Revenge School (A Pay Back Novel Book 1) Page 2

  Pay pressed his thumb against the scanner and was met with an Angelia Jolie voice that breathed, “Hi Pay. Welcome back.”

  He was glad to hear her. Brad Pitt’s voice meant the security system had been breached.

  Locks snapped open, the door slid back and Blade, Pay’s charcoal gray Great Dane-English Mastiff mix, rubbed against his thigh. Blade ran up the stairs while Pay took the elevator to the second floor kitchen where he filled a half-liter British beer mug with ice, bourbon and soda. After knocking back a big swallow, he tore off two hunks of jerky: a small piece for him and a bigger one for Blade.

  Blade sniffed at the jerky like it was diseased.

  Pay laughed. “I know dog. It’s nasty stuff.”

  Blade and Pay took the elevator to the third floor, the only route to Pay’s personal living space. As the door opened and the bourbon kicked in, Pay’s shoulders dropped and his breathing deepened. Sparse, decorated in black, white and cobalt blue, the living room consisted of a couch, coffee table, bookcase, and an oversized black leather recliner for reading.

  Settling into his favorite chair, Pay chewed the jerky then followed it up with a swig of bourbon and soda. Wishing Brooke or Chase was around so he could tell them about the girl and Rock, he pushed the recliner back, kicked off his shoes, and five minutes later was out.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mary Ellen winced, sitting gingerly on a chair at the Starbucks across the street from her apartment. Her knee ached from being slammed to the ground and she knew there was going to be a giant purple bruise on her butt. One that would look horrible on stage because it would be impossible to cover with makeup.

  Sucker is really going to cut into my tips.

  She pulled the sweater from her bag and began transitioning from Destiny the stripper, to Mary Ellen…financially stressed student.

  Still wired from the fight, she sipped decaf and practiced deep breathing, watching her building’s entrance. Once in a while, some overheated guy would follow her home; or some weirdo would be hanging around. Half an hour and one bathroom break later she felt better.

  Mary Ellen pawed through her stuff, disappointed, but not surprised to find her pepper spray missing.

  She returned to the counter. “One extra-large black coffee to go, please.”

  “Decaf again?” The barista turned toward the pot without waiting for an answer.

  “Yes, and you can keep the lid.”

  With keys poking out between the fingers of her right hand—just in case—coffee in her left, Mary Ellen headed home, wishing she’d complained more about the building’s lack of security. The entry door lock had been broken since Wednesday, and most of the stairway lights had been burned out for weeks. Peering into the darkness, she limped up the staircase, grateful for the one dim bulb ahead on the landing.

  The coffee roiled uncomfortably in her empty stomach. She paused near her downstairs neighbor’s front door, listening for music or conversation…anything to indicate he was home and awake.

  She still had the key from feeding his fish last week.

  Maybe I should go in and wait for him. Tell him about the fight and that I’m scared to be home alone. She shook her head at the silly idea and frowned.

  At the club I can lead guys around by the nose. But not out here. Can’t just use a guy’s spare key and make myself at home.

  As Mary Ellen turned toward the last flight of dark stairs, a black gloved hand seized her throat, cutting off her breath. She jerked back, slamming her head into the man behind her. Starbucks spilled from the paper cup scalding her hand.

  Over her shoulder, she felt more than saw, a tall, fat man; his soft belly pressed into her back and shoulders. With his right hand clamped over her mouth and left hand crushing her throat, it wasn’t going to be long before she passed out.

  “Be quiet.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she couldn’t see much but a gray hoodie.

  “I want the videos.”

  She tried to answer, but what came out sounded more like a snort.

  His hand relaxed slightly on her mouth and throat, “Don’t scream.” She gulped in a ragged breath. “Videos? What are you talking about?”

  “Ah, shit. Open the fucking door.”

  Fumbling through the ring, she found Richard’s key and willed her shaking hand toward the lock.

  Thank God there was only the one deadbolt.

