Saint Oswald by Jay Bonansinga (motivational novels .txt) 📕

A quick pop to the back of the head with a .22 Ruger—quick, clean, and humane—and it would all be over. Unfortunately, at the moment of truth, the gun jammed, and the freak ran, and Oswald had to chase the asshole down the entire length of an alley while simultaneously loading the 12-gauge. When Oswald finally caught up with the prick—getting close enough to send a pound of heavy-gauge shot through his cerebellum—a civilian car had inadvertently pulled into the line of fire across the mouth of the alley.

The Head-Wound Guy was dead even before he slammed into the beat-up Hyundai. The poor son of a bitch went splat against the car’s windshield, and the young waitress sitting behind the wheel, waiting for a light to change, nearly jumped out of her uniform. But then she turned and recognized the big man with the ponytail and shotgun looming in the shadows of the alley. Their eyes met as the dead pervert slid off the car and crumpled to the ground, leaving a slug-trail of gore on the Hyundai’s window. And something passed between waitress and shooter then, something inchoate and indefinable, something never discussed again.

That was nearly ten years ago—ten long, long years of sloppy hits and drunken recriminations.

Now, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, Oswald feels obliged to say something. “Sorry I never fessed up to it.”

Gerbil waves it off like a bad smell. “Ancient history, forget about it.”

“I’d still like you to wait in the car tonight.”

“What am I—a two-year-old?”

“Humor me, Gerbil.”

She grunts and smokes. “You’re still gonna pay me my regular fee.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“And not with one of those rubber checks.”

“Don’t get your piles in an uproar, you’ll get your money.” In the distance, Oswald sees his exit, and he flips on his turn signal. “Here we go.” As he turns off the highway, he glances in the rearview.

The ghost of Alberta Goldstein is gone.

The only problem now is Oswald’s appearance. He cuts such a distinctive figure that sneaking up on another assassin is going to be problematic. Anybody who has anything to do with organized crime will immediately recognize the slovenly, long-haired, 270-pound Native American.

Which is why, upon arriving at the vast casino and resort complex at around 7:45, Oswald pulls behind a long row of garbage dumpsters on the far edge of the parking lot and turns the engine off. Sodium lights shine down through clouds of moths.

“Okay, you want to help me?” He turns to Gerbil as he reaches up and bunches his long hair into a ponytail.

“Depends,” she says, looking around the facility, her eyes darting from tour buses to mobile homes to minivans. The place is fairly busy for a Wednesday night.

“Go inside the gift shop and get me some ridiculous-looking shit to wear, and get me one of those stupid-ass plastic buckets for the slots.”

She looks at him. “What do you mean, ‘ridiculous’?”

“Tourist shit.”

“What are you talking about—‘tourist shit’? What happened to the silent, deadly Injun routine?”

Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he snaps a rubber band around his hair. “Gotta blend in with the rabble.”

“Jesus Christ whatever,” she grumbles.

She gets out of the truck and pads across the lot toward the main entrance, which is a garish façade made out of a giant paddle wheel of neon and fake plastic cypress trees. The main building is a massive, ugly, windowless pile of cinderblocks that stretches practically into the next county and throbs with muffled pop music. Gerbil vanishes inside the glass foyer, and is gone for nearly ten minutes. When she returns, she’s hauling two big plastic shopping bags.

“Move over,” she says, and tosses the merchandise onto the seat.

“Nice,” Oswald comments sourly as he pulls a huge, idiotic cowboy hat from the bag. It’s fashioned out of the spongy material of Nerf balls and says SHERRIF across the crown. “Very classy.”

Chartreuse camo-shorts come out next, followed by big Jackie-O sunglasses, followed by a shocking pink T-shirt that’s at least two sizes too small for Oswald’s hefty girth. The plastic bucket has Ryan Seacrest’s smiling face plastered over it. Oswald kicks off his work boots, and struggles out of his jeans while the steering wheel digs into his ham-hock thighs. He pulls on the shorts, muscles his boots back on, then takes off his shirt.

By now the girdle is ripe. Stained black with Betadine and pus, it smells like a dead skunk. He rips the Velcro straps and tosses the thing behind the driver’s seat. “Grab the gun case behind your seat,” he says.

Gerbil fishes around in the shadows, finds the case, pulls it out, thumbs it open, and hands Oswald a cold Glock nine-millimeter with two mags loaded to the gills and a homemade suppressor.

Oswald stuffs the gun and accessories into the camo pockets, then quickly pulls the pink T-shirt over his barrel chest.

“No fucking way,” he says, looking at his reflection in the mirror, the front of the shirt visible in the half-light.

“You wanted ridiculous,” Gerbil reminds him, sparking a cigarette.

“No fucking way in hell I’m wearing this.”

“You want me to go back and exchange it?”

“You did this on purpose.”

“You look fantastic.”

“Keep your cell phone on,” he snarls at her and shoves his door open.

Ambling across the lot with his Ryan Seacrest change bucket, his spongy cowboy hat flapping in the breeze, he feels exposed, vulnerable—as though all eyes are on the stenciled balloon-like letters emblazoned across the front of his pink T-shirt, just above the spot where his hairy belly pokes out: BABY ON BOARD.

18.

William Wilson Elgart makes his entrance just after 9 p.m. He comes through the east doors, the ones by the dancing waters, and he stands in the shimmering vestibule for a moment, letting the mirrored ball bathe him with silver fairy dust. The air smells of re-circulated cigarette smoke and carpet cleaner, and the chiming drone of slot machines rings across the catacombs of the casino.

The seamy carnival atmosphere of it all sends a shiver