Enroute to Washington
The CJ3 is at cruising altitude, riding through the afternoon sky, and still forty minutes out from Washington when Billy picks up the narrative and—in his forthright, almost blood-curdling way—continues his story. He is aware what Rosie must be thinking, still he sounds a note of pride—seems almost to be gloating, reveling in the moment—as he describes to her the ruthless, cold-blooded way in which he extracted his revenge on the gangsters who killed his friends.
“It was almost like something out of a spy movie. I went back to the machine shed where the Russians were running their smuggling operation—staged with the phony Keffiyehs to purposely look like an Arab/Hezbollah terrorist op—and picked up the track of the Russian mob boss who was heading the operation. His name—I later learned—was Vasily Puchenko. He was the Russian mob boss in the rail car that first night I was with Razzy. He was an international crime figure, connected with the president of Russia through the Russian mob, the Molotov crime family, and the person principally responsible for the deaths of Mercy and my friend, Razzy—and there was still much unfinished business between us.”
Rosie is not sure she even wants to hear the rest of Billy’s story. She turns to Billy. Her face is glum; and, with a resigned look on her face, she breathes a heavy sigh. “So, then what did you do?”
Billy smiles an inward smile of satisfaction and looks at Rosie. “Just like with the judge, I started stalking him to learn his routine, and just like with the judge, I found out he kept a hotel suite in a downtown New Orleans where he partied and took his women. I determined then and there that I was going to take him out in the same way I had taken out the judge. Only this time it would not be a long-range hit; but I would be right in the room with him, face-to-face, and I would torture him first, make him suffer, make him beg for his miserable life before I killed him—make him pay for what he ordered done to Mercy as a way of getting back at me.”
Billy gets a self-satisfied look on his face. “I wanted to see the look of horror, the fear, on that bastard’s face when he finally realized he was a dead man.” What Billy goes on to describe to Rosie is chilling in its ruthlessness; but there is no remorse, no apology coming from Billy.
“I spent some time around the hotel to get acquainted with the routines of the various staff—particularly the janitors and maintenance staff. One afternoon, I picked the lock on the door to the maintenance office and stole a set of keys. That same evening—before the keys could be discovered missing –I came back, donned a maintenance shirt and hat, and posed myself as a janitor.”
Billy grins and smiles at the memory. “Usually Puchenko—the Russian mob boss—kept a guard posted at each end of the hall when he was partying. I busied myself vacuuming until I saw one of the guards go into the restroom at the end of the hall. I worked my way down the carpeted hall with the vacuum and then ducked into the door behind him. He was standing over the sink looking at himself in the mirror when I surprised him from behind. I grabbed him with my arm under his chin, choked and pulled him back and shoved the eight-inch blade of my knife up between his shoulder blades, twisted it and severed his spinal cord. He slumped dead in my arms, and I dragged him into one of the stalls and propped him up on the toilet. I closed the door on the stall and locked it, then I stepped up on his shoulders, and, with my foot on his head, boosted myself up and climbed out over the door of the stall.” Billy pauses and checks the instruments on the plane’s dash panel.
“We’re still about a half hour out from the airport,” he says to Rosie. Then he continues his grisly story.
“I came out of the bathroom and worked my way unobtrusively down the hall toward the other guard. He was preoccupied streaming porn on his cell phone when I grabbed him from behind, shoved him up against the wall and pushed the blade of my knife into his back. There was an involuntary jerk, a death spasm. Then I used one of the stolen pass keys to open the door of an empty room and dragged him inside. I left him there, dead on the floor, and then stepped quietly out into the hall and closed the door.”
Rosie can almost not believe what she is hearing.
Billy gets another grin. “I came into the Russian’s room pushing my janitor’s cart. He was standing by the bar making himself a drink.
“What the fuck,” he said. “I didn’t call for a fucking janitor. Get the fuck outa here you moron.” There was girl in the room with him, half undressed—the same beautiful black girl who had been with the judge. I was surprised.”
Billy grins and looks across at Rosie. “She was gorgeous—with probably the best body I’ve ever seen.”
Rosie makes a sour face. “Thanks, I appreciate the detail, but you can stop with the editorializing, Billy.”
Billy just smiles. “The Russian was pissed-off. ‘Get the fuck outa here,’ he yelled at me again.”
“I’ve got a surprise for you—dick head,” I said.
Again, Billy smiles. “I reached down into the trash barrel on my janitor’s cart and came up with a gun—the Glock, the same gun, with the silencer—that you have now. I pointed it, squeezed the trigger, and blew away his left knee cap. He screamed in pain and grabbed the edge of the bar to steady himself. He reached for a pistol on top of the bar, and I shot him in the other knee. The girl retreated to the far side of the room by the couch and just stared with a look of horror on her face.” Billy continues:
“Fuck,” the Russian cursed and fell to the floor.
“I went over and turned him on his back,” Billy says. “There was a look of fear in his eyes, and I shoved the muzzle of the Glock between his legs into his crotch. “Say you’re sorry and beg for your miserable fucking life or I’ll blow your balls off.” I told him.
“The Russian cursed again and spat in my face. ‘Fuck you,’ he hissed.”
Billy smiles again. “This one is for Mercy,’ I said, and I squeezed the trigger and shot him right in the nuts. He screamed in pain and his face blanched white. I watched a puddle of blood start to form on the carpet between his legs. His forehead was beaded up in sweat and his breath was coming in short, heaving gasps. I told him I was just going to leave him there and let him bleed out.”
“No! No!” he cried out. “Then he finally begged me to kill him.”
Billy is cold and unemotional, his voice matter of fact. “I put the muzzle of the Glock between his eyes and popped him. What I didn’t know was the cops were watching.” Billy grins, quietly laughs, looks over at Rosie and says, “The FBI had the room bugged with tiny hidden cameras as part of a broad counterintelligence operation. They had an open FISA warrant and had been watching the guy for weeks. Now they had me on video.”
He casually continues. “The girl was standing by the couch in stunned silence, her hand covering her mouth. ‘Who are you?’ she asked in a scared, shaky voice. As I said, I recognized her as the same girl who’d been with the judge.”
Rosie winces and just stares, too shocked to know what to say.
Billy breathes a casual sigh. “I reached inside the breast pocket of the Russian’s jacket and took out an expensive leather wallet. Inside was a wad of thirty or forty hundred-dollar bills. I went up to the girl and stuck the money into her bra, between her big tits. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘You need to get a better clientele.’”
Rosie is aghast. “Billy—”
Billy looks amused. “We need to quit meeting like this.” I told her. “People have a way of dying around you,” I joked. “I was at your last party with the judge.”
Rosie listens, and Billy finishes the story. “The girl looked shocked, stared back at me with her mouth agape. ‘You killed the judge?’ she asked me.”
“Her face was full of questions. ‘Who are you anyway?’ she asked me again.”
“I just smiled. ‘I’m your lucky charm, and if you’re smart,’ I told her, ‘You’ll use the money to get out of town. Go to the Greek Islands for six months, but don’t stay in New Orleans.’”