  As the lock clicked, Mary Ellen heaved right, throwing her Starbucks directly into the fat man’s face.

  He screamed and clawed at his eyes, as she rammed the door with her shoulder.

  Whirling into the apartment Mary Ellen ran toward the kitchen. Three steps in she reversed and threw her weight against the door, slamming it shut. Then realized he was already inside.

  Shit.

  Scalded by coffee, her attacker stumbled over the end table, sending the aquarium crashing to the floor. Slipping in the water, he tripped and took a nose-dive.

  Mary Ellen clobbered his head with her bag and one of the textbooks inside smashed his nose.

  “Ow, fuck!” Dazed, tears streamed from his eyes as he struggled to his knees.

  Swinging the backpack up from the floor like a golf club, she whacked his face. He collapsed, as the force of the hit made the bag’s zipper split open and stuff flew all over the room.

  Mary Ellen raced down the hall toward the bedroom, screaming: “Help! Rape! Rape!” Slamming the door, she dove across the bed toward the fire escape.

  The fat man lumbered down the hallway and bashed the door with his fist. “You think that flimsy ass thing is going to stop me?”

  The door burst from its hinges and he thundered into the room. Mary Ellen grabbed the reading light, twisted to her left, and swung at his head. He roared, blocked the lamp with a forearm and delivered a right to her gut. Her ribs crunched. She puked. A left hook broke even more ribs, and an overhand right crushed down on the crown of her head.

  Is this how I’m going to die?

  CHAPTER 5

  Pay’d been asleep for about an hour when the office phone roused him from his unplanned nap. He pulled himself out of the recliner and stumbled toward the third floor extension. “Pay.”

  “Hear you’ve been busy playing proactive-citizen at Centerfolds.”

  It had been a couple of years, but Pay recognized the voice—Emir Tabb, SFPD Violent Crimes Inspector; mid-forties, muscular yet going a little soft, with medium gray hair and tired eyes. Emir and Pay had a brief history. Not a good one, not a bad one, just brief.

  Pay had nothing against cops. Who else were people going to call when they couldn’t handle something themselves? Too bad the rules kept them from being much help when it came to preventing crimes or getting vengeance.

  “Kinda late for you to be working, isn’t it?” In San Francisco inspectors typically worked office hours.

  Tabb grunted. “Mayor’s all hot about cleaning up violence on Broadway. The brass says this one can’t wait till Monday.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah. Goes with the job. Listen, I just finished interviewing the bouncer you thrashed at Centerfolds. Stephen Andrew Duncan; goes by Rock. Guy was high on ice. Has a full sheet. Mostly petty theft and drugs with a couple of heavy-duty violence beefs. Got a broken collarbone and a hip pointer. What did you hit him with?”

  “Baton.”

  “Can’t find the girl to make a statement and he declined to press charges against you. So we cut him loose. I can’t guarantee he won’t come after you.”

  “Don’t care if he does.”

  “You might want to. His record shows he’s good with a knife and he hangs out with some exceptionally bad people.”

  “BFD. Can’t find the girl?”

  “Centerfolds has a number, one of those prepaid cells. She’s not answering. I was hoping you’d know h
ow to find her.”

  “Don’t know her. Last time I saw her, she was getting in a cab on Broadway.”

  Tabb droned out the standard speech. The one Pay’d heard a million times. The one that always ended with, “When are you going to stop sticking your nose in police business?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Streaming cold water into the apartment’s bathroom sink, Morano ripped off his coffee-soaked sweatshirt and plunged his face into the bowl.

  Damn, how’d I let a little girl hurt me so bad?

  Once the burning subsided, he assessed the damage in the medicine cabinet mirror. Though painful, the singed parts of his face were mostly pink, not cherry red. And his bleeding nose wasn’t broken.

  Back to normal in a couple of days, a week tops.

