The Merry Pranked (23 page)

Leslie could have walked the distance to the art gallery if he hadn’t been in so much of a hurry to see Gail; instead he hailed a cab and got there faster. He quickly paid the Cab Driver and headed for the front doors of the gallery; the gallery itself was dark, obviously closed. He tried the front doors and they opened. He smiled; Gail liked to play games, and probably had an erotic one planned for them somewhere in this gallery.

“Gail, it’s Leslie,” he called out, as he entered the gallery. “Where are you?”

No answer.
No doubt part of the game
. Leslie started making his way to the back of the gallery, where he imagined she lay in wait to surprise him.

“Gail,” he called out again. “Where the hell are you?”

“Little Leslie Marshall,” said Morgan, hidden behind one of the large canvases that Leslie had just passed. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Startled, Leslie jumped a bit before looking over to Morgan, who was just standing there grinning at him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Waiting for you,” said Morgan, holding up Gail’s cell phone. “These things are amazing. Ms. Russell doesn’t have many names in her phone’s directory, except yours. Seems you’ve also been desperately trying to get a hold of her tonight. Put two and two together and it suggests the two of you may be close; close enough to raise some hell together.”

Morgan started walking towards Leslie. “I also got to thinking about your name; Leslie Marshall. For some reason it seemed to me that I should know that name. Leslie Marshall. Hell, I’ve only known one Marshall in my lifetime, and I’d say by now he’s nothing but dust and bones. But then I remembered he had a son, a son that had survived the family’s fate, and then it dawned on me, Leslie Marshall, Mad Dog Marshall’s son. I remember asking him once, why he’d given you such a pussy name as Leslie. Said something about it belonging to a grandparent or something like that. Still a pussy name though, wouldn’t you say.”

“Where’s Gail?” asked Leslie. This wasn’t good. As a matter of fact, when it came to not good, this was registering off the charts. Leslie didn’t know what to do. He was unarmed. The other night he had put his illegally purchased firearm away in disgust. Presently his pockets were empty.

“Oh, aren’t you chivalrous,” said Morgan. “Worrying about the girl, are you? How long has it been, Leslie?”

Leslie watched as Morgan came to a stop a couple of feet away from him. Morgan had a shit-eating grin on his face. He was like a cat playing with its prey; he wasn’t just going to kill Leslie, he wanted to torment him a little first.

“You were in the house that night weren’t you?” asked Morgan. “I don’t know how you managed to hide from us, but you did, didn’t you? I was trying to do the world a favor and eliminate all the Marshalls. A bunch of bad seeds, you see.”

“You want to help the world, Morgan, try suicide,” said Leslie.

Morgan laughed. He had the chilling laugh of a killer, or at least what Leslie imagined a killer’s laugh would sound like.

“Son-of-a-bitch, if you ain’t channeling ole Mad Dog Marshall there,” he said. “Your Daddy would be proud you’re fighting back. So tell me Leslie, did you see everything that happened that night? You did, right? You saw it all.”

Leslie didn’t know what Morgan wanted; did he want acknowledgement of his actions? A critique of the killing? What did he care if he had been there and witnessed everything that night, he had never been brought to justice for it? No, this was just a game, the way Morgan got his rocks off.

“What I never understood was, why you didn’t testify to what you saw?” he asked. “You were old enough. Hell at ten-years-old I was breaking heads on the playground. You could have caused some troubles for me and the boys, but you didn’t. What were you too afraid? Hell, ole Mad Dog would be turning over in his grave; he knew his son was such a pussy.”

Jesus
, thought Leslie,
they all want to know the same damned thing. What did he see that night?
He was getting pretty damned tired of that question, and at this particular moment, pretty damned tired of Morgan Neil.

“What the fuck’s the point to all this?” asked Leslie.

“Tryin’ to prove to me you have a set of balls? From what I’m seeing, I’d say that back then, just like right now, you’re too big a pussy to do anything. A fucking coward who got his girlfriend to kill for him. You see, I’ve been talking with her and she’s one tough broad, something I can’t say about you. Mad Dog Marshall, like hell. I’d say you’re more of a Lady Leslie.” Morgan laughed.

As Morgan spoke, Leslie’s hands began to clench; he was hearing him, but at the same time his mind was contemplating wiping that stupid grin off this asshole’s face.
What the hell was he doing
, he wondered. Morgan Neil was just a man, and in this particular situation a man in his mid to late Sixties. Leslie was in his early Forties. Morgan ruled by fear or perceived fear. Standing here in front of him, why should he fear him so much; as long as Morgan didn’t pull a gun or a knife, for all intents and purposes, they were on even ground right now. Morgan was unarmed and so was he. Why in the hell should he be frightened of a sixty-year-old man? For all he knew, in a fair fight he could beat the living shit out of this old bastard. He’d had enough. A knot developed in Leslie’s stomach as his entire body tightened. It was time for Morgan to shut up and he intended to shut him up.

