Runner-up 3

Hauser struggled to stay conscious, to stay alert. He needed time to think, and time was fast running out. He was sure Palmieri hadn’t bought the fake voice routine and would already be on his way from LAX.

He gritted his expensively capped teeth against the dull pain throbbing in his wounded shoulder. He knew he needed immediate medical attention, but that would mean the police.

It was time to call in a marker. Grimacing, he reached for the black book he always carried in his back pocket and opened it. He flipped through the pages until coming to the “Ks.”

“Kenny One-Eye,” he muttered, and clumsily punched the number into the dead hood’s cellphone. While it rang, he could hear loud overlapping voices coming from inside Congressman Falco’s house. Hauser recognized the voices of Falco, his wife Evelyn, Chuck and Genie Bonner and the hood Ernesto, before his attention was drawn to Kenny One-Eye’s voice on the cell.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me, Hauser.”

“What’s up, buddy?”

“Need clean up,” he grunted. “Aisle four.”

“I’m kinda busy right now.”

“Get unbusy.”

“Where are you?”

“Reseda. Congressman Falco’s place.”

“Your lucky day, Hauser. “I’m in Encino.”

“Lucky, that’s me. You still got that 12-gauge street sweeper?”

“Both barrels, locked and loaded.”

“Bring it,” Hauser said, and snapped off the cell. He had to hurry. If someone heard gunplay, the police would have been alerted by now. There were no sirens, at least not yet. And it was a toss-up as to who showed up first: Kenny One-Eye or Vincent Palmieri.

Hauser gripped “Baby Doll,” his 40-caliber Glock, and struggled to his feet. Dizzy from pain and blood loss, he stumbled toward Falco’s front door. It opened before he got to it and he blinked when he recognized Evelyn approaching him with his old shotgun cradled in the crook of her left arm. Her right index finger was on the trigger.

“Hermann?” Her voice was high-pitched and full of concern.

“Don’t shoot, sweetheart. It’s me.”

“You’re hurt.”

“Flesh wound. What’s going on in the house?”

“I’d call it a Mexican standoff. My husband wants to trade his influence for a favor from a hood named Ernesto. Ernesto wants a starring role in Chuck Bonner’s next B-movie. Chuck Bonner agrees, only if Ernesto tells him where to find a certain flash drive. As for that tramp, Genie, all she wants is to get her hands on somebody by the name of Vincent Palmieri.”

“How about you?” Hauser asked. Everything was getting gray. A bad sign.

“Let’s get that old Buick convertible of yours fixed up and hit the road to Shangri-la.”

Hauser smiled and closed his eyes to the sound of sirens coming closer.

Gordon Davis is a retired headhunter and the author of four unpublished novels in search of an agent.