A Hitman on Haight

A Hitman on Haight StreetBook 2 of The Haight Mystery Series Peter MoreiraHippie Hill Press Copyright © 2019 by Peter Moreira All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact Peter Moreira through petermoreira.com. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.Published by Hippie Hill PressCover design by Teddy LapierreAuthor photo by Nic Takushi For Carol With Love Contents 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27. Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 33. Chapter 33 34. Chapter 34 35. Chapter 35 36. Chapter 36 37. Chapter 37 38. Chapter 38 39. Chapter 39 40. Chapter 40 41. Chapter 41 42. Chapter 42 43. Chapter 43 44. Chapter 44 45. Chapter 45 46. Chapter 46 47. Chapter 47 48. Chapter 48 49. Chapter 49 50. Chapter 50 51. Special Bonus Also By Peter Moreira About the Author Acknowledgments Chapter 1Monday, June 17, 1968He felt rejuvenated that morning. It was more than just a sense of accomplishment. He woke without dreading ridicule. He woke without fearing he might fail. His mission had been the transcendent moment of his life. He felt…fully formed . Still, he longed to linger in bed, he’d had so little sleep. But there was more work to do. He shoved back the covers, stood, and stretched. A morning breeze billowed the threadbare curtains, filling his little room with sunlight and chilling his naked body. He smiled—the breeze was refreshing and heightened the zest he felt. It would have been a perfect start to the day if not for the dreadful noise from across the alleyway. “Yummy, Yummy, Yummy.” It was a radio in the next building blasting the chart-topper that had been everywhere the previous summer. He strode to the window and yanked it shut. Relieved, he stretched again, linking his hands, and lifting his arms up. He felt taller, lighter. Release. He padded across the linoleum floor to his bedside table and pressed the play button on his cassette recorder. The room filled with a strumming guitar then the loon-like call of Jasmine’s voice. I’m listening for Jackie. She is watching me Plucking plump suspicions from my paranoia treeHe smiled and let the glorious noise pulse through him. It was hard to believe his neighbor across the alley had come to Haight-Ashbury to listen to Ohio Express. You come to Haight-Ashbury for the Dead and Jefferson Airplane and Moby Grape and Janis and Jimi, and now—Jasmine. All the world was listening to the music from this little corner of San Francisco, and Jasmine was the latest star in the constellation. He felt his body warm at the thought of her. He’d felt close to Jasmine the moment he heard that soaring voice, saw her beautiful body—the cascading hair, her sweet face, glorious mouth….It amused him to hear her described as “the new Joni Mitchell.” That wasn’t right. Jasmine was better than Joni, she was so much more…fascinating. He picked up the little case of the cassette and studied her photo. Long blonde hair flowing over her bare shoulder. It excited him to think such a beautiful creature could write and sing the song he was listening to. Jackie’s green with envy, Mary’s red with rage I’m lavender with ennui, Jane’s blue without her sage They prowl about and whisper with efficiency and stealth Words almost as harsh as what I think about myselfHe listened motionless, rapt. When the song finished, he rewound the tape and turned up the volume as loud as it would go without distorting the sound. Once he finished this mission, he’d buy himself a component stereo so he could listen to the Haight-Ashbury sound properly.He thought about getting dressed but the excitement of the previous night lingered. It had been a glorious experience, like sex, but even more exhilarating, consuming. His nakedness seemed to prolong the carnal glory. He took a vial of hash oil from the little table by his bed and prepared a spliff. He thought how hash had become his drug of choice since arriving in Haight-Ashbury. He’d avoided LSD since having a bad trip in New York the year before. He never touched heroin—he’d seen what it does. Hash offered a mellow high and was easy to hide. And he’d recently learned that the word “assassin” was derived from the word “hashish,” so it had special meaning for him. Especially today.He took a long, long toke and held it. His throat burned and the rush surged up his spine. He exhaled slowly. He took another toke and relived the wonders of the previous night. He had only been in Golden Gate Park twelve minutes, but it was twelve minutes of ecstasy. During his third toke he thought of how he’d arched his back, pulling her feet from the ground. She was squirming, her back against his stomach, her ass against his crotch. She tried to claw him but couldn’t reach round. She weakened quickly and went limp. He’d always loved it when his partners climaxed, but no orgasm could compare with the thrill of feeling her life