CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE #2
Sully turned. Cracker lunged, pulling the bandage around Sully’s neck from behind.
Sully clutched at it, then began to kick and twist. But the bandage was too tight.
He couldn’t breathe. Cracker shook with the strain.
This Sully was a hard-ass customer. Felt like a steel cable come to life.
Cracker pulled the bandage tighter, cutting it deeper into Sully’s neck.
Sully bucked and fought, unable to utter a sound.
His movements slowed. He convulsed a few times. Then he went limp.
“There you go,” said Cracker, easing his grip, resting his chin on Sully’s shoulder from behind as he caught his breath. “Just relax. Everything’s gonna be all right. I’ll send Conor to keep you company real soon.”
Cracker grunted as Sully’s elbow connected with the bridge of his nose.
Cracker’s grip on the bandage slipped, giving Sully a chance to pull it away from his neck and breathe.
But that was as far as Sully got before Cracker stood, holding on while Sully spun this way and that, trying to get loose.
Dancing with this boy was strenuous. Sully did not want to go quietly, but Cracker was certain of one thing.
He was going.
Cracker shoved a knee between Sully’s shoulder blades.
He arched back, pulling the bandage with all he had.
Small, desperate sounds came out of Sully.
The bandage cut into the carotid arteries on the sides of Sully’s neck.
Cracker pulled with all his weight and muscle, cutting off the blood flow to Sully’s brain.
Sully weakened with each pulse of blood that didn’t reach his brain.
His movements stilled. Cracker kept up the pressure for a full minute after Sully stopped fighting.
When he finally let go, Sully flopped on the bed.
Cracker panted. He looked down. Sully’s tongue hung out. His face was blue. Cracker unwrapped the bandage from his hands. He got himself a handful of tissues and blew blood out of his nose. It hurt like hell. He shoved the bloody tissues in his pocket.
“You surprised me. I give you that,” he said, grabbing Sully under the arms and sitting him up on the bed.
He worked fast, doubling up the bandage and tying it around Sully’s neck.
The toughest part was finding something to tie him off on.
A water pipe running above the ceiling tiles did the trick.
Sully’s size helped things along. The boy wasn’t tall and didn’t weigh but one-eighty.
Hanging him by his neck wasn’t all that hard.
Cracker was almost out the door when he stopped.
Damn. He almost forgot about the note. He went back in Sully’s room.
It took a moment to find the legal pad. It had somehow made its way under the bed during all the commotion with Sully.
He tore the note Sully wrote off the legal pad and laid it on the bed.
Then he pushed Sully, making him swing as he read the note.
As you can see, I’m gone. And if you want to know why, ask Conor Monroe. One thing’s for sure—if Conor had fought Joe Cracker Jones instead of hiding like a bitch, I’d still be here.
He gave Sully a final push and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The idea that his nose must look bad struck him as he walked down the hall.
He pulled the tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose, looking at the blood.
Sully was a tough customer. He walked down the stairwell to the ground floor, his footsteps echoing.
Now it was time to find Conor’s dad, Mickey Monroe, and give him the same treatment.
One way or another, Conor would be showing his face today.
And if he didn’t, it would be clear that he didn’t care about anybody.
He’d be out of reach, and it would be time to leave and find something else to do.
Cracker ran some possibilities through his mind.
Maybe he’d visit that Mexican cartel boss who said he wanted the balls cut off a rival drug lord.
After he pulled that off, his name would undoubtedly get circulated to the right people.
It would jack up his client list something fierce.
So that was the plan. If Conor didn’t show after he got done working over his dad, he’d go visit Gomez and see what that piece of work would pay.
It would be a shame to quit on this job, but a man had to know when it was time to move on.
He walked out into the hospital parking lot, got in his truck, and took out his cell. Derek answered with a hoarse, “What’s up now?”
“That friend of Monroe’s, Sully. He’s up,” said Cracker.
“Huh?”
“Where can I find Monroe’s daddy?” said Cracker.
“I don’t know,” said Derek. “The guy lives on the street. He’s an alky. But gimme a sec—I’ll ask.”
Cracker listened to people murmur. Derek got back on the phone.
“Last anyone saw, he was hanging around Angel Silva’s garage. You know where that is?”
Cracker asked what Conor’s dad looked like.
Then he asked for the location of Angel’s garage.
He hung up, grabbed a legal pad, and wrote the address.
Blood dripped from his nose onto the page.
He wiped his nose, feeling a lance of pain.
Sully probably broke it—the cost of doing business.
He drove out of the hospital parking lot, glancing down at the address for the garage.
He made one stop at a liquor store on his way over to Angel’s. There was no telling what kind of drunk Conor’s dad was, but Cracker was feeling generous. A bottle of rotgut vodka and some radiator whiskey would give Mickey Monroe a chance to pick his poison. This could be fun for the old drunk.
Cracker parked against the curb outside Angel’s garage and ripped the wrapper off a protein bar.
He ate, watched, and waited, tapping a fingernail against the whiskey bottle, then the vodka bottle. Back and forth. Back and forth. He swallowed a lump of protein bar.
Mickey Monroe had no idea of the good time waiting on him.