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#Feature: The Lost #Angel By Adam C Mitchell!

Book Blub

Eddy Kovakx robs the Lost Angel, central city's newest night club, owned by Victor Renetti. Pulling off the job was the easy part. Now on the run with his partner's broad, the sultry Kimmie Saint Clair, he also has an unstoppable PI on his case. Jack Malone is in hot pursuit thanks to the sadistic mobster Victor, putting a price on his head. Can Eddy and Kimmie get away with the money and their life. Or will Jack Malone get his mark. Danger, mystery, and adventure in the noir thriller.

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I glanced around the bar, checking out the punters as the barman refilled my glass. Whiskey topped up, I focused on the man perched at the far end; fat, sweaty, early forties. His hair was dirty blond and thinning on top, his clothes expensive but unkempt. Fatso wore a dull blue striped number, crumpled shirt and scuffed leather shoes. He was spending money like it was going out of fashion. His drink of choice was Old Forester. He drank heavily, trying to buy friends in the process, showing off and bragging like he was lord of the keep.

After downing my drink, I moved towards him. He turned on his stool and gave me a toothy smile. “A drink, my friend?”

I pulled a handkerchief from my jacket pocket and wiped the man's spittle off my cheek. He spewed his words and drooled like a lout. He was ten sheets to the wind and getting more inebriated by the minute. He was a drunken big-spender and barfly at most of the clubs and betting establishments around the city.

We met for the first time a year back. He latched on to my doll, giving her a drunken advance and a below the belt grope. We fought. He got the doll and I got the heave hoe and a night in the cell.

Tony ordered a whiskey and pushed it in front of me. I didn’t want it, but played along. In truth, I was checking him out. His pockets were going to feel real light soon. The tarnished fob watch nestling in his loose, stained waistcoat might be worth something. It didn’t look like nothing special, but it’d be easy to fence or sell down the markets. They didn’t care where their stock came from so long as it sold.

He raised his glass to his lips, which is the exact moment the breath froze in my throat. There, beneath the loudmouth's jacket, hung a brown holster and a gun. I groaned. Trouble was the one thing I didn’t need. Not right now.

Downing the two fingers straight, Tony smacked his lips with a satisfied gasp and put his hand on my shoulder. “The name’s Tony Santeeni. I’m celebrating a new job, you know, working the door of the Lost Angel club,” he slurred. “I’m coming into money. A big deal. Then, pal, I’ll be on easy street.” He swayed in his seat and I caught sight of the brown paper parcel stuffed in his jacket pocket.

Without warning, he slugged me clean off the stool. I landed on the floor with a thud. He must have remembered my face from our last encounter and if he didn’t remember me, it was the demon drink talking through him as it often did, The drink making him forget everything and everyone he kn. Even his own name at times . For a long while after our last encounter, I made it my business to make sure every black-and-white in the area stopped by and gave him a little visit to make it hard for him to make book. If not that, maybe the occasional shake down from my former flame and her call girl pals, would hit him where it hurt, his wallet.

Tony drew the gun from its holster and waved it in my direction. “You’re trying to get me drunk and get in on my big score!” His arm swayed and the gun went off, blowing a hole in the floor by my head.

I pulled my gun out and fired back. Instinct, nothing more. I hated packing heat, but the club scene and the city made it a must. You either carried heat or died by it.


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