The Approach (2 page)

“To be fair,” I said, “strippers are kinda hard to stalk on Facebook. It's not like Destiny's her given name.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Candi said. “Nobody asked you.”

From beneath the bed, Destiny said, “What the hell are you even doing here, Candi? You know Ronnie's a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, a piece of shit who's gonna list me as co-promoter for his next three events. I'm sorry, but I've gotta plan for the future—and that means building up my résumé. You think I've got more than a year or two of dancing left in me? My knees are shot, and I'm not getting any younger. Besides, don't think for a second I haven't noticed you've been getting all the best time slots lately. I've gotten top billing at the Glitter Dome for seven years—I'm not about to let you turn me into your fucking understudy.”

“Are you serious? I didn't steal your shifts, Candi. You blew 'em off—probably on account of that shit Ronnie's been supplying you.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Candi's tone was full of rage. While her attention was on Destiny, I hazarded a peek around the corner of the dresser. Candi stood maybe ten feet away from me. My gun lay on the floor between us—not in shadow, as I'd hoped, but in a patch of carpet illuminated by the pulsing neon. Its brushed-steel finish glinted purple, as if daring me to make a play for it. If I tried, Candi would doubtless see me coming.

Which gave me an idea.

I extended my leg further into the room and felt around until I brushed against the luggage rack. Then, as quietly as I could manage, I hooked my foot around its horizontal support and dragged it closer.

“Hey, tough guy!” Candi called. “Whatcha waiting for? Come on out where I can see you so we can get this over with!”

“Sure thing,” I replied. “I'm getting sick and tired of sitting around anyway.”

I heaved Destiny's suitcase around the corner of the dresser. It slid heavily across the floor toward the gun. As it left the protection of the shadows, Candi—seeing nothing but a dark mass headed her way—unloaded on it, firing until her pistol clicked empty. Then she ejected her spent magazine, plucked a fresh one from her back pocket, and knelt to inspect her handiwork.

When she did, I rose from my hiding place behind the dresser, grabbed the television with both hands, and hoisted it over my head. Candi looked up—eyes wide, whites showing—as I brought it down hard on her head.

The screen cracked but didn't shatter—turns out, those old TVs were built to last—so I tried again. The screen buckled. I hit her twice more for good measure. The last time, the screen gave way.

For a moment, Candi knelt before me, a television where her head should be. She looked like the sort of modern art that tried hard to be edgy, but always wound up way too on-the-nose. Then the TV's weight caused her to topple over and she just looked dead.

The exertion left me breathless and sweating. I shivered in the air-conditioned chill. I crossed the room. Shut the curtains. Turned on the lights. “Destiny?” I said. “You can come out now. It's safe.”

Destiny wriggled out from under the bed, her eyes widening as they lighted on Candi's corpse. “Is she…” She trailed off, as if unable to say the word aloud.

“Yeah. She's dead.”

“Thanks.” She swallowed hard. Her gaze met mine. I got the impression she was trying to look anywhere but the body. “My real name's Sarah, by the way.”

“Zack,” I lied. “It's nice to meet you, Sarah.”

“Is it?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Beats the alternative. That could've gone another way.”

“I…I don't know how to repay you.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Give me your wallet.”

Her expression darkened. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

She frowned, but handed it over. It was more a coin purse than a wallet. It contained a hundred twenty-seven bucks, a driver's license, a debit and two credit cards. I gave her back her cash. Then I crouched and patted Candi down. Found a quarter bag of crystal meth in her front right pocket. Nine hundred thirty-four dollars and a driver's license held together with a hair elastic in her back left. The name on the license was Candace Mueller. The photo was a few years old. In it, Candi's hair was black. Close enough, I thought.

I handed the money and the ID to Desti—to Sarah. Then I tucked her coin purse into Candi's pocket. The bag of meth, I tossed under the bed. A place this shitty, anybody could've left it there.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You're now Candace Mueller. And more important, she's you.”

“What, like
forever?
”

“No. Just until this all blows over.”

“When will that be?”

“If I had to guess? A week or so at most. The cash should be enough to see you through.”

“How will I know when it's safe for me to be me again?”

“Keep an eye on the local news. You'll know. But even then,” I said, eyeing the dead stripper at our feet, “you might be better off being you someplace else.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I think you're right.”

“You need a lift somewhere?”

“What
I
need is a drink.”

I smiled. “I hear the beer across the street is cold.”

We turned off the lights. Left the room. Made sure the door was locked behind us. Outside, the band was deafening, and only got louder as we crossed the street.

We drank and listened to the music. Chatted a little between sets. By night's end, I even saw her smile once or twice, which I took as a sign she'd be all right.

Come last call, I offered her a ride. She politely declined. Said she'd call a cab instead. Find someplace a little nicer to stay tonight, and leave town in the morning. Could be she read too much into my invitation. Could be she read it right.

On the way back to the Mustang, buzzing slightly but not drunk, I remembered I owed Lester a call. His phone barely let out half a ring before he picked up.

“Jesus, Mikey, I was starting to get worried. You've been dark awhile. How'd it go?”

“It didn't. She was dead when I arrived. Whoever whacked her was long gone.”

“Shit. Sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Hey, do me a favor, would you?”

“Name it.”

“Make sure the communiqué you intercepted that ties this Ronnie shitbag to the hit finds its way to the authorities, okay?”

“You got it. Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I've got a line on a new client.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“Business guy outta Miami by the name of Morales. Seems he ran afoul of the Cuban mafia—and he's rich, so he'll have no trouble coughing up our fee.”

“Sounds promising. When's it going down?”

“Soon.”

“You got an ID on the hitter?”

“Sure do,” Lester said. “Javier Cruz.”

“No shit? That bastard is as mean as they come. I'd love the chance to put him in the ground.”

“I thought you might say that. I've got you on the next flight out.”

I climbed into the car, its white leather upholstery creaking beneath me, and thumbed the ignition. The Mustang's V8 roared to life. “Thanks, buddy. I'm headed to the airport now. You can read me in on the way.”

Chris Holm is the author of the forthcoming
Red Right Hand,
also featuring Michael Hendricks, as well as
The Killing Kind
and the Collector trilogy, which blends fantasy with old-fashioned crime pulp. He is also an award-winning short story writer whose work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies. Holm lives in Portland, Maine.

 

chrisholmbooks.com

The Killing Kind

The Big Reap

The Wrong Goodbye

Dead Harvest

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