Slick Justice

Chapter 1

The Glock 22 cracked repeatedly. The rounds tore into the target. Three rounds in the head, four in the chest and one in each arm. A couple more in the head for good measure. Slick lay down the weapon and took off his headset. He smiled as he looked at the target. It had taken a couple of weeks with his instructor, Stan, to become confident with a variety of handguns.

Slick had a Concealed Carry License. If you carry a firearm you should be an expert in its use, at least that was Slick’s opinion. He couldn’t see what use there was in pulling a gun if you couldn’t hit a target. The better shot was alive, the other dead. Slick preferred to be the best shot. In fact, Slick was of the mind that he was the best at most things he attempted. Well, if not the best, then a close second.

After breaking down the weapon and cleaning it, he returned it to its box and carried it under his arm into the entrance hall of the shooting club.

Stan smiled as he approached. Slick held out his hand discreetly passing a $20 bill to him with the weapon.

Thanks man. I’ll be back next week. I’m busy the next couple of days.

Anytime Slick. I should have the items you ordered by then.

Looking forward to it. Take care.

Slick settled into the driver’s seat and turned on the car. The motor raced as he gave it gas. He loved the deep powerful sound of the exhaust. Pulling it into gear, he eased out of the parking lot and into the road that would take him onto the highway and into Los Angeles.

Slick liked the Glock 22. Easy to use, fail-proof, and carried by seventy percent of American police. That Glock made it cheaper for them, contributed to that high percentage. Slick thought as he drove. "Which model Glock is right for me? Maybe not a Glock at all. Perhaps the Sig P226."

A handgun hanging under his arm or on his belt at the back would have to become part of his clothing. This decision was an important one. The saying went that when you carry a firearm, you hope you never have to use it. Slick was different. When Slick carried a weapon, he was on the lookout for a situation to use it. He was against violence. He just liked action.

Later that evening, Slick sat in his car watching an apartment building. He’d been there for over two hours. Stakeouts were no fun. To someone like Slick who craved action, they were boring. He yawned, resigned to the fact that if you were a private investigator, you had to take what the job offered.

Sarah Miles, a slight woman who looked older than her age, had appeared in Slick’s office and asked him to protect her until she could leave the state. She said it would only be for a few days and she was mainly concerned about the nights. Her ex-husband had been released from prison and was calling her, making threats.

This type of assignment was not what Slick would normally take on. Sarah had explained that she couldn’t pay the usual fee of $200 an hour but offered him $500 for the few nights of work. Slick felt sorry for the woman and told her he would keep watch without pay. She could keep her money and use it for a new start wherever she was going. Slick believed a good deed brought good karma.

This was his second night on the job. One more night until Sarah would be on her way and Slick would be having a drink with one of his two girlfriends. He thought about them, Lily and Martha. So different, so exciting.

Glancing back towards the apartment, he noticed the light in the entrance was on, and then it went off. Someone had gone into the apartment, or come out. He hadn’t seen anyone. Slipping out of his car, he closed the door softly and moved across the street to the building. The front door was locked, not that that would stop anyone who wanted to get in. Slick paused and then opened the door with the key Sarah had given him. He decided to go up to her third floor unit and check. Better to be safe.

Slick climbed the concrete stairs, two at a time. The third floor was quiet. He moved towards Sarah’s unit, listening for any noises. The door was ajar. Slick straightened and reached behind his back for the 9mm in his belt. He went silently into the apartment. The living room was empty. To his left, the kitchen was also quiet. Moving down the hall, he heard muffled sounds coming from another room.

Sarah lay across the bed with a terrified look on her face. Tom stood over her, one hand on her chest holding her down, the other with a hunting knife pressed to her neck. There was a smile on his face as he spoke quietly to her. Slick cleared his throat. Tom, startled, turned quickly.

Who the fuck are you? he asked. You move and she dies.

Slick held the 9mm at his side, his eyes concentrated on Tom.

Tom. You can let her go and we can discuss this. Maybe forget you were ever here, which would save you going back to prison.

Tom pushed the blade harder against Sarah’s neck and stared at the other intruder.

What are you, some kind of hero cop? I’m in charge here. You make any move she dies. Best you drop the gun and walk away. This has nothing to do with you. Drop it and get the fuck out of here.

That isn’t going to happen and since you don’t want to talk about it, I’m going to shoot you and save everyone time and money.

Tom looked surprised then glared with hatred.

You going to shoot me? Cops don’t shoot. You get out now or I kill her with you watching. It will be your fault. You want her to live, turn and walk away. Drop the gun.

The pressure of the knife on Sarah’s throat increased. Slick saw trickles of blood run down her neck.

I’m not a cop.

A 9mm shot fired into Tom’s shoulder. He dropped the knife as a second shot hit him in the knee. He fell to the floor in shock while swearing in pain.

Tom. You’re a scumbag. You had a chance. You see, Sarah is a friend of mine. You bother her, you answer to me.

Get me a doctor, whined Tom.

Tom. I am a bad shot. I meant to kill you the first time but changed my mind so you would hear what I have to say and feel pain. You attacked Sarah and tried to kill her. I arrived just in time. Two bad shots and now the third one will put you down.

Tom’s face froze. Did he hear the shot or was he dead before it?

Slick pulled Sarah off the bed and held her as she sobbed.

It’s all over. Someone will have called the cops. Like I said, I arrived just in time. Sarah nodded and held onto Slick.

A first responder had Sarah sitting in the kitchen attending to her neck wound, which fortunately was only superficial. Sarah was still shaking as she tried to explain to a detective what had happened.

Outside in front of the building the police captain was in Slick’s face.

If you think you can take me for a fool with that bullshit story of being a bad shot, you’re full of shit. You shot him deliberately. Three times.

