Bad Guys Read Online Free Page A

feel it. A Hefty bag, a heavy-duty Hefty bag full of cash— Madonn’! Vinnie Clams was running now, light-footed for a fat man, his feet barely leaving an impression on the soft, moist earth.
    I’m coming to get you, baby, I am here for the—
    Up ahead a lean muscular figure glanced over his shoulder and looked at the fat man. The back of his black T-shirt was tiger-striped by the reeds.
    The Clam stopped dead in his tracks. “Hey! What the fuck’re you doing here?”
    Tozzi stared at Vinnie Clams, his eyes dark shadows under the ridge of his brow. “I’m taking a piss,” he said indignantly. “What’re you doing here?”
    The Clam looked down. The fucker was pissing on the oil drum! Pissing on the cash!
    Tozzi didn’t move, but he kept his eyes on Vinnie Clams, waiting for an answer.
    The Clam felt stupid and obvious. He had to say something so he wouldn’t look so suspicious. “I’m taking a piss too,” he said.
    â€œSo take a piss.”
    Vinnie Clams didn’t like the way he said that. He didn’t like this guy at all. And besides the fact that he was standing right over the oil drum and pissing on it, there was something vaguely familiar about this asshole. Vinnie Clams had a feeling he knew this guy from somewhere.
    Reluctantly the Clam turned his back on him, unzipped his fly, and pulled out his dick, trying to remember where he knew this guy from. He started to relieve himself and then it suddenly dawned on him—those pictures Varga had sent him a long time ago!—and he peed on his shoe. This guy’s a fucking fed! One of those two FBI guys who were on his ass all last winter trying like crazy to get something on him. Damn, he’d thought they’d given up on him. Goddamn.
    The Clam didn’t move. Slowly he reached into the side pocket of his jacket for his gun. Sweat was running into his eyes. Son-of-a-bitch.
    Vinnie Clams clicked the safety as he turned, leveling the small automatic at—
    Where the fuck—? The guy was gone.
    The Clam quickly dropped down on one knee and stuck his hand into the oil drum. Empty. The humid smell of the fed’s piss was in his face and on his hand. Vinnie Clams stood up and angrily wiped his hand on his pants.
    â€œWhere are you, you cocksucker!”
    The reeds stared back at him, whispering in the stagnant breeze, closing in on him again. He thought he heard something to his right and squeezed off two quick shots. Then he listened. The reeds were still talking about him.
    Heart pounding, he barreled through the overgrowth, hoping to find the bastard doubled over holding his bleeding gut. But there was nothing. The Clam wheezed and coughed, gazing bug-eyed all around him. Nothing but those fucking reeds.
    â€œYo! Fat man! Over here!”
    Vinnie Clams fired wild and ran even though he wasn’t sure where the voice was coming from. “Where are you, you rat bastard? Where’s my money?”
    The Clam ran hard, thinking about all that cash in a big pile on the living-room carpet in his very air-conditioned apartment, trying very hard to ignore the pain that seared through his chest. He fired again without thinking. Then suddenly he saw something flying over his head. The green Hefty bag sailed through the sky in a high arc and then disappeared in the reeds.
    Vinnie Clams went after the money, thinking about Richie Varga’s warning about being late, thinking about those two dogs of his. “Get away from that garbage bag, you fucker! Just clear out, you hear me!” He thought he was shouting, but his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
    He plunged through the reeds, then slipped and fell, dropping his gun. The Clam was wheezing and wincing as he hauled himself up, grabbed the gun, and kept on running and running. All he found, though, were more reeds.
    Jesus Christ Almighty! I need that cash. People got to be paid. Varga wants his cut. Shit, fuck,