Leslie rushed Morgan, intent on tackling the bastard to the ground, and then pummeling him with his fists. Leslie was still new to fighting, however, and Morgan was ready for the attack, easily deflecting Leslie’s charge by quickly stepping out of the way, and using Leslie’s forward motion to push him into some of Gail’s paintings; Leslie and the paintings falling to the ground.

“Holy shit, man,” said Morgan laughing, “You just bought those, mister.”

Morgan moved to stand over Leslie, who was quickly trying to get his bearings after his failed assault. It hadn’t really dawned on him that Morgan knew a little bit more about defending himself than he did.

“Have you seen the prices on some of this shit?” asked Morgan. “I’d be a little bit more careful around here if I were you.”

Once again Leslie’s body tensed; this son-of-a-bitch was toying with him and he didn’t like it. As far as he could tell, Morgan didn’t think much of him. Maybe he could use that to his advantage in another way, beside physical. He tried getting to his feet, but half way up, Morgan moved in and kicked him hard, sending him falling back to the ground.

“Jesus, your old man taught you shit about fighting,” said Morgan, as he closed in on Leslie and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. For a sixty-year-old man, Morgan was stronger than expected.

“Let’s go see your girlfriend, pussy,” said Morgan as he dragged Leslie to his feet.

Leslie, hurting, let Morgan direct him to the back room of the art gallery, his mind racing, looking for an opportunity to take advantage of Morgan’s over confidence in this situation. He had to strike and he had to strike soon; he was sure of that much.

All the fight seemed to drain right out of him, however, when Morgan pushed him through the back doors of the art gallery and he saw Gail tied to a chair, her head slumped down and blood all over her shirt and pants. Milling around her was Sal and three other henchmen he didn’t recognize.

“Jesus,” said Sal looking up at them when they entered. “Did he put up any kind of a fight?”

“His version of a fight,” said Morgan, as he pushed Leslie hard, sending him sprawling to the ground at Gail’s feet. “Dame’s tougher.”

chapter
TWENTY-ONE

sal
GRUMBLED
as he made his way through the dark art gallery. Morgan had unlocked the front door to allow Leslie access, but hadn’t locked them after he arrived. Instead he had ordered Sal to lock them and Sal really didn’t want to leave the back room; there was some fun to be had there, and he didn’t want it to start without him. He had seniority, so he didn’t want any of the other guys to have the pleasure of beating Leslie Marshall; that bastard had escaped his punishment decades before, so he owed him now.

Sal got to the front doors and fumbled with the keys. There were a few of them on the chain; Morgan had shown him which one, but he couldn’t remember. How Morgan had keys to this art gallery, he had no idea. Morgan had access to a lot of places and it really wasn’t a healthy thing to question him as to why or how. You just accepted his power without question unless you wanted that power turned against you.

Sal locked the art gallery’s front doors and hurried for the back room; art galleries weren’t his thing; he’d never been much for art, even
Dogs Playing Poker
. If he wanted to look at something on his walls, a good
Playboy
or
Penthouse
poster was all he needed; some naked broad always brightened up his day. Contemplating what awaited him in the back room, Sal realized this was the first time in his life he’d ever been excited in an art gallery.

Detective Ray Michaels hadn’t spent the other night going over the Police Department’s retirement papers, although it had seemed like a good idea at the time. He was older now, and didn’t quite appreciate a whole lot of bullshit, and had maybe lost a step or two in the patience department, but that didn’t mean he was out of the game quite yet. Sometimes, the act of catching the bad guy was in taking some chances; maybe even following a lead no matter how flimsy it felt, simply because it was the only thing you had. That lead was Leslie Marshall. Something just didn’t seem right about his story, although for all Ray knew it was the truth. His intuition told him differently, and as far as this investigation was concerned, he figured his intuition was probably the only thing Morgan Neil couldn’t control.

No, Ray hadn’t spent any more time in the squad room the other night, but had gone home and put on his favorite Tim McGraw album,
Southern Voices
. He’d been listening to music for a long time, and this album, well, for some reason it just seemed as perfect an album as an album was ever going to get. Listening to it often helped clear out some of the cobwebs in his mind. It was while listening to McGraw that his mind had come up with a plan. Maybe Leslie Marshall’s explanation for his fingerprints being at Harry Madwin’s house was accurate and truthful, but then again, maybe it wasn’t. They had nothing else to go on, so why not tail Leslie for a while? See if that led anywhere. It could be a waste of time, but that was the only risk; if he was going to get to the bottom of everything, he was going to have to do some old fashioned police work and follow a hunch.

