Page 118 of The Slayer
The pendejo on the couch didn’t have a chance to pump the shotgun in his hands. There was a reason gangsters didn’t use them. They were a poor self-defense choice.
“Drop it, motherfucker,” Chuito growled at him as he used his foot to kick the door shut. “We both know your aim sucks.”
Vaughn Davis’s hands were shaking on the shotgun. His eyes were bloodshot. His brown hair was stringy and unkempt, making it clear he probably hadn’t showered since he got out of jail. His voice was scratchy as he shouted, “I told the Italian—”
Chuito put a finger to his lips, his gun still leveled at Vaughn’s chest, because this motherfucker wasstrung out.
Chuito had promised to do things the Italian way, but if Vaughn moved, if he kept shouting, they were going to do this Boricua style. Life was going to take Chuito out eventually, but it wasn’t going to be with a shotgun shell fired by a redneck rapist junkie.
Chuito would shoot him in a fucking heartbeat and deal with Nova’s bitching later.
“The Italian said—” Vaughn went on, after stuttering to a stop at Chuito’s warning. “He said! He said if I didn’t say anything.”
“Motherfucker, do I look Italian?” Chuito asked him in a calm, quiet voice. “Set the shotgun down. We’ll talk, okay? Do you wanna fucking talk to me? Or do you want me to shoot you?”
Vaughn took a deep breath, his gaze darting from Chuito to the door behind him. Then he set the shotgun down on the table and slid back on the couch, his eyes wide and stunned, making it obvious he knew he was about to die.
“The Italian told me,” he whispered, looking lost. “He said—”
“Yeah, what’d he say?” Chuito asked as he looked at the table that was covered with half-full glasses of booze and drug paraphernalia. This place was a real shithole, so filthy Chuito had the sudden need to set his gun down and go wash his hands. Instead he sat next to Vaughn on the couch and kicked the shotgun off the table. “I’m honestly really fucking curious what he said that kept you from singing to the Department of Justice about Wyatt.”
“He, um—” Vaughn scratched at his arms, which were raw and scarred, as if this was a habit he’d had for a long time. “He said that, uh—”
“Me cago en ná.” Chuito rolled his eyes. “You make me glad I gave up drugs, man. You’re like the worst-fucking-case scenario over here.” He looked at the table, spying crack rocks, and that didn’t help Chuito’s well-being. “I was a fan of cocaine too. I never got into rocks, ’cause motherfuckers who start smoking it turn out like you, but I was getting there.”
“Yeah?” Vaughn asked as he looked at Chuito. “What happened?”
“Wyatt happened, actually.” Chuito kept ahold of his gun as he rested his hand on his leg, pointing it at Vaughn on purpose. “And you fucking raped his wife. You and me, we have an issue, cabrón.”
“But the Italian—”
“What’d he say?” Chuito asked again. “’Cause I’m gonna be very surprised if Nova wrote you a free ticket for keeping quiet.”
“He said, um—” More scratching as Vaughn stared ahead. “He said he’d cut off my balls and feed ’em to me if I snitched. Yeah, that’s what he said. I didn’t snitch.”
Chuito winced at that image. “Good plan, motherfucker. The Italians are creative. Very creative. Coño. I bet he was serious too.”
“He sounded serious,” Vaughn agreed. “You think he was?”
Chuito nodded. “Yeah, they do some fucked-up shit in the mafia. My ass wouldn’t snitch on them.”
“So you’re not gonna kill me?”
“I’m not gonna cut off your balls,” Chuito clarified. “I’ve done some fucked-up shit in my life, but I don’t think I can stomach that, even for a rapist motherfucker like you.”
“It was, like, twenty years ago. That shit with Tabitha.” Vaughn’s voice was whiny. His pupils were wide and dilated, making it obvious he was high as a kite. “Conner already shot me. See?”
He pulled up his shirt, showing Chuito the wound that was swollen and infected, as though he hadn’t cared for it since he got out of the hospital. Chuito grunted and looked away, feeling like he needed to shower for a month.
He needed to get out of this place. The smell alone was making him sick.
Chuito reached into the back of his pants and pulled out one of the two small black satchels Nova had driven all the way to New York to pick up. Chuito had met him halfway to get them from him.
The other one was still sitting in his top drawer, waiting for Tabitha’s brother, who had unexpectedly moved to California a few weeks ago.
Probably after Nova threatened to cut off his balls.
“This is a gift from the Italians,” Chuito said as he held it out. He thrust it at him when Vaughn didn’t take it. “For not snitching.”
