Wicked Whoopie Pies by Addison Moore (english novels to improve english TXT) 📕

The beefier goon of the two asks for my name and I give it, and not more than ten seconds later, I cross over the portal myself. Everett and I walk down past the woods and spot Jimmy standing to the left, firing shots off, and it’s loud as anything despite the fact he’s got a silencer on his weapon.

He fires toward an entire line of corrugated plastic targets hanging about a hundred yards away and does a number on everything in his path. He’s even got the wind flags out in every color to help gauge his shot according to the breeze. Jimmy is going all out to up his game in the shooting department. Although, at this point, my guess is this is all for fun. He’s hired the best and brightest, or the worst and dimmest, to do his deadly bidding—take your pick.

We see a couple more of his goons lurking on the sidelines. One of them points our way, alerting Jimmy to our presence.

Jimmy is wearing a suit, granted the jacket is off, and the sleeves to his white dress shirt are rolled up. He gives a casual lull of his head in our direction before taking off his earmuffs and hitching his head for us to come his way.

“Judge Baxter.” He nods to Everett then me. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Detective?”

“Just thought I’d pop over, say hello. Maybe see where a conversation takes us.” I look over at Everett. He had better not ruin this for me. I don’t need his bravado rearing its ugly head and getting Miranda Lemon killed in the process. “Nice range,” I say. “You’re a good shot.” I flick a finger toward the targets.

It’s true. He’s nailed just about every single one.

“I can do better.” Jimmy motions to someone on the right. “Bring out Lazzari,” he shouts.

“What’s Luke doing here?” Everett asks, but I’m pretty sure he’s talking to himself at this point. I don’t blame him. I’m wondering the exact same thing.

“Keeping me company.” Jimmy gives a thumbs-up as the goon in question hangs something up on a wire about six feet off the ground in the distance, and not until he steps away do we see it’s a life-size cutout of Luke Lazzari himself hanging on the target bracket.

“Watch your ears, boys,” Jimmy says as he forces a couple of shots off. He’s got a silencer on his piece, but you can still hear a healthy pop, and sure enough, my ears tingle because of it.

Jimmy hits the paper version of Luke in both knees and three times in the groin.

“Bring out Moretti,” Jimmy shouts, and it takes less than a few seconds for us to see an older man, dark, bruised-looking eyes, a swath of dark hair to match, dressed in a light gray suit, and I don’t need a road map to let me know that’s Mannino Moretti Senior.

Last month I found out Everett had been paying Manny Junior ten K a week to keep Jimmy’s hit from happening. Thankfully, Lottie had the idea to manipulate her paternity tests, and it saved both Everett’s wallet and his life. Jimmy called off the hit. Lottie might have to pretend to be Jimmy’s daughter the rest of her natural life just to keep breath in Everett’s lungs.

Jimmy fires off a few more shots, this time two to the heart and one in each eye.

“Geez,” I hiss as I take a full step back.

“What’s the matter, Detective? You’ve never seen someone get the holy trinity?”

I glance to Everett before looking back his way. “Is that what you call that move? We call it a felony.”

Jimmy chuckles as he lands his gun into the holster at his waist.

“So who came to play?” He nods my way. “Detective, did you bring your weapon?”

“I’ve got it. No silencer. I’d hate to blow out our eardrums for no good reason. I’m a good shot.”

He shrugs. “I’ll have the boys outfit you with a few pairs of earmuffs. How about you, Judge Baxter? You carrying?”

Everett taps his waist with his elbow. “I’ve got Ethel.”

“Carlotta Junior’s gun.” Jimmy bows his head, and quite frankly I’m not too shocked that Jimmy Canelli knows all about the nickname for the Glock Everett and I gave Lottie. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but that’s a little like wearing your wife’s dress where I’m from. You need your own gun. You’re a powerful man—a target on a good day, let alone a bad.” He winks over at him.

Everett’s chest doubles in size.

Why do I get the feeling Jimmy is hinting at the fact Everett is about to have a bad day?

Jimmy swings those dark eyes my way. “But worse than toting your old lady’s gun is the fact the mother of your child has left you for your brother.”

“Stepbrother,” I correct. “But we’re no longer related.” And yet, oddly I feel more related to Everett now than I did back then. “So what’s going on? Why did you call Everett to the bullet farm?”

Jimmy flexes a short-lived smile his way. “I’m assuming you shared the news with Detective Fox.”

“Nope.” Everett is quick to shake his head as he cuts me a look that suggests he wasn’t about to do it either. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

“You first,” I tell him.

Everett’s icy stare is just as stone-cold. “Jimmy swiped Lemon’s hairbrush the day of the dedication. He had her DNA analyzed. It’s game over. He knows she’s not his. That bullseye is right back on my chest—where I’m sure you think it belongs.”

“Not true.” My nostrils flare as I look to the mobster before us. “You’re not killing Everett. And you’re not killing my father, are you?” I hold his gaze a good long while because I have a feeling I’ve got his number. “How much did you loan my father, anyway? One hundred thousand? Five hundred thousand?