The Dame Did It

  THE DAME DID IT

  Edited by Jessica Fleming

  Published by Pro Se Press

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

  Copyright © 2015 Pro Se Productions

  “Black-Hearted Killers” © 2015 by Joel Jenkins

  “The Damsel of Disaster” © 2015 by Christofer Nigro

  “Tragic Like a Torch Song” © 2015 by Shannon Muir

  “Shikata Ga Nai” © 2015 by Percival Constantine

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Black-Hearted Killers

  by Joel Jenkins

  The Damsel of Disaster

  by Christofer Nigro

  Tragic Like a Torch Song

  by Shannon Muir

  Shikata Ga Nai

  by Percival Constantine

  About The Authors

  BLACK-HEARTED KILLERS

  A Monica Killingsworth story

  by

  Joel Jenkins

  — :: —

  Just one bullet in the head

  That’s what the temptress said

  To buy your freedom

  And she handed me the gun

  —”Temptress” from the Last Bastion of Freedom album

  Asylum, Temple Records, 1998

  Monica Killingsworth gunned the engine of her Mustang—one she had rented under an assumed name—as she raced down the rural roads of Kentucky. A flat tire had cost her half an hour and a cattle crossing had cost her an additional ten minutes. She was habitually early to her business appointments yet, despite her early departure, due to the delays, she was still running two minutes behind. She took the hairpin turns at speeds that would raise the eyebrows of most Nascar drivers—spinning the wheel with the confidence of practice and experience—and she did it with a glacial coolness, the only hint of distress the stray strand of blonde hair that escaped her pinned coiffure and fell across her forehead.

  She raced through the hills and around vehicles that had the temerity to stick to the speed limit, leaving them behind in a haze of dust and burnt gasoline fumes. Her ClipPad played a selection from the neu-metal band Asylum, fronted by a vocalist she had once tried to kill. It had been one of her rare failures and cost her a two million dollar commission. As it turned out, her employer had been planning to pay her in US bills counterfeited in North Korea. For that slight she had put a bullet through her employer’s left eye. Kim Jong Il had not been pleased.1

  The rolling wilderness gave way to a grassy depression that contained a Gas-n-Go and a tavern in front of which a half-dozen Harley Davidsons rested on their kickstands. When Killingsworth spotted the prisoner transport truck refueling at the Gas-n-Go the icy demeanor of her expression cracked into a smile. She had been told the driver habitually stopped here for Slim Jims and and a sixty-four ounce Coke when he was running prison transfers to the Kentucky State Penitentiary in Eddyville. This was to be the removal point.

  She saw one of the uniformed transport guards put the nozzle back on the gas meter and she knew that she had only moments to improvise the release of Joe Johnson Blackheart. The original plan had been somewhat more subtle, she was to arrive fifteen to twenty minutes before and loiter inside the Gas-n-Go until the driver stopped for fuel and caffeine. When he came in she would lift his keys while he drafted himself sixty-four ounces of syrup, carbonated water and caffeine. Then she’d unlock the back doors of the transport and extract the prisoner.

  Generally, Killingsworth didn’t dabble in kidnappings—but this one might require someone with her expertise, and the pay was beyond anything she would ever turn up her nose at. It took money to keep her in fast cars, diamond jewelry, and fine clothes. However, the way this job was going down was going to be less than subtle and perhaps nothing short of a blood bath. If so, they’d hired the right woman for the job.

  She pulled the Mustang close up on the tail of the prison transport truck, kept the engine running and stepped out of the car before the driver could reach his door. Killingsworth left her sunglasses on to make it more difficult to ID her later.

  “Hey, darling! You wouldn’t happen to have an extra smoke on you, would you?”

  The driver paused to admire the svelte figure of the blonde, which was clad in a three button blazer with beaded lapels and herringbone pencil skirt. “I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  Killingsworth approached the driver with a swing of her hips. “You don’t now, but you will. How about you at least let me give you my phone number?”

  The driver smiled, mistakenly thinking that this was his lucky day. “Why, that would be just fine.”

  Killingsworth reached inside her Giordino vest as if to reach for a pen, but instead she produced a stun gun and shoved it into the driver’s side. The gun crackled and the driver stiffened, then fell against the pump and began to slide down. The massive electric shock overloaded the driver’s muscles with lactic acid so that he could barely blink, but Killingsworth didn’t let up on the trigger until the driver was on the ground. “See? You’re smoking now. You stay there, baby, and I won’t have to hurt you… any worse.”

  She freed the driver’s nine-millimeter magazine pistol from his holster and the keys to the vehicle from his belt, and stepped to the rear of the armored transport. Before the guard riding shotgun realized that the driver was down, Killingsworth had the back of the vehicle open. A stubbled man sat alone in the rear, hobbled by ankle manacles and handcuffs. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark hair matched the pictures that Killingsworth had studied.

  “Joe Johnson Blackheart! Get a move on. I’m your ride out of here.”

  He surveyed the blonde with an appreciative eye. “Dang, if I knew Hardwick was going to send you to pull my bones out of prison, I would have agreed to it a long time ago.”

  “You can sweet talk me later, Blackheart. Now get a move-on, we’re on a tight schedule here!”

