The Dealer by P. J. Quinn Copyright 2013 P. J. Quinn Cover art and design by P. J. Quinn This book is a work of fiction.

Names, places, events, and characters are fictitious or are used fictitiously, a product of the authors imagination. Any similarities to actual events, or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Smashwords Edition (c) 2013 Short Reads Series

San Francisco Late May 1972.

Tommy Brown, aged twenty-eight, and with no convictions, was sat on the bench overlooking the bay. Wearing new Levis and a stonewashed blue, short-sleeved denim shirt, he looked like any other contented young man that was enjoying the sunshine and the view. In his hands was an ice-cold bottle of 7-Up. At intervals, he would drink and rest the bottle against his forehead, sighing at the soothing coolness of the bottle against his head. A native of Boston, the Californian weather took some acclimatizing to. But he liked it over here. Liked the action, the city, and business was on the up. But he also had other reasons personal reasons for being here. And it had taken him two years to arrange and plan what he intended to do. It had taken a few bribes to get here, in this position, sat here on this bench and waiting for a client. It had also taken a lot of guts, too. And if his contact had been right, and on the button, then there was no reason that today wouldnt go smooth. Tommy drank his soda. The cold drink was soothing, refreshing. He was dying to light up a cigarette but was trying to quit. A cold beer would have worsened the craving, so hed avoided it, being wise to choose the soda. And it looked more professional, too, to a client just drinking soda. Drinking beer would have made him look like a lush, a bum; perhaps unreliable. And it was true in this game that first impressions count. The time was closing in on 2 p.m. when the whale-like Eldorado appeared and made its way up the Boulevard. It approached slowly, drove by, then turned and came back facing the opposite way. Tommy put it down to caution. Maybe his client was extra careful. Which in this racket was understandable. So Tommy drained his bottle and got up. He paced over to his parked Roadrunner R/T and popped the trunk. He tugged out a case, slammed the lid and walked casually over to the stationary Eldorado. Tommy got in beside the driver and said a simple hi. The Cadillacs owner was a tall, middle-aged man with thinning hair. He wore a good suit and a silk tie. A heavy gold signet ring graced his pinkie. To the casual onlooker, Markie looked like any other well-heeled businessman that was having it good. The car and the clothes looked good, impressive. But thats as far as the whole image went. The laughable paradox being that Markie Phelps had never done an honest days work in his life nor intended to.

Tommy Brown scratched his nose and made conversation. Nice wheels you have here. Ill bet she cost? Markie nodded. Yeah, she didnt come cheap and shes only two weeks old. I always wanted a coupe. And after my last job, I thought Id treat myself and I went round to the dealership and bust their balls to get a good deal. Markie was proud of his 72 Caddy. He was also proud of the fear he could put on people where it mattered. Sadistic and often callous, he enjoyed his work. He had a good reputation for violence and was in demand as a hitter. And it paid well. I got what you asked for. And shes a cherry of a piece, said Tommy Brown as he flipped the clasps. I got the extra order, too. Tommy popped the lid of the attach case and the big man looked over and checked out the pieces. Tommy had brought two Remington .45s. Both in stainless. Both perfectly crafted and with a fitted silencer on each. Sweet, said Markie Phelps as a broad grin spread across his equally broad face. Real sweet. He hefted one of them, snapped the slide and looked it over. He handled it skilfully, as an artisan would a favourite tool. You like? asked Tommy. The big man nodded. I like. The rate is the usual one, said Tommy. Plus ammo. And the source theyre from is reliable? Tommy nodded. Never been used on the street, and never been fired since being test fired. Also, I only buy from reliable sources and from people I know. I trust the people I buy from. Those two came from a heist on a factory transporter a few weeks back over in Denver. So theyre as virgin as a fucking nun. The big man let out a gruff snort. Tommy guessed it was his appreciation of the joke. Ill take them, said Markie Phelps and passed over a manila of cash. Its all there, as agreed. Tommy smiled. I trust you. He pulled out a box of Federal Premium .45 ACP ammo, hollow points, as ordered. Markie lay the heavy Remingtons and the ammo out on the rear seat. He covered his purchase with a travel rug. Nice doing business with you, said Tommy Brown.