That hunch might just have paid off; that’s what he couldn’t help thinking as he watched Sal Lunkin, a known member of the Morgan Neil crew locking the front doors of the Sylvia Cumming’s Art Gallery in which Leslie’s alibi, Gail Russell’s art was being displayed. Sal was locking the doors shortly after Leslie had entered the gallery. Ray didn’t believe in coincidences, but this was too much. Something was going on in there and it was related to their case. He needed to get a closer look.

“So, what now, boss?” asked Sal Lunkin.

“Fucking Dan Marshall’s kid,” said Morgan. “How’s that for a blast from the past. Fucking kid hid from us all those years ago, and then hid from us in plain sight all these years. Out of sight and out of mind for all these years just to get whacked by us today. And you tell me the world isn’t some messed up shit.”

Morgan looked down at Leslie, who was still on the ground by Gail’s feet. He was still trying to think of a way out of this, although nothing was coming to mind. He watched as Morgan pulled out his gun and turned to Sal.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Get this fool to his feet.”

Sal and Sammy - one of the henchmen - moved in and roughly grabbed Leslie by both arms, hauling him to his feet.

“Just finish what you started all those years ago,” Leslie said to Morgan. He had figured his way out, it was death. There was no way he was taking on Morgan Neil and four of his men.

“That’d be too easy,” said Morgan moving towards him.

Leslie and Gail were surrounded; Morgan moving in and Sal, Sammy and the other two henchmen, Mike and Turner, circled around him. Each one of them had a gun in their hands.

“I think we need to find out if we have a real Marshall in our midst,” said Morgan.

The others just looked at him. They knew Morgan; he was up to something. He had that familiar look in his eyes, which usually spelled trouble for anyone who was in his sights. Whatever it was, it was bound to be good, the trick now was to just stay out of his way.

“I wonder if he has the Marshall killer instinct,” said Morgan, intently staring at Leslie. “If you’re truly Dan Marshall’s boy, kill the bitch.”

Leslie watched in disbelief as Morgan held out the gun he was carrying for Leslie to take. He wondered if this was a trick; maybe the gun wasn’t even loaded. Could he take it and kill Morgan quickly? It could be worth a try, if he had the balls to do it.

“Take the gun, Leslie,” said Morgan, holding it out for him. “Keep it pointed at the ground. Lift it in any direction but at the bitch and my men are going to fill you full of lead. You’re not getting any revenge here.”

Leslie looked to the gun and then to Morgan. He, like the rest of his men, seemed to be enjoying the game. So this was it, the end. Based on his past, he should have known he wouldn’t die peacefully in his bed at a ripe old age. Actually, he could have, if only he’d found a proper way to deal with his past and thoughts of vengeance. He knew he only had himself to blame.

“What’d you say, Leslie,” asked Morgan. “You kill the broad, I’ll let you live. You see, she’s done us more harm than you, so I figure that’ll right things. Your call. Both of you dead, or just her.”

Ray moved carefully through the art gallery towards the doors to the back room. Picking the lock had been no problem; he’d had a lot of experience in that area. He had his gun drawn; seeing Sal in the place justified his drawing his weapon; there were known killers in the building.

When he got halfway through the gallery he spotted the display of paintings lying on the ground; there’d been some sort of struggle here; he’d gotten here based on instinct and now that instinct told him he needed back up.

Ray pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and dialed. It wasn’t long before the familiar voice of his partner, Detective Bryan Stork, was on the line.

“What’s up?” asked Bryan, forgoing the niceties of saying,
Hello
.

“Sylvia Cumming’s Art Gallery on Chester and Temple Streets,” Ray whispered into the phone. “Shit’s about to hit the fan. Known Morgan gang members inside. Could use some back up, partner. Call it in.”

Ray didn’t wait for a response, but hung up his phone and continued towards the back room. He knew he should probably wait for back up, but that wasn’t his style.

Leslie was staring at Gail, who since he’d been brought into the back room hadn’t stirred. She was still just sitting there, her head slumped down; for all he knew she was all ready dead.

“Sal, take care of this,” said Morgan.

Leslie watched as Sal moved in. He could at least take out this bastard, he thought, but didn’t. Instead he just watched as Sal broke a smelling salt capsule under Gail’s nose, before moving away. Gail moaned and lifted her head. Leslie’s entire body tensed as he saw her face; these guys had done a number on her; it was a bloody mess; there really had been no call for that. Anger threatened to take over his senses; he wanted to just scream and start shooting, but he didn’t; as much as he wanted to be a badass it just wasn’t him; that and the fact that deep down he still wanted to believe there was a way for him and Gail to get out of this predicament. They were screwed, but hope was a powerful and stupid thing, and it still existed somewhere within him.