  But he couldn’t go out on the street wearing his blood-spattered sweatshirt. It only took a glimpse in the closet to realize everything was too small. Fortunately, there was no blood on his T-shirt.

  The girl rolled over with a groan and Morano slugged her in the temple. She needed to be out until he was gone.

  No point in killing her. That would just force the cops into a full court press.

  He wasn’t worried about her identifying him. He’d given brain-rattling beatings to dozens of people and not one had ever accurately described him. The turmoil and agitation after a violent hammering led to witness descriptions that were crap. All anybody ever remembered was a ‘fat man in a hoodie.’

  Time to find that thumb drive

  Morano spent almost an hour searching through her shit which was spread all over the chaos of the front room, when he heard a key in the lock. Sliding to the hinged side of the door, he pressed back against the wall.

  A slight, mid-twenties male, backpack over one shoulder, pushed the door open. Morano figured he was no threat.

  Just another wimpy metro sexual. He’ll take one look at the mess and run over to Starbucks before calling the cops.

  Instead, he turned and closed the door.

  Can’t let him get a good look at me.

  Morano threw a left that missed the jaw, following it with a thundering right cross to the chest and an out of control left that scraped the smaller man’s ear. Grabbing him by his polo shirt collar and leather belt, Morano heaved him over his head and flung him into the wall.

  Been here too damn long.

  Booting the wimp in the gut just to make sure he wasn’t going to come after him, Morano left the unconscious body in a puddle of aquarium water and blood.

  CHAPTER 7

  What the hell?

  Dizzy from the attack, Richard struggled to his knees and crawled toward his bag, groping for his pepper spray. The kitchen table was on its side, fish tank shattered, wet papers everywhere. Pepper spray now clutched in his trembling hand, Richard sobbed, shuddered, shook his head in an unsuccessful attempt to clear it, and staggered through the living room, bouncing off the hall wall and reeling toward the bedroom.

  In his bed sprawled a girl, wearing laceless black Converse platform sneakers, a neon pink thong that barely covered her Brazilian wax job, and a sweater with the Centerfolds logo. Her face was covered by his blood spattered sheets.

  With his left hand Richard leaned over, probing her neck for a pulse, using his right hand to pull the sheet from her face. It slid back and he collapsed to his knees.

  Forcing several deep breaths, he wobbled to his feet using the desk chair to support legs that didn’t want to fight gravity anymore.

  Come on Richard, you can do this. You can do this. You have to do this.

  Careening down the hall to the living room, tears dripping from his cheeks, he grabbed his cell and dialed 911.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  His voice quivered, gasping for air that wasn’t there. “I need help.”

  “Yes, sir. What’s your emergency?”

  “Mary Ellen. There’s blood everywhere.”

  “Where is she?

  “My bed.”

  “What’s your address?”

  “1510 Bannam Place.”

  “Is that an apartment?”

  “Number 201. Please hurry.” Clutching the phone, Richard staggered back to the bedroom.

  “Is she alive?”

  “She’s moaning.”

  “Standby.”

  Richard heard the dispatcher on her radio: “Code 240 reported. Need a 408 to 1510 Bannam Place, unit 201.” Then she came back to him. “Help will be there soon. Are you in any danger?”

  His heart hammered. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” He lurched to the bathroom door and peeked around the frame.

  Thank God there was no one there.

  “Did you see who did it? Are they still there?”

  “You mean the beast who kicked the shit out of me?”

  “Someone hit you?”

  “A great big fat monster.”

  “Is he gone?”

  “Jesus, I hope so.” Richard began to cry.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Richard…Richard Johnson.”

  “Are you hurt? Bleeding or dizzy?”

  “Kinda woozy and tired. Please hurry.”

  “Help is on the way. Is the girl bleeding?”

  “There’s blood all over her face.”

  “Take a clean cloth and press it against the worst of the bleeding.”

  “OK.” Richard pulled a towel from his yoga bag.

  “Not much longer.”

  “Thank God.”