  Blackheart was on his feet, hobbling to the back of the vehicle. “You can call me Joe, Blondie.”

  Killingsworth saw the guard riding shotgun peer through the bulletproof window at the rear of the cab, and he had a clear vision of Blackheart making an escape through the open back door. “Go ahead and call me Blondie.”

  For some reason the second guard thought he could forestall Blackheart’s escape by throwing the truck into gear and stepping on the gas. The prison transport lurched forward, but instead of the truck driving away with Blackheart still in the back, it threw him on the hood of the Mustang and then barreled over the curb and through the Plexi-glass walls of a bus stop and onto the road.

  His hands cuffed behind his back, Blackheart smacked his chin hard on the hood. Killingsworth grabbed him by the cuffs, braced herself, and dragged the large man off. She opened up the passenger side door for him. “Get in, Joe.”

  Her demeanor was icy cool, but the pistol in her hand meant business. Joe grinned, blood on his chin from his newly acquired gash. “Whatever you say, Blondie!” He half hopped and half fell into the driver’s seat. Killingsworth put a booted heel against the door and slammed it shut after him. Then in a couple of moments she was in the driver’s seat.

  Before she had settled in, or even closed her door, her foot was on the gas and accelerating out of the gas station parking lot, spinning gravel and dust over the still stunned driver, who was slumped helpless and groaning a
t the base of a pump.

  The prison transport came to a stop across the street, over the sidewalk and against a splintered sapling. The guard was clambering awkwardly out of the driver’s side of the transport with a shotgun in his hand.

  “Give me your gun!” demanded Blackheart.

  Killingsworth crinkled her forehead. “What are you going to do, Joe? Shoot it with your teeth? Besides, there’s no need to kill this poor sap.” Her foot was all the way on the gas pedal and she steered close to the prison transport, so that the guard, who still hadn’t quite set foot upon the ground, had no choice but to get run over or to leap back into the cab of the truck.

  The guard chose to scramble back inside the transport and Killingsworth veered at the last moment, the open door of the transport clipping off the right hand rear view mirror of the Mustang. Killingsworth wrestled with the wheel and brought the sloughing car back under control, and then they were down the road in a wake of scattering fall leaves.

  The transport guard finally came down from his perch and fired his shotgun at the retreating Mustang. The range of the shotgun was too little and the sports car too far gone, and the blasts did nothing but scatter steel pellets over the roadway.

  “You didn’t shoot him,” said Blackheart in a surprised tone.

  “No need. I’m getting paid to pull you out of jail, nothing more. I don’t kill unless I’m getting paid for it.”

  Blackheart cast a sidelong glance at her. “Oh yeah? What if it comes down to you or the other guy, and there’s not a dime in it for you?”

  “I do what I have to, but it pains me to work for free.”

  Blackheart noticed the diamond tennis bracelet on Killingsworth’s wrist. “There’s a lot of rocks on that bracelet. How much did that set you back?”

  “Don’t get any ideas, Big Boy. You try to rip me off and I’ll put a bullet through each of your knees. Hardwick is paying me to retrieve you. He wants you alive, but he didn’t specify what condition you had to be in.”

  “My good buddy, Hardwick,” said Blackheart. “How much is he paying you for this?”

  Killingsworth turned a long corner, and the transport truck was out of sight. “Hey, Big Boy. We just met, remember? I don’t share the intimate details of my business with just anyone.”

  “I’m just asking, because I can make you a better offer,” said Blackheart.

  “The deal’s already been negotiated and done. I don’t alter my terms unless I haven’t been dealt with honestly. Besides, I thought Hardwick was your ‘good buddy.’ He’s doing you a solid by springing you, why do you want to lose him?”

  “I was just being specious or facetious or whichever it is,” said Blackheart.

  Killingsworth kept her eyes on the road, which wound through stands of maples that were dropping orange and red leaves. “Big words.”

  “I got nothing to do in jail but lift weights and read.”

  “I do a lot of reading between jobs,” said Killingsworth. “Specious means you were lying to me and facetious means you meant to be amusing.”

  “I guess it was a little of both,” said Blackheart. “When I said Hardwick was my good buddy I wasn’t telling the truth, but I meant it to be amusing, because Hardwick has never been my buddy. He just wants me out of jail so he can find out what I know.”

  Killingsworth spun the wheel, and the Mustang hugged the tight turn, not drifting even an inch. “What do you know, Joe?”

  Blackheart shifted, uncomfortable with his bulky arms locked behind his back. “That’s why I wanted to cut you a deal, Blondie. I was running dope for Frankie G and made an exchange for a duffel full of cash, but I caught wind that the feds were following me, so I ditched the money before I got nabbed.”

  “If you ditched the money, what did you get nabbed for?”

  Blackheart shrugged. “Some old charges. I beat up my girl pretty bad after I caught her with my best friend, and it bought me five in the pen.”

  “And your best friend?”

  “I broke Finn’s eye socket and his nose. I think he’s the one that turned the feds on to me.”

  KIllingsworth’s face showed no expression. “How much money are we talking?”

