The Minder

Fitz, the freelancer specializing in dirty jobs, has a new job. It involves a cop with a price on his head, literally, and a twist ending.

Somebody really hated Bobby Gallo.

Somebody hated him so much they wanted to see him dead, a million dollars worth of dead.

That's a million reasons for me to want him dead too.

And did I mention that the fellow putting up the million bucks wanted Gallo's head as proof. Yes, I said head. As in removed from neck and put in a sack. That bastard meant business.

I was in a sports bar nestled in the shadow of a big-ass suspension bridge that connected Bay City with its slightly grubbier twin Wellington. Bay City had banned smoking in bars but this place was halfway to being a cop bar, so they ignored that particular law, and the place reeked of burnt tobacco, spilled beer, and sweat. The bulk of the customers were huddled around old Formica tables decorated with ash-burns and puddles of beer, playing some sports trivia game on a big screen at the end of the room.

I didn't play the game, I stood at the bar, taking care of business.

"Which one is he?"

"He's the tall fellow at table three, Fitz," said my contact Nick, a squat fellow with a bull neck, and beady piggish eyes, "real string-bean type with a moustache."

I scanned the room and found Bobby Gallo. He had just clicked on the button telling the computer running the game that the answer was some American named Tommy Lasorda. He and his mates cheered when the big screen told them they were right.

"He doesn't look like a cop," I said, and I was right, he looked like Ichabod Crane's long lost twin, all bones, and angles.

"I hear that he was good undercover," said my contact, "before he transferred to robbery, he set the record for buy and busts."

"Must have pissed off a lot of people," I said.

"Must have," said Nick, "that's a lot of bread."

"Any of his old busts have that kind of scratch?" I asked.

Nick shrugged. "They were all small timers, but the word is that the lawyer's boss has the cash on hand and ready to go. Our sources are solid; they're too scared to lie."

"Is Gallo dirty?"

Nick shook his head. "No, he is as straight as a frigging laser. The Mounties even tapped the local PD to loan him out for some sting operation out west."

"Our boy's heading out," I said. Bobby Gallo shook hands with his bodies, tucked his neatly bundled prize t-shirt into one of his raincoat's large pockets and went for the door.

"Aren't you gonna go after him?" asked Nick, nervous that his employers would blame him if I missed an opportunity.

"Patience," I said, taking a sip of my soda, and keeping my eyes on the bar's customers. Outside of Gallo's police work this was the only regular routine thing in his life. He played that stupid sports trivia game every Wednesday from seven to nine, and then he went home. If someone wanted to collect the million by collecting Gallo's head this was the best place, and the best time to start from.

I saw a stocky fellow with a face like a fist get up from his corner booth, where he had been nursing the same beer all evening, leave a five dollar bill on the table, and went out after Gallo.

"Now I leave," I said. "Tell your boss to have my payment ready in the morning."

"You think you're gonna get the job done tonight?"

I didn't bother answering; Nick mumbled something about hiring a "goddamn Belfast Mick" and I left.

I knew that if I didn't get this job done tonight, word about the million dollars was going to leak out, if not to the general public, then to the general scum. After that Bay City was going to be the Wild West on the Atlantic as every pro-hitter and wannabe thug took their shot at the big prize.

That would be messy.

I don't like messy.

#

It was raining again, a real pisser. So I pulled my hood over my head. Gallo was down the street, passing a convenience store. About two seconds behind him was the fellow with the face like a fist. He was reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. Like me, this guy was an out of town pro on alien turf, so he was going to be extra aware of his environment. I had to move fast.

I did.

Fist-face was crossing an alley when I struck, a small calibre automatic pistol, complete with silencer in his hand. I slapped one hand over his mouth, grabbed his gun-hand with the other, pulled back, and drove my knee into his elbow.

There was a satisfying snap. Fist-face let out a muffled howl, bit glove leather, and dropped his pistol with a clatter. I heaved him into the alley, let go of his broken arm, positioned my hand at the back of his skull, yanked, and heard another snap. Fist-face went limp, and I let him drop on the ground.

There goes the competition.

"Hello?" said a voice, sounding confused and a little tipsy. It had to be Gallo; he was the only other person on the street. I reached into my coat and pulled my special gun from its holster.

Footsteps on a puddle, Gallo appeared at the mouth of the alley, saw Fist-face's pistol and bent over for a closer look.

My gun popped, Gallo clutched at his neck and fell silent on the wet pavement.

I dragged Gallo into the alley and looked at the remains of Fist-face.

Fist-face must have been a boy scout, because he came prepared. Sticking out of his long brown raincoat was the handle of a machete and one of those tinfoil cooler bags.

This job was going to be easier than I thought.