You’re right Captain, I shot three times. It all happened fast. He was about to cut her throat. I’m not a good shot under pressure.

Fuck you Morrison. I have the sheet on you. You are lucky to have a license to carry a weapon and be an investigator. You’re a shady son of a bitch and I am watching you. She backs up your story or your ass would be going inside. Stay clear of me, you understand? How the hell did a good man like Hill team up with the likes of you? Get the fuck out of here but don’t leave town. I may want to speak to you again.

Slick made a slight bow to the captain and turned, walking across the street to his car with a smile on his face.

Oh well, that was not so boring after all.

Chapter 2

Samuel, ‘Slick’ Morrison was from a long line of good guys. His grandfather had been a police officer, his father a fireman, now retired, and his brother was a police lieutenant. Slick, so called from childhood because he greased his hair back a la Elvis, had been shortchanged from the family’s pool of good genes and became a borderline criminal. He left university in the third year before he was booted out for selling exam results and loansharking. Joining the Army, he did the basic nine weeks of training, three more weeks of Advanced Infantry Training and another three of Army Airborne Training. Slick did not particularly like any of it except to prove to himself that he could do it. Next came Special Operations courses and then Special Forces assessment courses. At this point, he was evaluated as not suitable for Special Forces and he transferred to Army Intelligence.

Assigned to Afghanistan, he ‘appropriated’ things of value and shipped them back to the US via the Army. After only one tour, Slick was discharged. As planned, he soon found homes for his contraband, which made him some easy money. In doing so, he came to the attention of a gang who could use his services as a money launderer and investment consultant. Slick proved his worth gaining trust from the gang and being offered other opportunities to make money. Money he could use for a lifestyle of fast women and faster cars. An opportunity arose when Slick was asked to create and become the face of a loan company, a loose term for payday loans at high interest to those who already found themselves in a great deal of debt.

Two years later in a high-rent apartment with a BMW coupe, Slick Morrison was the CEO of a private bank that was completely legal. Some of his clients may have had dubious income streams but that was not a problem for Slick. He now played by the rules, for the most part, keeping himself in a more than comfortable lifestyle and his owners happily making money.

Now at thirty-five years old, 5’10 with a trim body that he proudly looked after, Slick still had his hair dark and slicked back.

Through his gang connections, he was told about a weeklong job in Mexico that required someone with his military background. He jumped at the chance to take a vacation that might offer more excitement than day-to-day banking. While there, he met Joey Moretti who had the task of freeing a family member from kidnappers. Joey ran the operation with as much precision as any army exercise, overcoming being outgunned and outmanned with his exceptional planning and courage. Slick loved every minute of it. The problem was it was all over to soon. He liked and respected Joey and told him so, offering that if there was ever another time Joey needed any kind of help, he was ready to be at his side. In the meantime, he could be found at the bank. A year later, he had had another call. This time from Joey Moretti himself.

Charlie Hill is twenty-nine, six-foot tall with blond hair. He was a football star in college, which was where he had first met Slick. Slick quit while Charlie graduated with a law degree. He soon understood that being a lawyer was not for him and enrolled in the police force. After a couple of years walking the beat, he had had enough and moved to California. He got into surfing, working as a bartender to pay the rent.

Charlie met Zoey, a tall Californian beach type with blond hair down to her ass and marvelous tits. Both assets had his interest as he plied her with free drinks and taught her to surf. When she moved into his studio at Venice Beach a week after meeting, she did not come alone. With her, she brought Rusty, a three-month-old mixed-breed pup with long brown hair and pleading eyes. She had found Rusty abandoned behind a restaurant and taken him to the house she shared with three others. Now Rusty was at home in the studio with her and Charlie.

When Charlie was growing up, he never had an animal in the house. His mother had lung problems, always struggling for breath. While her suffering ended when Charlie was thirteen, Charlie’s life suddenly improved. Although he missed his mother, he wasn’t sad, not only because he knew she was in a better place but he had also become the center of his father’s attention. He took Charlie to baseball and football games and supported him through college.

Zoey worked part-time at a coffee shop while waiting to be discovered by Hollywood. Working at night allowed Charlie time to surf in the mornings. Home alone, Rusty was bored and destroyed whatever he could get at. Out of necessity, it became Charlie’s job to train him. He read a couple of books on dog training, applying what he deemed important for Rusty, who turned out to be an attentive and responsive student. Charlie was fascinated with how fast Rusty could react to what he’d taught him. He began to spend more time with Rusty than Zoey.

Every day they could be found in the park with Rusty learning new tricks devised by Charlie. Within five months, Charlie and Rusty were a team. A bond had formed that can only exist between a man and his dog. Zoey felt left out.

There was a note hanging on the refrigerator when Charlie came home from work at 2:00 am.

You can see we are not here. We are gone. I am going back to Texas with Rusty. My father will pay for me to go to school. Beauty school. If I cannot be an actress then I can be a hairdresser to the stars. Goodbye. Zoey.

Charlie sat in the dark in shock. The tits he could replace but not Rusty. He cried far more than when his mother had died. Rusty was his friend, his companion, his playmate. This was the first time Charlie had felt real loss.

The sun rose over the beach in Venice. Charlie had not slept but he had formulated a plan. He believed he had a natural affinity with animals, particularly dogs, and a talent for training dogs. More importantly, training dogs for a special purpose was in demand. Sniffer dogs for airport duty, military dogs for bomb squads, and assistance dogs were more important than ever before. Charlie would incorporate his police background with his newfound ability and try to join the Los Angeles County Police Dog Squad. What that entailed and how to go about it, he was not sure, but thought a lawyer with a police background and dog-training skills should have a chance. Two years later, he was of member of the LAPD K-9 squad.

Chapter 3