Last Man Standing

Lucky tried to move his legs, but even as he worked at the hopeless cause, he saw Moody’s grin grow wide. The bastard had already guessed why he was still sprawled on the bed, instead of on his feet.

“I thought it was all talk, you becoming a cripple. Guess there’s a reason for you drinking a case of Scotch a day, after all.” Moody’s smile shifted to Elena where she sat on her knees on the bed. “You scared yet, doll? You should be. I don’t like mouthy women unless they’re on their knees.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“You don’t want to do this, Trafano,” Lucky warned. “I’ll have to kill you if you touch her. Kill you slow. Capiche?”

“Maybe I’ll just have to kill you first.” Moody set one of the bottles of Scotch on the table. Opened the other one. Motioning to Elena, he said, “Unbutton your sweater and come here. I want to look at you.”

Instead of doing as she was told, Elena rebuttoned the top two buttons on her sweater.

“What’s the matter? Not as mouthy without a knife, doll?” Moody tipped up the bottle, took several swallows. “It’s too late for regrets, sweet milk. You should have given me the respect I deserve.”

“You don’t know what the word means,” Elena replied.

Moody raised the bottle to his lips again and drank deeply. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he set the bottle on the table. Then he pulled his dark green sweater off over his head to reveal a clean-shaven muscular chest. He flexed his biceps. “Come on now, doll. We both know you’re not shy, so bring that sweet ass of yours over here.”

Reaching for the bottle, Moody pulled a chair away from the table and placed it in the middle of the room. Taking a seat on it, he tipped his head back and chugged more liquor.

“Don’t get off the bed, Elena,” Lucky whispered. “Stay where you are.”

“And that’s going to help us in what way?” She whispered back. “Maybe if I pretend to like him, I can—”

Lucky gripped her wrist. “Don’t leave my side.”

“You can’t move, remember?” She twisted her wrist free.

“Do as I say, Elena.”

“Give me your knife,” she suddenly suggested. “The Hibben, not the Haug. I’ve never liked how that style handle fits my hand.”

Her words brought his head around, his eyes searching hers. “How do you know what I’m carrying or the difference between…”

His thought process shifted when he felt her hand on his hip. Remembering how quickly she’d stolen his knife at the bar, Lucky covered her hand with his, then curled his fingers around hers and slowly squeezed. If he wanted to, he could break her fingers one by one. “I’ll handle this,” he mouthed at her.

She mouthed back, “Without legs? I don’t think so.”

Moody finally came up for air after he’d drained half the bottle. “Damn, that’s good Scotch.”

He licked his thin lips, studied the last two inches in the bottle. As he tipped his head back to drain what was left, Lucky slid his hand to the front of his jeans and unzipped himself.

“What are you doing?” Elena whispered.

“Handling it,” was Lucky’s answer as he slid his hand into the opening to palm the .22 tucked next to his groin. Then, easing the weapon out through his open fly, he aimed it at Moody Trafano’s kneecap and pulled the trigger.

Elena fidgeted in the back seat of a cold taxicab. The aging Buick sat idling nosily under a lamppost behind the Shedd.

Thirty minutes ago she’d been escorted out the back entrance into the alley by Blacky—who was wearing an angry purple welt on his forehead. There, he had placed her in the cab and told her to sit tight.

The image of Lucky’s hand going into his jeans by way of his zipper and coming out with a gun flashed behind Elena’s eyes. What followed was Moody Trafano screaming in pain as he toppled off the chair clutching his shattered knee.

She’d never witnessed a man being shot before. The blast had made her ears ring and she’d felt physically sick. Dazed, she’d been unable to move as the door had flown open seconds later and a man brandishing a .38 had charged inside demanding, “Dammit, Lucky, what the hell’s going on in here?”