Murder in the Magic City by G.P. Sorrells (speed reading book TXT) 📗

to meet me at the motel on 8th in a couple of hours. He thinks that it’s just going to be a typical purchase. I’ll show up, fork over the stacks, and walk away with enough munitions to take out a small army. That’s where you come in. Once he shows the goods, you take him out. We keep the cash, the guns, and anything else interesting we find.”

Micah stretched out for a couple seconds, feeling a good pull in the muscles of his upper back, before bringing his hands together, one over the other and resting his chin on top. He stared straight ahead, knowing full well how absurd the whole situation felt. How likely it was that something so ill prepared for would fail. But something tugged at him deep inside. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was he was feeling, or why he seemed so intent on listening, but he trusted what he assumed was his gut. The strange pull to follow Castillo, to continue to get closer. To eventually take care of things once and for all. Whatever the hell that meant. “Fuck it, let’s do it.”

Castillo looked at Micah like a proud parent watching their child walk across a stage for their college graduation. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” He stood up, placing a hundred on the tabletop. “Though I’m now just a slight bit surprised you’d agree so easily, considering your newfound morals.”

“Oh, believe me, buddy, it’s going to cost you.” Micah said as he jokingly patted Castillo on the back.

-#-

Micah rolled the Impala to a stop across the street from a shabby motel in a rather neglected part of the city. Grass overgrown, where it still existed, and there were bars across every window. Even on the third floor. Do they think Curious George is going to break in? At first glance, he assumed it more than likely a place for one-night-lovers to mingle. The sign out front didn’t help to detract from that notion. It read Magic City Motel—Where the Magic Happens One Night at a Time.

“They run their entire operation out of this dump?”

“Doubt it,” Castillo said as he stepped out of the car. “If this is anything more than a front, they can pull stuff off in from time to time, I’ll eat that guy’s hat.”

Micah’s eyes drifted toward Castillo’s nod, landing on a surly man sprawled out on the corner in front of the motel. He wore a taupe poncho with thin white stripes in a jagged pattern at the shoulder, separating the dull color of the body from the vibrant maroon up top. A blue handkerchief rested haphazardly around his neck. A wide-brimmed hat with a flat crown sat atop his head, shielding his face from the sun. Pushed back against a fence was a rucksack which appeared to hold all the man’s valuables.

“Got any spare change?” The man raised a red solo cup toward Castillo, who looked at him with a mixture of disgust and pity before marching away. “Suit yourself, friend.”

“Here,” Micah said, grabbing his wallet. He took out all the cash he had and put it into the cup.

“You sure, man?” The man pulled the cash out of the cup and twisted it lightly between his fingers, as though attempting to determine whether it was real. “You ain’t worried I’m gonna spend it on drugs or sum’thin?”

Micah watched him curiously. The thought of what the man might do with the money had never occurred to him. “Look, buddy, it’s none of my business what you decide to do with this. If getting blitzed is going to put you on the track to turning things around, go for it. Hell, use some of it to get a little action tonight in this motel. Doesn’t matter. Just do me one favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Get yourself a bite to eat. Got to keep your energy up if you’re going to do anything crazy tonight.” With that, he hurried after Castillo.

Once Micah was out of sight, the homeless man stood up and tossed the cup to the ground. He walked down the street to a bus stop and sat down on the bench. Content that he was alone, the man lifted the poncho and retrieved a cheap looking mobile phone. He flipped it open and pressed a series of numbers. The phone rang twice before the line clicked. No one answered on the other end.

“Base. This is Seamus McFly. Just ran into our bogey. He’s with the secondary target at a local whorehouse,” the man said. He waited a moment for a response that wouldn’t come. “How would you like me to proceed?”

“Keep your eyes on our friend,” came the distorted voice at the other end of the line. “But do it from a distance. The last thing we need is to spook him before he does his job.”

“Copy that,” the man replied. He snapped the phone in half and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. The hat and poncho weren’t far behind.

Chapter 41

“This is my associate, Micah,” Castillo said, gesturing to his compatriot.

Micah seemed irritable, bouncing lightly from one leg to the other as if he might cease to exist if he just stood still. A brawny man with one of the largest beards Micah had ever seen stood between them and the door to room number 9 of the motel. His arms were a tapestry of ink. Mostly black and white with varying degrees of fading taking place. On his right forearm, stretching from his wrist to his elbow, sat an obnoxiously large Confederate Battle Flag. Its colors were vibrant, the skin still somewhat raw. In script surrounding the standard were the words “Good Ole Boys.” A nod to the group with whom he was a part. Likely a hint at something else too, Micah thought angrily.

“Look, friend,” Castillo said, placing a hand on the brawny man’s shoulder as though the two had known each other for years. The cold