"Hustmyre, Charles - One Big Score" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hustmyre Charles)

He tried to stop but he was moving too fast. He tripped over the guy, dropped the brick and skidded face down along the street.

On all fours he scrambled after the brick, got his hand on it and sprang to his feet. The guy was still on the ground, screaming, both hands clutching the briefcase. He kicked the guy a few times, then circled him, trying to get close enough to hit him in the head again with the brick.

The guy kept moving, kicking his feet, trying to fight him off. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. You hit someone in the head with a brick, even half a brick, and he was supposed to be dead, or at least knocked out. Not rolling around on the ground screaming and kicking at you.

After a couple of tries he got in and smacked the guy a good shot on the forehead. It opened up a gash, blood started pouring out. Whack! Another hit and the guy went limp. Either dead or unconscious.

Voices up the street. He looked back toward Bourbon. Two people. He couldn't tell if they were guys or girls. In this neighborhood it didn't really matter.

He tucked the briefcase under one arm and felt the guy's pockets with his other hand. No wallet, that was good, maybe it meant the guy had one of those big wallets inside the case. Something in the right front pocket. He reached in and pulled out some folded bills. A twenty on top, maybe eight or ten other bills beneath it. Not much, but some drinking money and enough to score a couple bags of dope.

The two down the street were getting braver, easing this way. He stuffed the bills in his pocket then ran up Chartres toward the Saint Louis Cathedral. He made the next left at Saint Ann onto the pedestrian-only alley then slowed to a walk. Get away then slow down, don't attract attention.

The briefcase was heavy. It had two latches, both with combinations. He felt pretty good, the score hadn't been that hard even though the guy was a pain in the ass.

He stepped into an alley that smelled like garbage and piss. Holding the handle, he slammed the briefcase against a brick wall a couple of times. If he could pop it open he wouldn't have to carry the damn thing around, but it didn't open. A couple smacks on the ground, still nothing. No problem, he'd find a screwdriver and pry it open.

Leaving the alley he got back on Saint Ann. A block later he took a right on Decatur. There was a lot of traffic on the street and on the sidewalks. He mixed in easily and strolled along, enjoying himself. It was still early and it was going to be a good night.

Four blocks up, at the corner of Conti, he stepped inside the River Rat. No tourists here, strictly locals. Even local citizens didn't come here, nothing but street people--hustlers like him. There was a long bar on the left and an open area to the right with a few small tables and an old jukebox. Straight back were the bathrooms. Maybe ten people in the place, most of them he recognized.

The River Rat was where he spent most of his time, pursuing his two favorite hobbies: drinking beer and snorting heroin. There was always somebody around he could score a bag of dope from. Trouble was, he usually didn't have the money. Tonight was going to be different, he could feel it.

He took a seat on a stool and put the briefcase down on the bar in front of him. Bobby the bartender was a one-legged dude who hobbled around with a crutch under his left arm. He took his time coming over but eventually got around to it. "Whaddya want?"

"Beer."

"I figured that, what kind?"

Bobby always was a dick. Must be 'cause he had to limp around with one leg all the time. Nobody seemed to know how he lost his leg, but the word was that he was connected to the mob some kind of way. That's probably why nobody jumped over the bar and beat his ass. "Gimmie a Bud."

"You got any money?"

The man was a smart-ass, somebody should give him a smack. Instead he pulled the bills out of his pocket, peeled off the top twenty and laid it on the bar.

Bobby pointed. "What's up with the briefcase?"

Oh yeah, now Bobby wanted to make small talk. He thumbed through the rest of the bills. Four twenties, a ten and some ones. Over a hundred bucks total. Tonight was going to be a really good night. "I found it over by Pirate's Alley."

"Found it, huh?" Bobby hobbled away to get his beer.

He looked at the briefcase more closely. It wasn't leather, it was alligator hide, tanned a dark brown. Under the handle was a gold plate with the engraved initials, "VHM." Maybe that was the guy he clobbered. Who cares?

Bobby came back with a draft and set it down in front of him. "Any jewelry, especially watches, I can take it off your hands."

Bobby trying to get in on what he's got. Yeah, well, to hell with him. Bobby didn't pay shit. Screw Bobby and his connections. No need to piss him off right away, though.

"We'll see. Gimmie a screwdriver to pop these latches."