My leg still hurt, random aches and pains all over my body from the last three days. Any agency psychologist will tell you it’s not the physical scars you need worry about.
One big problem was off my plate at least. Her. Dead and gone. We were wrong. When one dies, we didn’t both die. Some sort of bypass switch got hit. I didn’t even feel the bullet once she closed her eyes for good.
The DEA was so turned around by the fucked up mess of it all they still hadn’t caught up to me. I helped Lucas to his feet in the stairwell and didn’t let him look back. We drove straight here. He insisted on seeing Marjorie before he got patched up. Guess I understood since she is his sister after all. My brief experience with having a sister was not typical, I realize that. For her, what did Daddy used to say? I wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire. Don’t think Daddy ever said it about a woman though.
So, yeah, enough loitering in the hall. Time to get in there and take the next step. What comes after, I still don’t know. No way to plan ahead with something as crazy as what I’ve been through.
Now that the balance is returning, this next bit won’t be easy. Not one bit. Saying goodbye never is. My two favorite guys in the world.
Funny, all the security at my office, Lucas’s office, hell, a fucking post office these days has more security than a hospital. A girl could bring a knife in here and not even have to worry about hiding it.
The gun I left behind. Too much noise anyway. Around here? They got needles, scalpels, chemicals, anything you need. Me? All I need is my knife and two minutes alone with these guys.
Not gonna be easy. No, sir. But I didn’t come this fucking far for a dry hump. Might as well be one of those sorry bitches who gets left at the altar. No, that’s not me anymore.
Only wish that goody-goody cunt could have been alive to see it.
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ERIC BEETNER has been described as “the James Brown of crime fiction—the hardest working man in noir.” (Crime Fiction Lover) and “The 21st Century’s answer to Jim Thompson” (LitReactor). He has written more than 20 novels including Rumrunners, Leadfoot, The Devil Doesn’t Want Me, The Year I Died 7 Times and Criminal Economics. His award-winning short stories have appeared in over three dozen anthologies. He co-hosts the podcast Writer Types and the Noir at the Bar reading series in Los Angeles where he lives and works as a television editor.
EricBeetner.com
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BOOKS BY ERIC BEETNER
The McGraw Crime Series
Rumrunners
Leadfoot
The Lars and Shane Series
The Devil Doesn’t Want Me
When the Devil Comes to Call
The Devil at Your Door
The Fightcard Series
Fightcard: Split Decision
Fightcard: A Mouth Full of Blood
The Lawyer Western Series
Six Guns at Sundown
Blood Moon
The Last Trail
Stand Alones
The Year I Died Seven Times
Criminal Economics
Nine Toes in the Grave
Dig Two Graves
White Hot Pistol
Stripper Pole at the End of the World
A Bouquet of Bullets (stories)
All the Way Down
Two in the Head
Dark Duet: Two Noir Novellas
With JB Kohl
Over Their Heads
Borrowed Trouble
One Too Many Blows to the Head
The Bricks and Cam Job Series (with Frank Zafiro)
The Backlist
The Short List
The Getaway List
As Editor
Unloaded Volume 1
Unloaded Volume 2
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Here is a preview from Final Cut, a Vince McNulty thriller by Colin Campbell.
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ONE
Vince McNulty never had a childhood. He went straight from damaged orphan to troubled man with one swing of the Bible and a broken nose. Not his nose. At Crag View Orphanage. He missed out on all the things other kids enjoyed like devoted parents and trips to the seaside. His only pleasure was the movies. Not, going-to-the-cinema movies, but Sunday afternoon films on TV. Growing up to be a cop was a direct response to the broken nose. Working in Hollywood was the result of all those Sunday afternoons.
“McNulty.”
The producer shouted across the parking lot.
“Can you get this guy to stop walking like a duck?”
Okay, so Titanic Productions wasn’t exactly Hollywood, but it was the movies. McNulty stood beside Larry Unger and glanced at the actor who was trying to look like a cop.
“I know lots of cops who walk like ducks.”
Unger turned to his technical adviser.
“In England, maybe. Here in America they walk like John Wayne.”
“I thought you wanted this to look real.”
“John Wayne is real.”
McNulty shook his head.
“John Wayne wasn’t even John Wayne.”
Unger raised his eyebrows.
“Doesn’t matter. In America cops walk like John Wayne. Haven’t you heard of the John Wayne syndrome?”
McNulty was fighting a losing battle, but he was going to fight it anyway.
“That’s more to do with the mindset. You know, wading in to save the day. More cops die because they think they’re invincible than anything else. That’s the John Wayne syndrome.”
Unger glared at McNulty.
“What am I paying you for? To be my shrink now?”
He indicated the actor standing next to the makeup trailer.
“Get him to walk like a movie cop.”
McNulty let out a sigh and nodded his understanding. Like they said in that John Wayne movie about shooting Liberty Valance, when the truth gets in the way of the legend, print the legend. Looking at the narrow-shouldered pipsqueak playing the lead, he reckoned he was going to have his work cut out for him.
“Alfonse.”
He strolled over to the struggling actor.
“Let’s go through this walking thing again.”
The movie circus that Vince McNulty had run away to join was filming in Quincy, Massachusetts, just south of Boston. It couldn’t replace the brotherhood of blue that all ex-cops missed, but it was more family than he’d had growing up. Vince loved the movies. He felt like the kid who joined the Big Top because he liked clowns and lion tamers. Titanic Productions had plenty of clowns. There weren’t many lion tamers. That’s why Larry Unger employed McNulty. McNulty’s query letter laid out his qualifications.