  “What’s Mary Ellen’s last name?”

  “Uh, Samuels.”

  “Can you describe the person who beat you?”

  “I came home. This gigantic fat man beat the shit out of me. Guess…I passed out.”

  “Yes.”

  “I came to. The house is destroyed and Mary Ellen, oh God, Mary Ellen’s all broken and bloody.”

  “Have you got that cloth? Stay with me, you need to press it gently but firmly on the worst of the bleeding.”

  Richard gently positioned his towel on Mary Ellen’s forehead and concentrated on not throwing up.

  CHAPTER 8

  “SFPD coming in.”

  Richard, hand holding the towel to Mary Ellen’s forehead, slumped down in the chair beside the bed, his heart slowing to a still faster-than-normal thud. “Back here.”

  An officer appeared in the bedroom door, pistol and eyes aimed at Richard.

  Eye’s burning with fear, Richard blurted, “Not me. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot me.”

  A second officer yelled from the hall, “Apartment’s clear.” Then stood, gun drawn, with her back to the wall where she could watch Richard and monitor the apartment.

  The first cop motioned Richard up. “I need to pat you down for weapons for our safety.”

  “Huh?”

  “Palms on the wall. Feet spread. Now.”

  Richard struggled up and reached for the wall.

  Grabbing the back of his shirt, the officer kicked his feet apart and back, simultaneously pressing Richard’s chest forward so his weight was on his hands.

  Richard flinched when the man’s hands ran over his crotch.

  Satisfied that Richard was weaponless, the officer directed him back into the chair.

  “I’m Delgado. She’s Rhodes.” He holstered his weapon then pulled on latex gloves and reached to check Mary Ellen’s pulse. “She’s breathing, you stopped most of the bleeding. Not much we can do now.” Using his gloved fingers, he spread her eyelids and blipped his flashlight across her face. “Pupils are reacting. Major size difference.”

  Rhodes grimaced and notified dispatch. “Victim is alive, unconscious, extensive blood loss, unstable pulse, likely concussion. Need that ambulance ASAP. What’s the ETA?”

  The radio squ
awked. “Two minutes.”

  Mary Ellen whimpered, “Help.”

  Delgado leaned back over the bed. “Ambulance is on the way. Who did this to you?”

  “Big fat guy.”

  “Did he do this to you?” Delgado thrust his chin at Richard.

  “No.” She snuffled, slumping against the pillows.

  “Did you see the guy’s face?”

  “So fast.”

  Wailing sirens filled the room. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

  “Great big fat man. Not Richard.” She labored. “Richard is my friend.” Her eyes glazed. “Great big…huge…fat man,” she whispered, passing out just as the siren ground to a halt.

  Rhodes moved to the front door to guide the EMTs in.

  In minutes, the two of them bandaged Mary Ellen’s head and moved her onto a gurney. One attendant secured an oxygen tube under her nose. “We’re taking her to SF General.”

  Richard wiped his palms on his slacks, staring at the sweat stains they left on his Dockers. “Is she going to be ok?”

  The EMTs rolled the gurney toward the bedroom door. “We’ll do everything we can. Won’t know anything until we get her to the hospital.”

  “Rhodes will follow you down in a little bit to get a statement.” Delgado turned to Richard. “Docs will take good care of her. Tell me what happened.”

  “I opened the door and he jumped me.”

  He licked his lips, tried to stop his trembling hands, but couldn’t. “Guy hit me a bunch of times. I kind of remember being thrown into the wall.” Richard waved in the direction of the bathroom. “Uh—could I get some water? Please?”

  Delgado filled a glass from the tap. “Sweating and excessive thirst is a side effect of extreme stress. It’ll go away. Can you identify him?”

  “All I remember is a big fat dude hitting me.”

  “How long has it been?”

  Richard looked down at the floor to the shattered remains of his yoga clock. It read 9:48.

  Delgado glanced at his cell, checking the time. “So about an hour and a half?”