Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [81]
"I think they're comin," said Sally. "They're comin now." He squirmed around in the driver's seat.
The trailer door opened and two men in Brioni suits stood illuminated in the office light. They looked up at the rain, then down at the muddy pools of water. The taller of the two men disappeared back into the trailer for a moment, reappearing with a single umbrella. He held it over the other man, reached back and flicked off the light, and they both stepped carefully onto the cinder-block landing. The shorter man snapped closed a padlock on the trailer door.
When they reached the sidewalk, the shorter man kicked mud off his shoes before stepping off the curb and into the street.
Sally reached for the door handle.
Skinny, in a calm, low voice, said, "Wait a minute . . . wait. . . wait. . . okay, now. Let's do it."
The two men were halfway across the street, making for the Seville. Sally and Skinny got out of the Ford. The interior dome light did not go on; masking tape kept the buttons in the doors depressed. They left the doors open and moved toward the two men.
The shorter man saw them first. Leaving the taller man alone under the umbrella, he bolted for the Seville. The taller man turned, a confused look on his face, in time to see Skinny coming at him in the rain, the barrel of the Mossberg rising up and out from under his poncho.
"Shit!" he said.
The first blast from the Mossberg took him in the left knee, knocking his leg out from under him. He teetered for a second before flopping over onto the wet asphalt. He rolled, gasping, over onto his back, trying frantically to pull himself across the street with his arms, the shredded leg dangling limply below the knee. Skinny took another few steps and put a wet foot down firmly against the man's throat. He pressed the Mossberg barrel against the man's chest and pulled the trigger. The man's body bucked violently, the one good leg kicking up into the air and then falling with a wet slap back onto the pavement.
Skinny looked off to his left. He watched as Sally, all 280 pounds of him, trotted after the shorter man. The man was struggling with the driver's side door of the Seville, saying, "Please, please, please," under his breath as he fumbled with the key. He gave up on the door and had just started to move away from the car when Sally let loose with the Ithaca. The powerful round caught the man at the hinge of his jaw, blowing most of the top of his head onto the roof of the Seville and shattering the driver's-side window. He was knocked against the door, and as he slid to the ground, Sally fired again, hitting him in the neck. He fell sideways onto the street, what was left of his head folded over onto his shoulder at an unnatural angle, a ruined, leaking shell.
"WOW!" exclaimed Sally. "You see that?"
"That's why they call it a fuckin' Roadblocker," said Skinny.
"Well, it sure knocked his fuckin' block off. . . Marrone!"
Sally and Skinny walked back to the Ford. As Sally started the car, Skinny retrieved an old army-surplus duffel bag from the back seat and put the two shotguns inside. He removed the ashtrays and dropped them in the duffel with the guns. Sally stepped on the gas and roared down the street, slowing down slightly to pass the two left wheels over the dead man in the middle of the street. There were two dull thuds as the car bounced over the corpse.
"You shouldn't a done that," said Skinny. "That's bush."
"Fuck him," said Sally, grinning from ear to ear.
"Guy could get caught up in the wheel well or the bumper. Next thing you know, were draggin' a fuckin' stiff halfway across Brooklyn."
"Fuck him," said Sally.
"It's bush," said Skinny. "I don't like it. Now you got forensics onna tires. I really don't like that."
THEY DROVE the Ford to the parking lot of the Acropolis Diner near Cadman Plaza. They parked next to a green Mercury. Skinny removed the masking tape from inside the door frames, got out of the car, and put the duffel in the trunk of the Mercury. He took off his poncho and crumpled