Part 7 (1/2)

”Do it!”

She shook her head again, closing her eyes at the antic.i.p.ation of being slapped again.

He didn't hit her but, instead, touched the muzzle of the revolver to her head and slowly thumbed back the hammer. As he did so, the cylinder rotated. The metallic click-click click-click sounds made her open her eyes wide. sounds made her open her eyes wide.

When he'd finished, Sasha began to sob softly.

Xavier ”Xpress” Smith, still with his left fist gripping her hair and his right hand holding the pistol to her head, then terrified the beautiful teenager one last time.

”Bang-bang, b.i.t.c.h,” he said as he smiled and squeezed the trigger.

Sasha screamed at the sound of the hammer falling forward.

But there was no bang.

There was just silence-and a great gasping from the couch. Then nothing.

Smith laughed as he and Sasha looked over to the couch.

The old woman had either fainted or was pretending to sleep.

”Next time, old woman, there be a bullet in there,” he called to her.

His left hand let loose of Sasha's hair. He patted her head.

”That was good, girl. Real good. I just might make you my steady b.i.t.c.h.”

Sasha got to her feet and bolted over to the couch.

”Grammy!” she cried as she reached her.

There was no response. Sasha shook her, but still nothing. She put her cheek to her grandmother's nose and mouth, looking for an exhaled breath, then desperately touched the inside of her wrists and all along her neck at the jawbone, hoping to find a pulse, however weak.

”She's dead!” Sasha wailed. ”Oh, Grammy!”

Xavier ”Xpress” Smith ran over to the couch and felt the wrist and neck of the old woman.

Sasha balled her fists and started hitting Xavier Smith on the back and arms. ”Don't touch Grammy, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”

He stood up and nervously aimed the pistol at Sasha.

”Listen, b.i.t.c.h. Don't you say a word I was here. You hear me?”

She stared at him, a mixture of deep sadness and hatred in her eyes.

He moved quickly toward the front door and said, ”Don't you forget. I can come here anytime I want. Or find you anywhere. Anytime.”

Then Xavier ”Xpress” Smith lived up to his nickname and fled into the dark of night.

[THREE].

705 N. Second Street, Philadelphia Sat.u.r.day, October 31, 11:59 P.M.

Tony's and Mickey's cars, Harris's city-issued battered unmarked gray Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor and O'Hara's new black BMW M5 sedan, were parked in front of Liberties Bar.

Inside, Matt Payne saw that the place was not as packed as he'd expected. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. A couple were filled, but most looked like they'd recently been vacated. They were still covered with empty and unfinished drinking gla.s.ses. Same was true in the middle of the room, where there were more wooden tables and chairs. The busboy was working busily, and would be for some time.

Matt noticed some motion across the room and looked to the century-old, ornately carved oak bar. It ran from the front window almost back to the wooden stairway leading to second-floor seating. The bar was three-quarters full, and at its right end, nearest the front window that looked out onto the street, stood Michael J. ”Mickey” O'Hara.

The Irishman exuded an infectious energy, and now used that to enthusiastically wave his right hand high above his very curly red hair.

Standing next to him, wearing his usual well-worn blue blazer and gray slacks, was Tony Harris. He'd noticed Mickey's manic wave and looked over his shoulder. When Tony saw Matt, he shuffled to the left, making a place for him at the bar. His move gave Matt a clear view of Mickey-more specifically, of what he wore under his tweed jacket: a green T-s.h.i.+rt that had a four-leaf clover and read KISS ME, I'M IRISH.

As Payne approached, O'Hara said, ”What the h.e.l.l took you so long?”

Discretion being the better part of valor, I believe I'll dodge that one.

”I had to walk her dog,” Matt said.

”Oh?” O'Hara smiled. As he motioned suggestively with his right hand, the middle finger rubbing the top of the index finger, he said, ”Is that what they're calling it these days?”

Harris chuckled.

”Screw you, Mickey,” Payne said, but he smiled. He changed the subject. ”Nice s.h.i.+rt. But wrong holiday.”

”It's the closest to a costume I've got,” Mickey said. ”But don't be so d.a.m.ned sure of yourself, Matty.”

”What do you mean?” Payne asked.

Tony Harris had a bottle of Hops Haus lager beer to his lips, about to sip, when he nodded and said, ”He's already gotten six kisses, including two long ones from an incredibly cute, quote, angel, unquote, in all white. She rubbed Mickey's head and said he was her lucky charm.”

Matt laughed, and the bartender walked up and slid two gla.s.ses on the bar before him, one with ice cubes in a clear liquid and one with just a dark liquid, both half-filled.

”First round tonight's on me,” said the bartender, John Sullivan-a hefty forty-year-old, second-generation Irish-American with an ample belly, friendly bright eyes, and a full white beard. ”Happy Halloween, Matt.”

”I guess I should've said 'Trick or treat' to earn my single-malt, huh?” Payne replied, reaching for the gla.s.s that he knew held the ice water. He poured it into the gla.s.s that contained the dark brown liquor, mixing it fifty-fifty. ”Thanks, John.”

The bartender grinned as Payne held up his drink and said, ”Cheers, gents,” clinked the gla.s.ses and bottle of John the bartender, Tony, and Mickey, then took a healthy sip.

He turned to looked at Harris. ”So tell me what the h.e.l.l that was all about tonight in Old City.”

Harris glanced at Mickey O'Hara. ”You want to start?”

O'Hara gestured grandly, After you After you.

Harris shrugged, then nodded and said, ”All off the record, right?”

O'Hara sighed. ”You know you'll see what I put together before I post it online.”