  “Six hundred and fifty big ones,” said Blackheart. “Cut Hardwick out of it and we can split the cash fifty-fifty.”

  “I already told you,” said Killingsworth. “A deals a deal, and unfortunately for you, I’ve already made one with Hardwick.”

  “Hardwick won’t give me a dime of it,” complained Blackheart, “and when he’s sure I’ve told him where the money is hidden he’ll put a bullet in my head.”

  “Not my problem,” said Killingsworth.

  Blackheart clamped his jaw shut for a moment before speaking. “If you don’t want the money then why did you ask me all those questions?”

  “I like to know what I’m getting into,” said Killingsworth. “It helps keep me alive. Besides, can’t a woman be curious?”

  “You’ve got a heart of stone,” said Blackheart.

  “It helps in my line of business,” said Killingsworth. “But you still haven’t told me the whole story. Why isn’t Frankie G riding your tail for his money?”

  “Because two nights after I got nabbed the tong put a hit on him and machine-gunned his limousine, killing him, his chauffeur and Benny L.”

  “I knew that,” said Killingsworth. “I was just testing you.”

  “What do you mean ‘you knew that’?”

  “The tong wanted to stay a step away from it and they brought in outside help. Thompson Keel and I did the limousine job. It was messy, but the tong wanted it that way.”

  “Keel,” mused Blackheart. “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Not his real name,” said Killingsworth, “but nobody in this business does go by their real name. I’ve nearly forgotten what mine is.”

  “I’ve heard your name,” said Blackheart.

  “Careful,” said Killingsworth. “If you know too much, I may have to kill you.”

  Blackheart looked at his blonde-haired rescuer, trying to divine if she were joking, but no hint of a smile split those lovely lips. He decided to chance it anyway. “Killingsworth. I heard that Killingsworth and Keel were doing the job for the tong.”

  Now she smiled. “Very good, Joe. I guess you’ve been paying attention. Killingsworth isn’t my real name, of course, but I use it often enough.”

  “What is your real name?” pushed Blackheart. “If you turn me over to Hardwick you’ve condemned me to death, anyhow.”

  “You just keep calling me Blondie. I like the way that you say it.”

  “Blondie, do you mind at least undoing my cuffs?”

  Killingsworth shook her head, eyes still on the road. “Those hands are very capable of snapping my neck. The handcuffs and the ankle bracelets stay on. I truly am sorry. If we had met during different circumstances, who knows how things might have turned out?”

  This seemed small consolation to Blackheart, whose future looked very uncertain and he lapsed into a sullen silence.

  Killingsworth split off the main road, taking a route that pushed into the dense woods that grew up along the hillsides, which were only sporadically settled with farmsteads and cabins. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that, Blondie?”

  “You’re waiting for me to slow down a bit, so you can throw your body against me, smash me into the door, headbutt me, try to knock me unconscious.”

  Blackheart didn’t deny it. “I really don’t want to see Hardwick.”

  “I just want you to know that if you try anything I will shoot you in any number of uncomfortable places.”

  “Good to know,” said Blackheart.

  “But I can’t help but like you, Joe. You behave yourself, and when I send you over to Hardwick I’ll put the key to your cuffs in your hand. What you manage to do with it is all on you, but I’ll have fulfilled my end of the bargain with Hardwick.”

  “Is that all that matt
ers to you? Keeping your end of the bargain?”

  “All a girl’s got is her reputation,” said Killingsworth.

  “So what’s my end of the bargain?” asked Blackheart.

  “You weren’t listening, babe” said Killingsworth. “To hold up your end, you need to sit still and do exactly as I tell you. If you’re a good boy, you get the key.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” replied the blonde assassin. “But if you manage to escape and want to look me up, maybe we can share a drink, and part on more pleasant terms.”

  Blackheart smiled slightly. “If I manage to live through this, next time we meet remind me to strike some sort of bargain with you—something to ensure I never end up on the wrong side of a Killingsworth contract again.”

  “You got it, Big Boy.”

  The Global Positioning System in Killingsworth’s Mustang beeped, indicating that there was another turn ahead. In five minutes time, and after following a series of bewildering twists and hairpin turns, Killingsworth pulled the Mustang into a remote field of high Kentucky grass. The dirt road was marked by a ramshackle grain silo, the aluminum panels dented and even peeling off. The road had been recently traveled, and Killingsworth turned her Mustang onto it, passing the rat-infested grain silo, and following the rutted trail until the silo was out of sight, lost in a sea of yellow grasses, seed pods bending over the high stalks. Amidst this tall grass a central area had been plowed down, and a four door extended cab Ford truck was parked and waiting.

  A thug with an UZI machine pistol sat on the tailgate and Hardwick, in suit pants and a sport jacket, leaned against the side panel. Killingsworth left the engine of her Mustang idling and stepped out.

  “You’re three minutes late.” Hardwick motioned and his hired thug dropped from the tailgate and covered Killingworth with the snout of his machine pistol. “I thought you had a reputation for punctuality.”

  “I had some unavoidable delays. You still want Blackheart?”

  “Of course I want Blackheart,” said Hardwick. “Don’t tell me he’s been bending your ear with some crazy stories?”