He could see Gail focusing on him with her one good eye. There was a questioning look in that eye; obviously she hadn’t expected to see him here.

“Kill her, Leslie and save yourself,” said Morgan. “Do it, Marshall. Your old man wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have put a bullet between her eyes in a second.”

“Do it you pussy,” said Sal.

“Fuck you, Morgan,” said Leslie.

“Kill me,” said Gail.

Leslie looked at Gail. She had uttered something, but he couldn’t quite get it, her speech was so slurred. She was looking at him.

“Kill me,” she said, this time a little more clearly.

The others laughed.

“Bitch is making it easy for you,” said Morgan, “now, no more fucking around. You’ve got till three or you both die. I’m tired of this game. One...”

“Shit,”
thought Ray. His fucking instinct was going to get him killed. Shit was about to fly and there was no back up in sight. At the same time, he wasn’t the kind of guy to just sit back and watch two people being murdered; no, he’d have to join them. The upside of getting himself killed this evening, he figured was he wouldn’t have to navigate the department’s ridiculously detailed Retirement papers sometime in the future; that just seemed like a headache waiting to happen; he never did like paperwork and retirement seemed like its own kind of Hell.

“POLICE,” he yelled as he moved into the back room his gun drawn. “EVERYONE, DROP YOUR WEAPONS.”

Leslie was just about to attempt to turn his gun on Morgan when the silence of the back room was shattered by the Detective’s orders. Everyone in the room was taken by surprise.

Morgan, Sal, Sammy, Mike and Turner all turned their attention to Ray; like the trained killers that they were, they reacted immediately, Sal, Sammy, Mike and Turner raising their guns in Ray’s direction and immediately opening fire. Ray, seeing this move, did the same. The back room of the art gallery immediately erupted in ear-shattering gunfire.

Morgan, who had given his gun to Leslie, just watched, confident his men could take care of the intrusion; nonetheless, the Detective’s appearance had drawn his attention taking it away from Leslie and Gail.

Leslie, realizing that despite the fact all hell was breaking loose, had been given the opportunity he’d been waiting for; he and Gail were no longer the center of attention; there might just be a way out of this after all.

Unlike on TV or in the movies, not everyone who picked up a gun was a crack shot; adrenaline was running high for everyone, and no matter how cold hearted a killer they were, and how they had handled themselves in the past, when the bullets started flying, deep down there was always an element of fear playing on the shooter’s mind. You were trying to kill, so you knew as part of that equation you could also be killed as well.

There was no time to think. As the first volley of bullets let loose, Ray watched as one of his hit Mike, a solid shot to the center of his chest, sending the killer falling to the ground dead. Another bullet caught Sammy in the side, bringing him down onto his knees, but not incapacitating him, as he managed to continue firing in Ray’s direction. That was all Ray witnessed, before he felt a bullet tear into his leg and a glancing shot graze his shoulder, bringing him down to his knees. He kept firing as he went down, knowing that if he stopped he was as good as dead.

Leslie had no time to keep an eye on what was going on. If he or Gail weren’t hit by a stray bullet, he had his own concerns. Hoping the gun Morgan had given him was in fact loaded, he dove to the ground, slamming into Gail and her chair, knocking her over backwards to the ground; he hoped this would protect her from all the bullets flying around and not add too much more damage to her body. Leslie had his gun pointed at Morgan; he knew there was no time for hesitation; he had one opportunity and one alone. He fired.

It worked; Morgan had been distracted by what he considered the most obvious threat; he in no way considered Leslie was a threat to any of them. A look of surprise crossed his face when the bullet from Leslie’s gun slammed into his stomach, sending him reeling backwards.

Lying on the ground on his back, but propped up, Ray continued firing, although he knew very soon his clip would be exhausted. He had to finish off the two men shooting at him, or they’d finish him off. He was almost thrown back to the ground when another bullet hit him in the shoulder; the only thing keeping him up was pure adrenaline and the knowledge that that was the only way to stay alive. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew he was going to lose this battle. Ray heard his gun fall on an empty chamber. He was out, and too wounded to reload.

Leslie rolled onto his side, after watching Morgan fall to the ground. Morgan was down, but he had no idea about his men. He quickly took in the situation: near the doors of the back room, pointing his empty gun at Sal and Sammy, who were both on their knees, was one of the Detectives who had questioned him. His gun was empty, the Detective was in trouble. Leslie opened fire.