Angel Face by Stephen Solomita

arter’s time with Paulie has taught him that most gangsters, no matter how tough, are poorly trained and unpracticed. Maybe they’ll fight at the drop of a hat, maybe they’ll kill you and go to lunch afterward, but they lack the skills to effectively defend themselves. He follows Angel down the block, she beneath a blue umbrella, he on the opposite side of the street and slightly behind, moving in the shadows. The rain is falling hard, the entire block deserted. There’s not a surveillance camera in sight.
    The gangster produces a double take worthy of a silent movie comedian when Angel walks by, his hand already groping for the door’s handle. He opens the door, slides out into the rain and takes a step, the possibility that he’s the hunted, not the hunter, never entering his mind.
    Carter makes contact before his target reaches the end of the BMW’s hood, his left hand grabbing the man’s shoulder while his thumb probes for the space between two ribs. Then he punches the dagger’s blade directly into Ruby Amaroso’s heart, the impact so hard and sudden the man barely manages a grunt before his eyes close and his knees give out.
    Carter guides the body, as it falls, between the BMW and the car in front. Then he walks off without looking to the right or the left, or even removing the knife, mission accomplished, Carter just another pedestrian going about his business. Thirty seconds later, he’s in the van, buckling his seat belt as he starts the engine. He glances in the rear-view mirror as he pulls away, at Angel Tamanaka, at Angel Face, huddled against the side of the van.
    Welcome to the Hell World, kid.
    Though aware of serial killers and their predilections, Carter never before associated the act of murder with any variety of sexual charge, not until he and Angel come through the door and begin to yank at each other’s clothes. Only then, as she lies beneath him, her heels on his shoulders, he thrusting into her, two animals in rut on the carpet in his sister’s living room, does he acknowledge the relationship. This is not a marathon, this encounter, it’s a sprint; the both of them going all-out. Angel’s lips are pressed together, her eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. She seems angry to Carter, and not without reason. But Carter doesn’t care. He just knows that he wants her today and he’ll want her tomorrow, and that’s the end of his life plan.
    They feast afterwards, on tapas from a Spanish restaurant on Woodhaven Boulevard. Avocado toast, chickpeas with garlic and parsley oil, farmhouse toast and figs with ham. They stuff themselves, then shower together before Angel’s adrenals finally shut down and she flops naked on to their bed. Carter drops down beside her. He’s feeling a kind of buyer’s remorse, like an animal who’s wandered into a dark space and now smells a trap.
    â€˜You want to hear the answer?’ Angel says.
    â€˜To what question?’
    â€˜The one about why I don’t choose plan B – hard work and education.’
    Carter rolls up on to an elbow. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I was only kidding.’
    â€˜No, I want to. I want you to know where I’m coming from.’ Angel strokes the side of Carter’s face. ‘My grandfather, Yoshi Tamanaka, was born in Seattle in 1928. Like every West Coast Japanese citizen, he spent World War Two in an internment camp – you’ll notice that American historians never say concentration camp – along with the rest of the family. Grampa was seventeen at the end of the war and he went to school for a couple of years before opening a lumber yard near Green Lake, north of Seattle. You might say he got lucky, because the Interstate Highway System came right past the town and linked him to builders in neighboring counties. His business was still growing when he passed it on to my dad in 1988. That would be Hideki