The Midtown Murderer

The Midtown Murderer by David Carlisle Page B

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Authors: David Carlisle
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Plaza to shut down my business. Find them by noon tomorrow.”
    “ This may be hard to do.”
    “ You have skills and stamina,” Garcia said. “Do it or you might end up in an ambulance that doesn’t make it to the hospital on time. Am I making sense?”
    “ Yes.” McClure. Jake and Elwood. And now Garcia. Trent was thinking that he had a long couple of days ahead of him.
    Wh en they had worked out the details, Trent moved in front of the stall and kicked the door open. Utah was sitting on the bowl, and the uninjured skinhead was standing beside him. Utah rocked on the seat and gave Trent a slight nod.
    Trent tossed him the phone. “I’ll be at the bar,” he said.
    On his way out Trent kicked the prone skinhead square in the face then slammed the door. He sat on a bar stool and patted a folded handkerchief against a deep cut over his left eye.
    A few minutes later Utah came around the corner and said, “Come along, Palmer. Mr. Garcia wants us to take you on a field trip.”
    Trent pointed the business end of the revolver at Utah. “If you ever fuck with me again-even in the slightest-it doesn’t matter how long it takes me, I’ll come back for you. And if you have any plans, like Trent-doesn’t-come-back-here plans? Not that you’re that type of guy, but Garcia might be? You got any ideas like that; my partner on the I-75 hits will waste you both.”
    Utah’s face flushed, and a vein pounded in Winston’s temple.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 16
    Trent emerged from the bar as a thunderbolt ripped the dark sky apart with jagged blue lines. The crash of its thunder echoed along the street. Utah’s battered pickup truck, dusted with snow, was suddenly frozen by the flash of lightning.
    They had loaded his Ducati into the bed of the truck and were waiting in the cab; Utah sat behind the wheel and Winston was in the middle, having made room for him.
    Trent slid onto a ripped seat with wads of rust-stained foam poking out. He kept the revolver pointed at Winston’s ribs, worried that at any moment his companions might try to take his head off.
    Utah gunned the accelerator, and the truck’s knobby tires kicked up loose gravel that rattled under the fenders. He drove north, threading his way through twisting back roads that followed the contours of the rolling Georgia countryside toward Lake Lanier. The snow had whitened the rock-hard ridges of the empty land; there were crosshatched sections of landscape where thrashers, swifts, and cuckoos scavenged the land for insects and worms.
    A n hour later Utah turned onto a graded clay road that paralleled a tributary of the Chattahoochee River. He parked outside an abandoned quarry. “Palmer,” he said, “this is where we say good-bye; Winston and I are gonna unload your bike.”
    Trent backed stiffly out of the truck . His gun came up. “You’re not coming?” he said, taking a two-handed stance and aiming alternately at the men. Now the sky was cloudless and clean. The sun had turned the horizon a bright orange as its light reflected off the snow and ice.
    “Our orders are to leave you here,” Winston said , his gold tooth catching a glint of sun.
    Utah ’s attention was on the truck-bed floor where he’d bent over the side to retrieve something.
    “Stop . Or I’ll shoot,” Trent yelled. “Hands up, Winston. Killing two more pricks won’t bother me in the least.”
    Utah stood up straight. Winston raised his hands.
    Trent stepped carefully in a wide, quarter arc to the rear of the truck then backed off ten feet. “Utah, drop the tailgate.”
    Utah complied and Trent glanced in the bed. He nodded at Utah who leaned into the bed and grabbed a shovel.
    “ Who was your partner on the highway hit?” Utah said, tossing the shovel onto the ground.
    “ Wouldn’t be much of a threat if you knew who he was,” Trent said, listening to the cooling metal of the truck’s engine ticking like a time bomb.
    Utah pursed his lips. “But he helped you kill Triple’s

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