Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
By Jenny
Written for the
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Ashleigh stared at the scene before her with horrorstricken eyes. Blood drenched the small rug near her father's chair, and trailed into the kitchen.
"What the hell happened? Ma? Da?" She got no answer. "Nellie?" Silence. She made her way toward the kitchen. Even if her family wasn't in there, she knew her mother would leave a note or something.
But not bodies. My parents wouldn't leave bodies. That's what her numbed mind kept repeating, over and over. Then she slowly began to get it. Her parents and siblings all sat against the wall. Her father had been shot several times, but her mother and siblings had only been shot once each, execution style, in the head. Her father was also shot in the head, but it was obviously posthumously.
A piece of paper lay on the ground near the bodies. Ashleigh walked over to it and picked it up. She read it. Then she went to her father's bedroom and got his gun. She got a small leather book, then walked out of her apartment, in the direction of the police station.
*****
May 16, 1902
My father was a good man. He cared for his family. He sent all of us kids to school, even though we couldn't really afford it. It killed him when Ma had to go to work so we could eat. He was a good, smart, honest man. That's why they killed him.
I found a note with the bodies. It was from the man who killed them. When the police came to look at the bodies, they didn't even care that this was one of their own. They said it was 'random violence'. Bullshit. I know better.
Ashleigh read the note again: "Heya chief. Warn your men that this is what happens when they get too honest. The boss gets angry. Tell them to take the envelope and forget about it and not to be so damned honorable. Wolf"
Da wouldn't take the shut-up money. He was going to expose a Mafia boss to the police. He told me about part of it; This guy, this Bianchi guy, was planning to assassinate the governor. Da warned him, I guess. That would have pissed him off bad.
I don't know who Wolf is. I think I would be afraid if I wasn't so numb. But I'm not.
*****
Wolf sat on a park bench, raking his hand through his dark hair. He had missed one. Dammit, how the hell had HE missed one? He was the best damned assassin in Chicago. Probably the best one outside of New York and New Orleans. And he had missed one! That's why he was stuck here, at the funeral, waiting for the brat to show up. She might know the same things her father did, according to the boss. Apparently, the guy had taught the brat to shoot, and let her wear boy's clothes. The boss figured maybe he'd told her things, too. He looked around. She'd probably be wearing a skirt today. Even so, he'd look for her to be dressed like a damned boy, too.
*****
5/19/1902
The funeral was today. I went, but I didn't go. I saw a man sitting on a park bench. It was warm, too warm for a coat, but he was wearing one. I think there was a lump under it. I made sure I knew what he looked like, then left.
I found a disguise. New clothes, and a hat to hide my hair. Maybe I'll dye it. Or cut it. Or just shove it up under the hat. The clothes are baggy, to hide my gun.
The police all feel the same way that Wolf did, apparently. I'm on my own. I won't leave, though. I can't. I recognized Wolf.
*****
A very young Ashleigh and her older friend Christopher ran up to the roof of the tenement. He jumped up onto the edge of the roof, and began to walk. Then he did a handstand.
"You do it." The 12-year-old grinned at his younger friend.
"No," Ashleigh said, her voice betraying her nervousness.
"Why?" an older boy had asked with a sneer. He and his friends were smoking behind on of the sheds on the roof, and the two kids hadn't noticed him. "You scared, brat?" Ashleigh recognized him as a boy named Malcolm Hopkowitz.
"No!" she exclaimed.
"I don't believe you," he had sneered.
Ashleigh had done the handstand. Then she walked up to the boy and punched him in the nose with her 8-year-old fist. "I'm not scared of anything!" she declared.
Hopkowitz had stared at her for a moment, then grinned at his friends. "Fearless little brat, ain't she?"
*****
I know that someone, somewhere, will help me put Hopkowitz behind bars. But if they don't, I'll deal with him another way. I'll show him fearless.
*****
Nearly two weeks passed. Wolf still hadn't found the bitch. Why the hell was he having so much trouble with her? Too damned scared to come out of hiding, probably. Bianchi wasn't pleased. He was very unpleased, as a matter of fact. That's why Wolf was combing the streets of Chicago, looking for the girl. He knew what she looked like, thanks to the mob boss, but he hadn't seen her anywhere. Then it began to rain. Shit. Rain in the middle of the damned spring. Two days until June and it was raining.
Glancing around, Wolf saw an old warehouse. Just where he wanted to spend his day.
Ashleigh had taken cover from the rain in a rundown but dry warehouse. She was tucked behind some crates with her gun resting safely in her hand, when the huge double doors opened and a man walked in. Holy- No, this is too coincidental. I've been trying to set this up for days, and he just walks in?
She felt a tiny shiver of fear but crushed it ruthlessly and stood up.
Wolf saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see what it was. There was no way in hell it could be what he was seeing. He'd been looking for the bitch for two weeks and she just appears? Here?
"Hello, Hopkowitz." Ashleigh's voice was cold, and didn't waver. She had her hand behind the crate, the gun at her hip, but aimed for him. She knew the crate was empty, and would afford little protection. He didn't, so he'd be aiming for her head and chest, most likely. One chance. That's all I get, one. I have to use it right.
When she had named him, however, she didn't expect him to be so damned quick. He fired at her over and over, but his first few weren't even aimed. She ran behind some crates that she hoped were full. Thankfully, they were. She heard a click and a clanging noise as Wolf threw the gun aside. His steps were slow and even as he walked to the crate. I have a gun! Not even he can be that stupid! Apparently, he was. She jumped out and held the gun toward him, but he had surprised her once again. He was right there with a knife. He slashed her arm, and she dropped the gun, and he stabbed at her face. She dodged, but not quite in time.
He dove for the gun at the same time she did, but she was ready for his quickness this time. As he dove for the floor, she brought her knee up into his face. The gun was in her hand.
Ashleigh watched Wolf hold his bloody and broken nose in his hands. He looked different, for some reason, over the barrel of a gun.
"How the hell'd ya know who I was?" Hopkowitz asked. "I ain't neva met ya bafore in my life."
She just stared. He'd get no answers from this Irish lass.
"Well why the hell don't ya jest shoot me, then? What're ya, scared?"
Ashleigh felt emotions surging through her. One was fear, yes. So she'd lie. "No." The gunshot echoed through the empty, rundown warehouse.
Wolf fell back on the cement floor, a bullet hole cleanly through his head, blood pooling beneath him. And for the first time since she'd walked into the apartment that night, Ashleigh cried for her family, for her old life, and for the little girl that had been killed forever.
*****
6/1/1902
I bought a train ticket today. Now that Wolf's dead, I have no reason to stay. I don't really want to be in the city where my whole family died, anyway. The governor has two letters: Wolf's letter, and one from me. It tells him everything the Mafia killed Da for knowing.
The mob knows I know, and they know I'm dangerous. I killed one of their own, and I could expose this Bianchi and put him away. They want revenge. I heard on the streets that there's a fairly large contract on my head. It's rather flattering; I am, after all, only a 17-year-old girl.
So here I am, dressed like a boy, my arm bandaged up…like usual. Well, not the bandage, but the rest. Only this time, it serves a purpose. Most of the men looking for me are not going to know what my dressing habits are. So I shoved my red Irish hair under my bowler, hid my gun in my shirt, and here I am, Mister Sean Donovan, headed to New York City. I've heard a person can be lost forever in the sea of faces that makes up that city. Let's see if it's true.