Second is the First Loser

Second is the First Loser

A Crime Short Story

by

L. J. Martin

Copyright 2012 L. J. Martin

Printed in the U.S.A.

No part of this story, other than a brief excerpt for reviews, may be reprinted without the express written consent of the publishers.

SECOND IS THE FIRST LOSER

Either I kill him, or, odds are, this is my last day on earth.

And the hell of it is, I don't know who he is. He, or even if he's a he. It, the assassin, could be anywhere, or nowhere in sight and already have clamped a motion-detector-detonated half-pound of Semtex under my Porsche. It seems the big boss, Guido Gambrozini, took umbrage with my using his money to purchase my shiny new red Carrera. Actually it was my money, after I won it fair and square...but Guido doesn't see it that way.

And I not only have to kill the hit him or her, but I have to kill Guido Gambrozini, the bossman, or he'll merely hire another him, her, or it, for the hit.

Guido gave me until noon to return the two hundred grand. But that's not going to happen, even if I still had it. Checking my CYMA chronometer good-to-200-meters diving watch, I see I have three and a half hours before I'm about to become the little dented metal duck in the shooting gallery.

As a gambler by avocation, and at one time by vocation, this is not the first time I've had my life threatened, but it is the first time it's been threatened by a no-neck goomba boy who's credited with a number of cold-blooded murders.

I'm pretty sure where I can find Guido, but have no idea who he's hired. Guido the grease-pot hasn't bloodied his own fat diamond clad fingers with this kind of wet work in many years, and wouldn't risk sending one of his in-house hooligans, as he's being watched too closely by the feds, and knows it.

I've got to get inside his mind, inside his compound, and inside his fat body with a couple of 9 mm slugs.

Of course he thinks he's bullet proof; a fat badger holed up in his ocean front Malibu compound, with at least a half-dozen shooters atop the ramparts looking for any threat to thwart or throat to cut, including, I'm sure, that of yours truly. I've been there, to his Malibu compound, twice, for invitation-only five card stud games; ten grand buy in the first time, then forty when they got serious. Guido found out he was not quite the poker stud he thought himself to be. Then some son of a bitch—one I'd probably nailed for skipping bail—told old Guido that I was a mechanic with the cards. Hell, I can do a one handed cut, but that's as close as I get to a second-card or bottom deck deal. I'm no Houdini with the cardboards, and never tried to learn, as I might be tempted if I was short that months rent.

The first time I played at the Gambrozini compound, I walked away with seventy two hundred, a small score for a big game; but the second time I cleaned them all out.

Poker, ponies, and sport betting is not my profession. I'm a bail enforcement officer. That's bounty-hunter to those of you who aren't familiar with the lexicon of bail bondsmen. But in a way, bounty hunting is gambling as well. You don't get paid your twenty percent, which isn't bad on a half million dollar bail, if you don't hook 'em up and haul 'em in. Of course I'm licensed to carry, which is no small accomplishment in L. A. County.

I'm staying away from the windows in my Santa Monica apartment as I know how easy it is to make a two hundred yard shot with even a cheap hunting rifle, much less a sniper rifle, even through quarter inch plate window glass if you're perpendicular to the surface. However, if Guido's a man of his word, the shooter won't be at work until one minute after noon.