallagher just stared at him. A look that made him shiver.
After a second beer, they left the bar. It had not cooled down any.
* * *
They worked for Tiny Amaro. Tiny made book, pimped, loan sharked, and did contract hits for anyone who needed someone dead in Phoenix. He had borrowed Gallagher from a cousin in Frisco who was in the same kind of business. There was another cousin in Vegas, one in Portland and in L.A. It was the family business. Had been for a hundred years.
Tiny was nearing eighty. Several of his old-time lieutenants were dead, either from old age or killed in battles with a Mexican drug cartel intent on taking over the entire Phoenix underworld.
Lopez thought the old man had grown soft, figured it wouldn’t be long before the Mexicans put him out of business. When you were in Lopez’s line of work there was no unemployment or pensions. He thought the future looked dim.
He had a talk with Vega. They manufactured a plan. Told the Canella brothers how, when, and where to take down a house where Amaro stashed his loot. There would be over half a million out of which the Canella’s would give them twenty-five percent for supplying the information. Lopez and Vega figured to kill them afterwards and take it all.
Tiny called Lopez in, introduced him to Gallagher. It had been just two hours since the Canella’s had pulled the heist.
“These rat bastards stole from me. Kill the pricks and get my money back.”
Tiny was nearing eighty. Several of his old-time lieutenants were dead, either from old age or killed in battles with a Mexican drug cartel intent on taking over the entire Phoenix underworld.
Lopez thought the old man had grown soft, figured it wouldn’t be long before the Mexicans put him out of business. When you were in Lopez’s line of work there was no unemployment or pensions. He thought the future looked dim.
He had a talk with Vega. They manufactured a plan. Told the Canella brothers how, when, and where to take down a house where Amaro stashed his loot. There would be over half a million out of which the Canella’s would give them twenty-five percent for supplying the information. Lopez and Vega figured to kill them afterwards and take it all.
Tiny called Lopez in, introduced him to Gallagher. It had been just two hours since the Canella’s had pulled the heist.
“These rat bastards stole from me. Kill the pricks and get my money back.”
* * *
Gallagher stayed a step behind Lopez as they walked to the car. As Lopez opened the driver’s door, Gallagher pulled his gun.
“The old man knows you and Vega set that job up. Vega’s dead, I killed him an hour after I got to town.”
Lopez started to speak.
“Nothing you can say.” Gallagher told him.
“I hope you were right about practicing for hell because that’s where you’re going.”
Lopez tried to run. Gallagher shot him in the back. Lopez tried to crawl. Gallagher walked up to him and put a bullet in the back of his head.
Tiny is smoking a cigar when Gallagher walks in, the air conditioner blasting cold air. All Tiny says is, “Where's my money?”
Gallagher doesn’t say a word, just shoots the old man. Gets in the car, with two duffel bags full of money in the back seat, and drives off into the hot night, headed for somewhere cooler- somewhere that feels less like hell.
“The old man knows you and Vega set that job up. Vega’s dead, I killed him an hour after I got to town.”
Lopez started to speak.
“Nothing you can say.” Gallagher told him.
“I hope you were right about practicing for hell because that’s where you’re going.”
Lopez tried to run. Gallagher shot him in the back. Lopez tried to crawl. Gallagher walked up to him and put a bullet in the back of his head.
Tiny is smoking a cigar when Gallagher walks in, the air conditioner blasting cold air. All Tiny says is, “Where's my money?”
Gallagher doesn’t say a word, just shoots the old man. Gets in the car, with two duffel bags full of money in the back seat, and drives off into the hot night, headed for somewhere cooler- somewhere that feels less like hell.
END
PRACTICING FOR HELL ⓒ​ BILL BABER --- PAGE DESIGN ⓒ DEAD GUNS PRESS
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