Bad Guys Read Free

digging his fingers into her tit. “Say something!”
    Her face crumpled and her lips trembled. She started to sob in soft squeaks. “No, don’t . . .” she cried.
    â€œGet out,” he yelled, bouncing off the bed. “Get out,” he repeated, but she was frozen in fear. He yanked her up by the arm, then gathered up her clothes from the armchair and thrust them at her. “Just get the fuck out!”
    She stood motionless, clutching her dress to her chest. Her contorted expression was caught in the moment just before the crying begins.
    He picked up her shoes, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to the door. “Just get out of here,” he said as he pushed her into the hall and slammed the door shut.
    Turning away from the door, he threw the .38 into the pillows at the head of the bed as hard as he could. He fell into the armchair and kneaded his temples with one hand.
    What the fuck is wrong with me? She was a nice kid. What’s wrong with me?
    Suddenly he bolted up from the chair and went into the bathroom for his shirt. He had to get out of there before she called the cops.
    This’ll be over soon, he kept telling himself as he got dressed. This one and two more, then it’s done.

TWO
    Vinnie Clams squinted as he emerged from the shadows of the Lincoln Tunnel, tailgating a bus loaded with commuters heading home to Jersey from their office jobs in Manhattan. He flipped down the visor and gunned the accelerator to pull up alongside the crawling bus so he could get a look at the face on the blonde he’d been watching all the way through the tunnel. Her sexy hair had given him a hard-on, which was putting undue stress on his already overstretched size-48 burgundy double-knits.
    He leaned over the expansive pearl-gray leather seats of the Lincoln Town Car and tapped on the horn to get the blonde’s attention. “Yo! Honey babes!” he yelled through the closed window. “How’ja like some salami?”
    The blaring horn turned heads on the bus, including the blonde’s. She reminded Vinnie of a young Joan Rivers, a pinched fox face with heavy makeup. Not bad, he’d had worse.
    Like everyone else on the bus, she squinted to see through the dark-tinted windows of the black Lincoln swerving alongside the bus.
    Vinnie Clams laughed and snorted, delighted that he’d gotten a rise out of the blonde. He waved goodbye to her, then hauled himself back up behind the wheel. He had business to attend to.
    The hood of the Lincoln sparkled in the late-afternoon haze as it sped up the ramp that connected with Route 3. Vinnie was in a very good mood because he felt insulated from the world. It was hot and sticky outside, but the whispering whoosh of the air conditioner kepthim nice and cool. Untouched, clean. Get a job where you keep your hands clean, they always said back in the old neighborhood. Truer words were never spoken.
    The Lincoln zipped under the big sign that announced the New Jersey Turnpike turnoff, veering around a jacked-up Chevy Nova flying the Puerto Rican flag from its antenna.
    â€œFuckin’ spics,” Vinnie Clams muttered appreciatively. If it weren’t for spics and niggers and jooches, his hands wouldn’t be so clean. But they could be cleaner, and in a few months, if things worked out, they would be.
    A cassette was sticking out of the customized Blaupunkt stereo system the Clam had installed. He pushed the tape in and instantly Olivia Newton-John was singing to him from six speakers Physical. It was the only tape he kept in the car, and that was the only song on the tape he really liked.
    Spotting a pothole in the road up ahead, Vinnie Clams aimed for it on purpose. The front left tire hit hard, and Vinnie frowned at the soft thud he heard. He glanced down at the odometer. Seventeen thousand miles and the suspension’s already shot. A few scratches on the doors, too. It was time for a new car, maybe a Seville this time or a