• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 662 0

ear like I wanted. It throws him into the corner of the seat and I work on Paris before he can get the car moving. I can only see a sliver of his head, so I throw four rounds through the back of the seat where his body should be. His head flies forward, the car lurches twice, and the volume on the music goes through the roof. Ed starts stomping his cowboy boots down on my thighs, trying to stick his heel in my balls, but I get my knees up in the way. The bullet in his shoulder has killed his right arm and he’s trying to get at the gun in his shoulder holster with his left. I shoot him in the right thigh and he stops kicking at me. I raise the gun and shoot him in the stomach. Raise it again. And in the chest. Again. And the last bullet takes off his hat. I scramble and pull myself up and look into the front seat. Paris is sprawled, half on the seat and half in the footwell. It looks like all four bullets hit, but it’s hard to be sure because his chest is so ripped up. He’s opening and closing his mouth.

—Ed? I’m hurt. Ed?

He dies. Without me having to shoot him again.

I drop the gun on the seat, reach forward, grab the keys from the ignition and hit the stop button on the boombox. Bud has crawled into his bag to hide. I zip him up and pull on the door handle. It’s the one that doesn’t open from the inside. I don’t think I can get past Ed’s body, so I crawl into the front seat and out the passenger’s-side door.

The Caddie is at an angle, half in the street. The rain has stopped. The street is empty for now. Down the block, a car alarm is sounding. I walk around the car and open the trunk. I’m thinking about the suitcases Ed and Paris put in the car back at the apartment. I’m thinking about clothes without blood on them. But there it is, right on top. A big fucking bag, full of money.

I open a suitcase and grab a few things and stuff them in with Bud. He tries to jump out, but I push him back in and zip up. I close the trunk and walk away.

I get about five feet before I go back and take all the money. Then I run as fast as the four and a half mil will let me.

I’m walking up Seventh Avenue, out in the open. I hide behind a Dumpster and strip off the bloody Yankees jacket and pull on a black sweatshirt that hangs on me like a sheet. Must have been Paris’s.

I have no idea where to go next and this bag is fucking heavy. At James J. Walker Park, I see a homeless guy with a shopping cart loaded with garbage bags full of bottles and cans, along with the rest of his life and belongings. He’s sitting on a wet bench, trying to light a wet cigarette butt with a wet match. I sit at the opposite end of the bench. He glances at me, then goes back to the smoke. I dig around in my pockets. I gave all my hundreds to Billy, but I’ve still got a bunch of twenties. I pull out five and hold them out to the guy. He looks at them, then he looks at me.

—Want to sell your home?

He haggles me up to one forty and I let him keep most of the stuff. I pile some crap around the duffel bag and pull on his old overcoat and head back up the avenue. Behind me, the bum finally gets his cig lit and sits there smoking it like he’s Nelson fucking Rockefeller. What was I thinking giving him twenties? I’ve got four and a half mil in this bag. Oh well, next time, old-timer.

I’m heading right into Greenwich Village. There are more people out now that the rain has stopped, but there is definitely a mood on the street. The city is afraid of me. I push my cart. Past Sheridan Square, I see the Riviera Sports Bar. It’s packed. I push my cart past and, on the 10th Street side, I see a little window level with the sidewalk. It’s set right on top of a heating grate and through it I can see clearly into the basement bar and all the TVs in there with baseball on them. It looks like the game has restarted at Shea, and the Giants game is on as well.

I pull the cart over to the wall. I dig out a blanket, spread it on the grate and sit down with Bud’s bag on my lap. When I unzip the bag, he pushes away from me. I put my hand inside and tickle him between the eyes.