2. The Devil’s Playground
TWO
THE DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND
KYLIE
I told myself I would have to be super bored, plus offered the shot at a high-profile hit, to drag my ass back to Springfield. Especially after what happened last time.
See, I don’t like to fail. I pride myself on completing every job, no matter what. Finding out that, against all odds, Carlos da Silva survived the fire? That pissed me off. I would’ve done a u-ey, marched right over to the West Side again and finished the job if it wasn’t for the fact that my client seemed to fall off the face of the planet the same night.
Mickey Kelly never paid me the second half of my commission. Way I saw it back in July, I did what the first fifteen grand bought him. For the second fifteen grand, I’d go after da Silva again—but Kelly disappeared. Considering I left him lurking around Sinners and Saints as the fire caught, I wouldn’t be surprised if da Silva got to him first.
After all, the artist made it out in one piece. Kelly vanished. It doesn’t take an experienced hitwoman to put two and two together and figure out that the Sinner 86ed my client. At least I got my first fifteen thousand, and when I dug a little deeper and discovered that my suspicions were right, that Kelly was the one who went after the Libellula chick while da Silva only did what he did to protect her, I wrote off the failed hit and the big criminal hotspot of Springfield.
It’s been five months. I’ve pulled off four successful hits since, but the last one was right around Halloween. I made it all the way to Thanksgiving without a job—and then, two weeks ago, Johnny Winter came calling.
Winter runs a nationwide enterprise of crooks, thugs, chemists, and gun runners. Though his home base is in Nevada, the aptly-named Snowflakes are spread out from coast to coast. There’s a cadre in nearly every state, with their fingers in every single enterprise you can think of.
Guns? They sell them?
Girls? They traffic them.
Drugs? Winter has his own lab set up to develop the most dastardly, addictive junk on the market. He also takes shit that already has a rep—like the new designer drugs of choice, Breeze and Eclipse—and laces them with his concoctions to make it deadly as hell.
I should know. I bought a bad batch from one seller to target another in Camden after his dirty shit killed a couple of middle-schoolers. Not as fast-acting as the strychnine I keep on me as a back-up plan, but it was a gnarly way to go.
And he fucking deserved it. I don’t often take charity cases, and while I’ll go to my grave believing that I’m a hedonistic bitch who just wants to find pleasure before I go, I have a couple of hot buttons.
Stuck in a DV relationship? The Hummingbird will get you out of it.
Kids are involved? I don’t give a shit if they’re assholes, I’m on their side.
Winter’s chems might’ve made the product that caused those tweens to OD. Fuck knows, my latest client has done enough to earn a target on his back. My own sense of morals say that he didn’t take those kids’ crumpled twenties and sold him the Eclipse that killed them. So I offed the dealer at a discount, then later accepted Winter’s contract on a dentist that fucked him over without batting an eye—even if I did nod when I saw how much he was willing to pay.
This past year, Winter’s had his sights on Springfield. Word on the street is that he wants a slice of the Libellula Family’s counterfeiting ring. That’s just an excuse. Johnny Winter wants revenge, and he’s convinced that, to get it, he needs to eliminate both the Sinners Syndicate and the Libellula Family before turning their former territory into his East Coast headquarters.
I knew all that. Kelly heard of my rep through Winter, just like I knew Winter’s rep through some of the clients I’ve worked for these past couple of years before he hired me himself. Winter’s the one I got into contact with when Kelly up-and-disappeared on me—and the one who had no problem telling me the truth about what one of his former goons was up to while Carlos da Silva and Genevieve Libellula were Winter’s… guests.
Guests. Right.
And I’m the Queen of Sheba.
Not like I give a shit what Winter does to get ahead. That’s why I jumped at the chance to d a job for him when I was just starting out—well, his twin, and that’s some other weird thing I don’t really get because he was Jimmy, now he’s Johnny, and it seems like there were two of them before Damien Libellula offed Winter’s twin—plus the new leader of the Snowflakes hired me for two of my four most recent kills. All I care about now is that Winter’s money comes through on time, and he’s generous, too. Like me, the second Winter gets his kicks at my poetic justice, and he’ll throw me some extra bucks if I amuse him.
Johnny Winter is as sick and twisted as I am, and I almost decided it would be fun to seduce him and see what he was like in the sack. The fact that, during our sporadic meetings, I get the feeling that he’d rather gut me and see what my insides looked like rather than see how tight I am wrapped around his cock kept me from pursuing my curiosity about the gang leader. I’ll take his money, and find my pleasure with the nobodies I’ll pick up between jobs for a one-night-stand.
I usually troll the local hotspots. Bars, sometimes, or maybe nightclubs. I know what I look like. Depending on how I wear my hair or what outfit I pull on, I could be that sweet-faced innocent in over her head or an experienced woman just out for a good time, looking to end the night even better. It’s easy to get attention when I want it, but in my line of work, it pays to be able to blend into the surroundings when I need to.
Like now.
