Free Evil Harvest by Anthony Izzo Page B

followed Bill into the garage and slid up next to him. The hood of the Lexus was propped open; Bill leaned over the engine pretending to inspect the car’s components very carefully. He furrowed his brow, hoping the geezer wouldn’t catch on that Bill had no idea what to look for. “There doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong under here.”
    “Well, you got no juice. And I say it’s your alternator.”
    “Are you telling me you’re guessing?”
    “Not guessing,” Jimbo said, and tapped his finger against his temple. “Instinct.”
    That was it. Bill would go outside and call a tow truck on the cell. He had to get out of this place. It stunk.
    Bill started to move for the door, but Jimbo put a hand on his chest. Bill shoved forward, but Jimbo held him in place. He was surprisingly strong for an old man.
    “Maybe I misjudged you. You seem like a decent guy, and you sure don’t take any bullshit.”
    Bill beamed a little, happy with himself for getting the old man to back down. With any luck he’d be out of this Podunk town in a hurry. Bill glanced at the other mechanic, who had stopped working on the brake job and now stood at the overhead doors. He pressed a red button and the doors hummed and clacked before closing. That was weird. Why the hell would he do that?
    “Let’s sit down and talk about this and I’ll level with you. It’s just going to be more of a hassle for you to have this towed again anyway. Sound fair?”
    “All right. But you’d better not try and screw me.” Bill wagged his finger at Jimbo. “Got it?”
    “Hey, I know a tough customer when I see one. Let’s go into my office and talk.”
    As Bill stepped forward, something solid thudded against the back of his head. The ground rose up at terrifying speed, and a second later, everything went black.
     
     
    The fat guy in the expensive suit twitched and flopped like a snagged trout. After a few seconds, he stopped. The back of his skull now had a divot in it. Jimbo looked at Carl, who held the tire iron, now specked with blood and hair. A big grin crossed his face, and his breathing had quickened.
    Jimbo wound up and punched Carl square in the chest. Carl rocked back a step.
    “Now I’m gonna have to deal with Rafferty, you numb fuck!”
    Carl continued to stare at the body, an idiot grin on his face.
    “Carl!”
    Carl looked at Jimbo.
    “If you had to hit him, why did you hit him in the noggin?”
    “He was giving you trouble,” Carl said, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.
    Half-wit , Jimbo thought. He didn’t have a problem with teaching the fat salesman a little lesson, but now Fatty was dead and if Rafferty found out, Jimbo might be joining him in the afterlife.
    They had to get rid of the body, and quick.
    Jimbo looked down at Fatty, guessed him to weigh two-fifty, maybe even two-eighty. He squatted down and rolled Jergens over, then stepped over the dead man, hooked his arms under the body’s armpits and heaved. One of Fatty’s tassled loafers slipped off, and the smell of shit was overwhelming. Apparently, Fatty had let loose when Carl caved in his skull.
    He thought for a moment about canning Carl, and then dismissed the thought because he needed the help at the garage.
    “Where you going with him, Jimbo?”
    “To the local barn dance, asshole. We’re gonna do the do-si-do together.” Jimbo shook his head. “Where the fuck do ya think I’m going with him?”
    “Uh, I dunno?”
    Jimbo jerked his head, indicating for Carl to get over and help. “Get his legs. We’ll stuff him in the dungeon.”
    The dungeon was a six-by-six room off the garage where Jimbo kept a bench grinder and old tires.
    Carl scurried over and lifted the salesman’s legs.
    The guy had a black splotch on his pant leg, most likely motor oil from when he hit the floor. Carl snickered at the fact that not only was the big shot dead, his suit was ruined too.
    His good time was short-lived when he thought of Rafferty coming in