Madman's Thirst Read Online Free Page A

sorry. Listen, grab
my cigs in my jacket in the back. I’m just gonna slide over.”
    Gallo climbed into the back and
started going through pockets.
    “Where the hell are they? They’re
probably what’s fuckin’ you up. OK. Got ‘em.”
    He turned. Banaszak was holding an
automatic pistol.
    “What the ….?
    Banaszak pulled the trigger. The
explosion in the confined space of the van reverberated off the corrugated
siding.
    “Shit,” Banaszak said, his ears
ringing. But he wasn’t worried about anyone else hearing the blast. Most of it
would be contained inside the van, and muffled shots among the reeds were not
rare in this part of New Jersey.
    Gallo, for his part, never heard a
thing. The bullet, traveling faster than sound, entered his forehead. There was
no Hollywood splatter. The dum-dum mushroomed to a stop mid-brain and
effectively turned Gallo’s skull into a blender. With a brain suddenly the
consistency of a smoothie, his eyes crossed comically and his mouth popped open
and stayed that way. He squatted onto his haunches and farted, long, loud and
posthumously, then toppled backwards.
    “Great,” Banaszak muttered,
opening a window as the interior of the van turned a noxious mix of cordite and
intestinal methane. He immediately regretted having talked his ex-partner into
kielbasa and sauerkraut dinner the night before. “She was a nice kid, you
stupid prick. Not worried about DNA, were you? This ain’t Memphis.”
    Banaszak pried the cigarette pack
from Gallo’s fingers and lit up. He took a deep drag and exhaled in a long,
satisfying cloud over the corpse, waving his hand to spread the smoke and cut
the odor. After a few more puffs, he leaned over and casually dropped the
cigarette into Glover’s gaping mouth. It hissed and a small stream of smoke
eked out.
    “Checkmate,” he said aloud. “Now
let me show you how we deal with DNA in New York.”
    Climbing back into his seat, he
pulled out his own cell phone and hit a speed dial. After a brief conversation,
he headed north, spending another uncomfortable hour in traffic listening to
Gallo’s body settling and gurgling obscenely before crossing the George
Washington Bridge. Twenty minutes later he pulled into a combination junk yard
and chop shop in the Bronx. A trio of snarling dogs, a Doberman and two
shepherds, hurled themselves maniacally at a fence as he walked toward a
construction trailer. A man came out of the trailer and they shook hands.
    “Nice dogs,” Banaszak said. “Can I
pet one?”
    The man laughed, and said,
“Michael Vick rejects.” He pointed at the van. “The full treatment?”
    “Yeah. The compactor and acetylene
torches.”
     “Too bad. The boys were proud of
their artwork.”
    “Tell them it will be messy. It may
squirt. They shouldn’t wear their Sunday best.”
    “What about the tires. They look
pretty good.”
    Banaszak thought about it. He knew
what the man was getting at. Probably could make a couple of bills selling the
tires.
    “Van was heisted anyway,” the man
said encouragingly.
    “The tires are yours,” Banaszak
said. “How about a ride back to the city?”
    “No problem. Take you myself. You
can wait in the shack while I get this started. Coffee is fresh.”
    In an hour, the van, gun, toolbox,
uniforms and 225 pounds of stiffening DNA were compressed into a two-ton cube,
then cut into shards dripping  a gruel of gasoline, oil and blood that would be
shipped to various landfills outside the state.
    Lucas Gallo would be spread over a
dozen zip codes. 
     

CHAPTER 4 – BULLETPROOF
     
    Everett Harvey put his coffee in
the cup holder. It was mid-afternoon and his was the only car parked in the
Dunkin’ Donuts lot in a strip center on Bay Street. He pulled down the visor
and opened the mirror. There were white crumbs in his moustache. Harvey took a
napkin and brushed them off. He looked down and swiped his tie and pants legs.
He ignored his jacket, which could camouflage anything. Harvey looked