It’s mid-December. I pulled on my leather jacket over a deep red sweater, plus a pair of tight dark blue jeans that are molded around the curve of my ass. Black boots so that I don’t slip on the icy remnants of an early snowstorm from two days ago. My curls are loose, though I pinned the front pieces back to show off my expertly made-up face.
The turquoise neons around the nightclub are amplified by the white Christmas lights strung up all over the nightclub. The air pulses with the rich beat of the electronic song blasting out of the speakers; no ‘Silent Night’ or ‘Jingle Bells’ here, despite the nod to the season in the Christmas lights and the red bows plastered to the edge of the bartop. While some of the city folk are out there, visiting Santa Claus and getting their holiday shopping done, you wouldn’t know it was well into December by the warmth in the club or the half-dressed dancers writhing on the floor.
Carrying a barely touched cocktail in my hand, I weave around them, edging toward the tables surrounding the dance floor. I’ve already had to tell three guys to buzz off since I’ve been here, and my poor libido is telling me that I should’ve at least taken one of them up on their offer to either go upstairs or find a little privacy in the club’s bathroom.
But I’m not here to get laid. I’m on the job, and since I’m in Springfield again to do another hit for Johnny Winter, it’s a biggie.
I’m happy to do it, too. Not only did Winter bump up my fee for me, but I’ll take any excuse not to have to return home for Christmas. My parents and my sister have no idea what I do—just that my work has me constantly traveling—but Lindy always gets mopey around the holidays.
Ten years later, and happily married to Charlie for three of them, and she still grieves for the bastard who nearly beat her to death before I took care of him for her. It’s almost enough to make me want to dig Jason up and shoot him again to see if that’ll finally shake his hold on my older sister.
Maybe I don’t get it. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been in love like that before. So desperate to be with one person that you’ll overlook everything… and who the fuck am I kidding? That bastard groomed her, beat her, and convinced Lindy that she loved him. If that ’s love? Then I’m glad I’ve never found someone to take my heart.
My pussy, sure? I’ll give that to anyone who wants it. It’s just sex. I like to experience pleasure, and I’ll reward any guy who gets me off first. But love ?
I’m good.
That’s why I’ll wait and visit the family in Florida in the new year. Lindy will be back to her bubbly self, my parents will be relieved I stopped by at all, and I’ll lie about what I’ve been up to all while waiting for my next client to reach out...
Right now, I’m booked. Winter gave me a name and a deadline, and I’ve spent the last week and a half in Springfield—goddamn Springfield—working toward that December 25th deadline.
I told you. Johnny Winter is as broken as I am. Not only does he want one of the well-known figures in Springfield dead in a way that won’t get back to him—not while he’s biding his time, making it seem as if the Snowflakes have moved on to New York City instead—but he wants the man eliminated before Christmas.
It’s easier said than done. Because while everyone in the city knows my target, it’s not easy to get to a man like that.
Which is why I’m currently spending my Thursday night at the Devil’s Playground. If luck’s on my side, I might run into him.
Last night I partied on the East End, hoping that one or more of the Dragonflies I cozied up to would drop his name. Pretending to be tipsy—but not drunk enough that I went home with any of last night’s marks—I danced around the subject, but either they were well-trained or too low in the Family hierarchy to help me.
Same thing with my trip to Springfield City Hall, the court house, and even the local library. No dice.
This is my second trip to the Devil’s Playground. Rumors run that my target has been spotted here. And while it doesn’t have my usual panache, I have a small vial of strychnine, disguised as a tube of lip gloss, shoved inside my jacket pocket. All it would take is uncapping the vial and dumping the contents into his drink and voila . I’m another fifty grand richer.
But I’m gunning for the hundred k bonus if I get my hands dirty. So while I could easily eliminate him if he is at the Devil’s Playground, I have my knife tucked away inside the sheath in my right boot in case I can get him alone first.
He’s married, but I’m not worried about that. Winter says that the marriage is on the rocks anyway, and with a coy smile and a crook of my pointer finger, I don’t think it would be too difficult to get him to leave with me.
And if I can’t, maybe I’ll see if that dark-haired guy with the smirk I bumped into near the bar would like to head back to my hotel instead?—
“—and Devil just said to keep our heads up and our guns ready. He has an emergency meeting with Collins tonight. Ten-thirty at the old video store. It’s supposed to be about the Snowflakes.”
I’m too good at my job to jump when I heard the name of my target—or my current client’s affiliation. I don’t pause, either, or stumble. I keep moving as though I didn’t catch the snippet of their conversation at all—and duck into the empty booth that’s right behind them.
I caught a flash of two suited guys leaning back into their seats. A glass was set before each of them, and though both of them were covered all the way to their wrists, I’d put fifty down that they’re hiding a devil tat somewhere beneath their shirts.
I expect a good chunk of the clubbers to be Sinners. This is their turf, the nightclub on their territory, and it’s run by one of the top guys in the syndicate. They’re untouchable here, and sometimes that makes them cocky and reckless.
Here’s hoping it’s one of those times.