Markie nodded and then reached over and opened Tommys door. It was a silent way of saying fuck off. Well, thanks again, said Tommy, then got out of the Eldorado. He watched the big car glide away from the kerbside and nose down the hill. When it had gone, he smiled thinly, and then walked back to his 71 Roadrunner R/T. He wanted to laugh out loud when he thought about what hed set in motion for Markie. But he didnt. He controlled himself. The gloat could wait, and if Dennis the Rats info was as good as he said it was, then he knew when and where Markie would be making his hit. And he would certainly be there. Tommy Brown, with no expression on his young, clean shaven face, got into the car and drove away. * 10 p.m. Tommy brought the Roadrunner to a halt beside the phone booth. It was a quiet, residential area; part of the city where the muggers didnt feel at home at. But that was mainly due to the fact that people drove out of their expensive fortress homes and seldom walked about. So, divested of criminal opportunities, they usually stayed clear of this place. And no mugger was going to spend money on travel to a place with no one to rob. It wasnt economically viable. Tommy stood and leaned by the phone booth. He checked his watch and made a sour face. The Rat was late with his call. The road was quiet but well lit by a myriad of fancy street lights. It was a real up-market area, and Tommy was sure that everyone who lived here was certainly of the millionaire bracket. A single car drove by: a Mercedes. But Tommy stood and waited. It was about 10:10p.m. when the phone finally rang. Tommy snapped up the phone. Fuck, I thought you werent gonna call. I thought, fuck, am I going to be stood here like a dick? A weak, apologetic voice mumbled its excuse. I was in this queue in the bar and this big bastard was talking to his girl and I didnt want to push the gorilla in case he got sore and I just had to wait, was all I could do. Tommy sighed and gave the weasel a break. Okay, okay no foul done. So, whats the word? Markie has a contract. His mark is going to be some drugs boss thats been pushing dope on the wrong streets. Someone got sore. Markie took the contract so its on. Sweet, said Tommy. I gotta pen and a pad. So fire away. Gimme the address.

And Dennis gave Tommy the address and the time. And thats where and when its going to be, said Dennis carefully, obviously being cautious as he spoke. And if the guy is who I think he is, then Markie may have bitten off more than he can chew. Tommy Brown laughed. Well, looks like I gotta ringside seat then, doesnt it? * Tommy drove fast yet carefully. The big 440 rumbled like an angry god as he tore down the highway. Being watchful of cops, he slowed and accelerated, but drove cautiously. He was determined to make that place on time. It was a date he was determined to keep. Neon and lights blurred and their reflections danced across his windshield. Not far now. Not much further to go, he thought, and eased his way neatly into the city traffic. * Markie wore black. He wore black trousers, a black shirt and an expensive, black leather reefer jacket. Black was what bad guys wore. It was the mark of what he thought he was: a badass, a hitter, and a man that got respect. The bosses liked him because he was good and got the job done. He wasnt a psycho or a junkie like some of them in this profession were. He was simply methodical, trained, and left no loose ends. No witnesses ever lived to testify. No one lived to testify. Markie was driving a dark green 69 Charger. Stolen to order and re-plated professionally by a team that supplied cars for robberies, Markie felt good and confident about tonight. The Charger drove like a dream, and it was always a good choice for a getaway. Smooth and tuned, the V8 howled its song. The two silenced Remingtons lay by his side, on the passenger seat. Loaded and deadly, he smirked as he thought about the job. The .45s were great guns. Heavy and dependable, he had used them before for close hits. The hefty hollow-points made big holes and no matter where they hit you, it was a foregone conclusion, that you dropped unconscious no matter what. The heavy slugs expended their energy out with devastating consequences on a human body. And Markie had seen men literally lifted off their feet when hit by these monsters. Tonight it was three men: a drug boss and his two goons. They had to die. They were pushing bad stuff on the street, and when that happened, the cops got nosy and started harassing everyone. And that was the big no-no. So they had to die. And the contract had been too juicy to pass up on.

