Free The Nightlife: New York (The Nightlife Series) by Travis Luedke Page A

Especially the prostitutes.  Bust a few heads, shake down some
whores, collect a few dollars, grab onto some new names and do it all over
again.  Whether by cash or services rendered, the girls always paid.  Konowicz
had the unbreakable power of the law behind him.  Nobody dared to defy him. 
Nobody but this bimbo.
    Saddled with a broken nose for all his co-workers to see and
appreciate had enraged him to the point of murder.  Konowicz planned to get
that little bitch one way or another.  It wasn’t just business, it had become a
personal vendetta.  She’d never see the chief.  There would be no signed
statements.  He wasn’t a fool, and he surely wasn’t going down for some hot
piece of tail with a bullshit complaint of extortion.
    Konowicz fantasized long and hard about horribly unspeakable
things he might do to her before he killed her.  Oh, how she would beg and
plead.  She’d do anything he wanted.   Anything .  She’d probably try to
pay him off first.  That’s how it usually went when things got rough.  He might
even let her scrape up some money before he finished the job … drag it out a
little longer.  Konowicz got down with some serious planning.  He put more
effort into his plans for revenge than his own career.
    He needed to be certain Oberman would go along with it. 
Konowicz approached Oberman privately during lunch at the greasy spoon diner
they frequented.
    “Hey … we gonna fuck dis chick up when we find her?  We ain’t
takin’ no prisoners right?”  Konowicz spoke in hushed tones, his plugged sinuses
added a nasal whine to his voice.
    “Yeah, no problem.  This bitch is gonna wake up dead in a
dumpster by the time we’re finished,” Oberman confirmed with a malicious gleam
in his eye.
    Konowicz had expected as much.  They were both on the same
track.  Business as usual.  “You get the artist’s rendering yet?”  Konowicz
whined.
    “Yeah, it looks close enough.  Where do you wanna start?”
    “I was thinkin’ we could hit up Talco.  See if he knows
anything about her.”
    “I bet he knows somethin’.  We’ll catch him tonight.  He
owes us one after the last stunt he pulled.”
    “Gotta figure a package that sweet turns a few heads.  We’re
gonna find her real soon.  She must be workin’ with somebody.  Chick like that
ain’t walkin’ the streets alone.”
    Konowicz nodded.  With the network of pimps and prostitutes
they had access to it was only a matter of time before they found her.
     
    * * * *
     
    Talco stood at the entrance to Chandler’s Bar and Grill
waiting for the arrival of Oberman and Konowicz, a.k.a. Los Demonios .  Everything
involving those two A-holes equated to a deal with the devil.  He wondered how
he’d ever rid himself of their tyrannical influence on his life.  He couldn’t
imagine anything short of killing them that would free him, and he wasn’t a
murderer.  A pimp, a bastard, a felon on probation, he fit all these
descriptions, but not a killer.  Not yet.
    “It’s about fuckin’ time you showed up.  Been waitin’ for
twenty-five minutes, mane!  You think I got nothing better to do?”  Talco
complained in his heavy Puerto Rican accent.
    “Relax, sit down, have a beer.  Ain’t you ever heard,
patience is a fuckin’ virtue?”  Konowicz gestured to a corner booth in the
bar.  He continued, “You’re too high strung.  Look at Oberman here, that’s what
happens with too much stress.”
    “Yeah fuck you too.  Your ugly mug ain’t winning any beauty
contests,” Oberman retorted at Konowicz.
    Talco looked at Oberman’s scratched face and Konowicz’s
broken nose.  He prayed to the Blessed Virgin he would never allow himself to
deteriorate so badly that he resembled either of them.  His sleek, fit, twenty-seven
year old, golden-tanned Puerto Rican body was in its prime, and he intended to
keep it that way for years to come.  To Talco, Oberman’s overweight fifty-plus
years of bulk with heavy