Burnt Bridges – part eight

 

Warning:  This story contains harsh and vulgar language, disturbing descriptions, and adult situations.  This story is not for children and they should not be allowed to read it.   Consider it rated “R”.

Frank jumped out of the car, pulled his Glock out its holster, and pointed it directly at the backseat side window.  Nothing was there.  Fumbling for the handle, he opened the door with a jerk and thrust his forearms inside.  Nothing hid in the foot wells of the backseat area.  With shaking hands and a sweaty brow, Frank checked the front seats for any unwanted passengers.

Finding none, the man slumped into the driver’s seat of the car.  “Shit. I need a drink.”

Frank tossed the pistol on the passenger seat before finding the familiar bottle of Kesslers in the glove box.

Downing the last drop, Frank used the bottle to slam the rear view mirror away from him before turning the key in the ignition.

The starter ground in protest.

“Shit!”  He exclaimed again.

Frank sheepishly put the car in gear and slunk out of the parking lot all the while oblivious to Pat Benatar singing, “I’m gonna follow you”  through the speakers.

“This is fuckin’ gold!”  Tyrone exclaimed as he reviewed the report clutched in his hands.

“I told you I’d get the goods for ya.” Frank claimed with pride.

“That you did.” Tyrone replied as he neatly folded up the papers.  “So how long before the cash starts rolling?”

Frank thought for a moment.  “It’ll take some time for the report to go through the system.  Hmm.  Two, maybe three weeks tops.  A hell of a lot quicker than waiting for the “oaf-fish-owls” to do it.”

“That’s for damn sure.”  Tyrone said with a smile.  “But what about Murphy?”

“What about him?” Frank asked, annoyed.  “Ol’ Robo Cop is just gonna hand you his report and tell you it’s your problem to deal with the insurance company.  Just sit on the cash until he’s gone and out of the way.”

“I’m down with that.”  Tyrone answered.  “Ever find Candy?”

“Nah.”  Frank said with a wave of his hand.  “Couldn’t find her ass anywhere.  Near as I can figure, she burned up in there.”

Tyrone’s face fell.  “Burned up? Shit! It’ll take forever to clean the place up. The cops might as well move in!”

“Fuck that.”  Frank responded.  “You’re forgetting what city you live in.  They don’t have time for that.  They’ll quickly half-ass the paper work and move on to the next case.  It ain’t like ‘Criminal Minds’ or ‘CSI’.  You watch too much TV.”

Tyrone breathed a sigh of relief.  “Thank god for that.”

“God’s got nothin’ to do with it.”  Frank joked.  “Hey, speaking of Candy, you got another around here.  I got a sweet tooth goin on now.”

Tyrone leered evilly, “Apartment 13.  She’s just what you’re looking for; and it just so happens that she’s late with the rent.  Again.”

“Won’t that cut into your profits?”  Frank asked.

“Hell no.”  Tyrone answered.  “”I’ll just tell her you said she was a lousy lay.”

Frank smiled at the thought.  “Sounds good to me.”

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