An inside man had told him that his target loved to hit China town on Saturday nights. He liked the food and the girls. And thats where he would be tonight.: filling his face at one of the Chinatown restaurants. Markie felt he was on a high. He usually did just before a job. And it was good that he still did have that feeling. It kept him alert, on edge. And as he drove he planned his moves. It would be simple enough. Take out the goons first then the boss. When the goons died, the boss would feel naked, vulnerable. Some of them usually panicked and ran. Some tried to tough it out and play the role of hardman right up to the end, even though their eyes screamed fear. And some, the more psychotic ones, would just laugh and wait for the inevitable slug that would blow their head apart. Yeah, Markie had seen it all. And for a moment, he wondered if he could get someone a ghost writer - to write his memoirs when he was older and retired. Most of the criminals did. Stuff like that sold books. And the audacious thought of it made him chuckle. But it was just a thought. Chinatown was brightly coloured lights and neon. Stores and restaurants opened until late and the place was alive. It was the oldest Chinatown district outside Asia. It was all ornate banners and golden-lit globes and lines of parked cars. It was popular, welcoming: a great place for a hit. Markie cruised the green Charger down the street and looked around. And then he saw what he was looking for. A dark blue Lincoln Continental was parked up outside the guys favourite restaurant. Bright lights reflected from the windshield and as Markie eased by, he caught sight of the first bodyguard. He was a stereotype underworld big man and looked like a former Football player turned bad. A fat head and a crew cut and heavy set shoulders. Markie sensed he was for show, just pure muscle. The other bodyguard would have been inside, dining with the boss. But Markie was early, so he expected them to still be dining. Markie drove to the end of the street, then swung the Charger round, then parked up a few cars back. He slipped into a space behind a beat-up Ford sedan then killed the engine and the lights. He kept an eye on the restaurant door, then lit up a cigarette. The window open, he blew out a stream of smoke. Hed already jacked the .45s slide, but dropped the hammers. Now it was all about waiting. Just waiting for the target to appear. Tommy Brown drove into Chinatown and parked up away from the restaurant. He killed the engine then got out and walked down the street, looking for a green 69 Charger. Dennis

the Rats info was always top-notch, and he knew that when he found the restaurant, the 69 Charger wouldnt be far too away. Tommy Brown walked down the street and caught sight of the bulky Lincoln. He dodged into a shop doorway and waited. The night was warm and breezeless. He cast a glance at some of the parked cars and then saw the Charger. Tommy Brown smiled. The stage was set. He reached into his pocket and felt the contents: all there. And now it was just a question of waiting and watching. * Markie checked his Rolex and made a face. It was getting late. But it didnt matter. Sometimes it took a while for a target to appear. And hed even spent half-a-day once as he waited for a target. But his patience was well-rewarded as the target appeared with his bodyguard at the door. They seemed to be talking and Markie reached for the two .45s and got out of the Charger. Keeping to the shadows, he dodged round the parked cars and advanced, thumbing back the hammers. He would take the two men down first and then hit the driver of the Lincoln. Then hed be gone and his job done. It wouldnt take much to do this. Just speed and accuracy, then get out fast. Markie swung the two big guns up. The bodyguard spun as he sensed an advancing man in the corner of his eye. Well dressed and as bulky as the Lincoln driver, he reached for his weapon, and pulled out a .38 snub. Just at that moment Markie pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Markie cursed as the bodyguard fired once, then twice. Markie felt the bullets hit him, punching him back against a parked car. The hot, sledgehammer blow of the .38s took him to his knees as the bodyguard quickly ushered his boss to the Lincoln. Markie cursed as the agony tore through him. Had the Remingtons jammed? Both of them? Impossible. The Lincoln tore out of the parking space and raced down the street. Markie clutched his wounds and flopped onto his back. Some woman screamed. Some people froze. It was all over so quickly. In the light of the neon, Markie saw a man walk up to him. It was the man who hed bought the pieces from. The guy that had a good reputation. The guy whod come highly recommended. The guy whos guns had let him down. He recognised Tommy Brown as he bent over him. The guns, you bastard, said Markie through pained lips. They jammed. Tommy Brown shook his head. The guns are fine. Nothing wrong with them. I just fucked around with the bullets. I made them duds. It wasnt a hard job to do.

Markie closed his eyes as the pain worsened. You killed me. You fucking killed me, you bastard. But why? Why? Tommy Brown reached into his pocket and thrust a photo in front of Markies dying eyes. It was the photo of a young woman in her early twenties, attractive, and blonde. Boston, 1970, my wife, Diana. You hit a Bookie and she was a witness who had just happened to be walking by, so you took her down. She died in my arms at the hospital two days later. Ive spent two years planning this and now Ive finished you. Now its your turn to die. Your turn, Markie. Markie flopped back as Tommy Brown stood up and backed away into the crowd. Markie watched him meld into a sea of faces and then all turned black forever. Tommy Brown walked casually back to the Roadrunner as the sounds of sirens grew nearer. People where rushing across the street, getting honked by cars. Crowds were gathering at where Markie lay dead. But it didnt concern Tommy Brown. His work was done, over. And he could now get back to his hotel and get some sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long haul, and Boston was a long drive. A really long drive.

Also by P.J. Quinn

Roadkill