Saint Oswald Jay Bonansinga (uplifting books for women txt) đ
- Author: Jay Bonansinga
Book online «Saint Oswald Jay Bonansinga (uplifting books for women txt) đ». Author Jay Bonansinga
The Head-Wound Guy was dead even before he slammed into the beat-up Hyundai. The poor son of a bitch went splat against the carâs windshield, and the young waitress sitting behind the wheel, waiting for a light to change, nearly jumped out of her uniform. But then she turned and recognized the big man with the ponytail and shotgun looming in the shadows of the alley. Their eyes met as the dead pervert slid off the car and crumpled to the ground, leaving a slug-trail of gore on the Hyundaiâs window. And something passed between waitress and shooter then, something inchoate and indefinable, something never discussed again.
That was nearly ten years agoâten long, long years of sloppy hits and drunken recriminations.
Now, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, Oswald feels obliged to say something. âSorry I never fessed up to it.â
Gerbil waves it off like a bad smell. âAncient history, forget about it.â
âIâd still like you to wait in the car tonight.â
âWhat am Iâa two-year-old?â
âHumor me, Gerbil.â
She grunts and smokes. âYouâre still gonna pay me my regular fee.â
âIâll pay you.â
âAnd not with one of those rubber checks.â
âDonât get your piles in an uproar, youâll get your money.â In the distance, Oswald sees his exit, and he flips on his turn signal. âHere we go.â As he turns off the highway, he glances in the rearview.
The ghost of Alberta Goldstein is gone.
The only problem now is Oswaldâs appearance. He cuts such a distinctive figure that sneaking up on another assassin is going to be problematic. Anybody who has anything to do with organized crime will immediately recognize the slovenly, long-haired, 270-pound Native American.
Which is why, upon arriving at the vast casino and resort complex at around 7:45, Oswald pulls behind a long row of garbage dumpsters on the far edge of the parking lot and turns the engine off. Sodium lights shine down through clouds of moths.
âOkay, you want to help me?â He turns to Gerbil as he reaches up and bunches his long hair into a ponytail.
âDepends,â she says, looking around the facility, her eyes darting from tour buses to mobile homes to minivans. The place is fairly busy for a Wednesday night.
âGo inside the gift shop and get me some ridiculous-looking shit to wear, and get me one of those stupid-ass plastic buckets for the slots.â
She looks at him. âWhat do you mean, âridiculousâ?â
âTourist shit.â
âWhat are you talking aboutââtourist shitâ? What happened to the silent, deadly Injun routine?â
Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he snaps a rubber band around his hair. âGotta blend in with the rabble.â
âJesus Christ whatever,â she grumbles.
She gets out of the truck and pads across the lot toward the main entrance, which is a garish façade made out of a giant paddle wheel of neon and fake plastic cypress trees. The main building is a massive, ugly, windowless pile of cinderblocks that stretches practically into the next county and throbs with muffled pop music. Gerbil vanishes inside the glass foyer, and is gone for nearly ten minutes. When she returns, sheâs hauling two big plastic shopping bags.
âMove over,â she says, and tosses the merchandise onto the seat.
âNice,â Oswald comments sourly as he pulls a huge, idiotic cowboy hat from the bag. Itâs fashioned out of the spongy material of Nerf balls and says SHERRIF across the crown. âVery classy.â
Chartreuse camo-shorts come out next, followed by big Jackie-O sunglasses, followed by a shocking pink T-shirt thatâs at least two sizes too small for Oswaldâs hefty girth. The plastic bucket has Ryan Seacrestâs smiling face plastered over it. Oswald kicks off his work boots, and struggles out of his jeans while the steering wheel digs into his ham-hock thighs. He pulls on the shorts, muscles his boots back on, then takes off his shirt.
By now the girdle is ripe. Stained black with Betadine and pus, it smells like a dead skunk. He rips the Velcro straps and tosses the thing behind the driverâs seat. âGrab the gun case behind your seat,â he says.
Gerbil fishes around in the shadows, finds the case, pulls it out, thumbs it open, and hands Oswald a cold Glock nine-millimeter with two mags loaded to the gills and a homemade suppressor.
Oswald stuffs the gun and accessories into the camo pockets, then quickly pulls the pink T-shirt over his barrel chest.
âNo fucking way,â he says, looking at his reflection in the mirror, the front of the shirt visible in the half-light.
âYou wanted ridiculous,â Gerbil reminds him, sparking a cigarette.
âNo fucking way in hell Iâm wearing this.â
âYou want me to go back and exchange it?â
âYou did this on purpose.â
âYou look fantastic.â
âKeep your cell phone on,â he snarls at her and shoves his door open.
Ambling across the lot with his Ryan Seacrest change bucket, his spongy cowboy hat flapping in the breeze, he feels exposed, vulnerableâas though all eyes are on the stenciled balloon-like letters emblazoned across the front of his pink T-shirt, just above the spot where his hairy belly pokes out: BABY ON BOARD.
18.
William Wilson Elgart makes his entrance just after 9 p.m. He comes through the east doors, the ones by the dancing waters, and he stands in the shimmering vestibule for a moment, letting the mirrored ball bathe him with silver fairy dust. The air smells of re-circulated cigarette smoke and carpet cleaner, and the chiming drone of slot machines rings across the catacombs of the casino.
The seamy carnival atmosphere of it all sends a shiver
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