Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story by G.P. Sorrells (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

the labels, but gave up when he first felt a shooting pain in his left arm as a needle pierced his inner wrist.

Sheridan grunted.

“Sorry about that,” offered the Blob. “I don’t get to do this too often. Normally they just have me set everything up in back.”

Can’t imagine why, Sheridan almost muttered. “Must be nice to get out every now and again.”

“Oh, absolutely,” the Blob responded as he pierced Sheridan’s other arm. “Okay, Mr. Sheridan, we’re almost ready. I’m just going to make sure your fluids are running as expected, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Fluids? What fluids, exactly?”

“Oh, you know, the usual cocktail.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Err… um…,” the Blob looked around anxiously, as though he half expected a caped hero to burst through the door at any moment and whisk him away to safety. When that didn’t happen, he wiped his brow and attempted to collect himself. “What I mean to say is, uh, it’s just something to keep you hydrated.”

“Guess I’m going to be here a while.”

“You could say that,” the Blob replied. He flicked each bag and watched as the disparate fluids coerced through the plastic tubes, racing toward the bloodstream of the man whose body they would eventually enter.

Sheridan stared hard at the Blob, working toward a line of questioning which may trick some useful information out of the man. His mind slowly drifted in and out of focus, as though he were looking through an old View-Master toy whose reels kept being removed just as he gained clarity on the scene in question. He never saw the Blob reach down to raise the gurney into the upright position. Didn’t notice as the man awkwardly backed away and rushed out of the room.

He only saw the walls burst to life. Each screen showed something different. Some were simply images. Others had videos. The one constant was the man Hurst had sent Sheridan to kill. He was going about his life, through various phases of it, and eventually reaching a point Sheridan wasn’t sure had ever existed. The screens all ran concurrently, with no regard for his ability to keep any of what he saw or heard as more than just a fleeting memory. Just as his mind threatened to quit for a moment, and to let slumber take hold, something shocked him in the back. He was awake again, watching as the cavalcade of memories from another person’s life slowly became his own. His mind felt like it was turning to mush, incapable of discerning between his own thoughts and the words that kept coming out of the room.

“Come on, sweetheart, wake up for daddy.”

“Who the hell is that girl?”

“Castillo. Ji… Jimmy Castillo. Every now and then, when he’s got a job, he needs done that his normal guys don’t have the knowhow, or balls, to take on, he calls me.”

“What in the actual fuck is happening? I think I’m going crazy.”

“That’s impossible. I don’t know anyone named Castillo.”

“Well, he must know you.”

Gunshots always signaled the end. The moment before, the same shock pierced Sheridan’s back and forced his eyes open. Peaceful slumber was kept at bay and the repetition all but ensured he would not forget the visions playing out before him into infinity.

Chapter 40

Micah had his hand on the front door of La Cantina Sucia, instinctively ready to open it and walk inside, when a familiar voice stopped him. He turned, hoping his apprehension wasn’t so obvious as it felt.

“Let’s head somewhere with a bit more privacy,” Castillo said behind the veil of a plastic grin.

“O… k,” was about all the reply Micah could muster. The sudden change in location for their meeting set off alarms in his mind, but he complied with the demand without the faintest hint of protest. Truthfully, there wasn’t much cause for concern other than a nagging feeling of paranoia. The pair walked down the street, toward an unremarkable diner with a paint-by-numbers interpretation of what life in the fifties must have been like. A hostess dressed to the nines for a sock hop ushered them over to a cozy booth near a corner window.

Castillo eyed Micah, working his angle. He opted to start things out chummy rather than jump straight to the point. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Slept terrible.”

“You going to be okay to help me out today?”

“Should be. Just need something to get me going.”

Castillo motioned for the server and positioned a couple of mugs before his arrival. “Just coffee, thanks,” he said before the server talked up their specials for the day. A look of abject despair crept across the server’s face. He walked back to the counter after filling the mugs, a sullen look on his face, and glanced around for another set of customers.

Content with their seclusion, Castillo returned his gaze to Micah. “All right, so that business opportunity I mentioned.” His voice trailed off as he fiddled with the paper wrapping on the silverware that he had no intention of using. The gears moved in his head, ideas swirling about as he zeroed in on the optimal way to make his proposition. “I met some guys who do a bit of trafficking. Not coke, but something with a similar payout if you know the right people.”

Micah kept his face blank, devoid of emotion, and took a sip of his scalding hot coffee. “What do they move? Guns; girls; pills?”

“Guns, primarily.” Castillo replied. His tone was evasive, as though he were holding something back. “I’m sure they do something else on the side. It’s difficult to be successful in our world if you don’t diversify your offerings.”

“You want to buy these guns, then turn around and sell them? Look, man, I’m willing to do a lot, but I’m no dealer. Guns or otherwise.”

The moral high ground was not somewhere Castillo expected Micah to venture, considering all he had done for the Cartel. “Don’t you worry, Boy Scout,” he chided. “We’re not dealing. I called up my guy and told him