Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [71]
The sun had made its descent about an hour ago and the cool fall warranted a light jacket. I parked my car on 88th Street, a driveway away from Seaview Avenue. There were lots of parking spaces on Seaview Avenue, the street that bordered the park with the Atlantic Ocean, but I didn’t park my car anyplace on that street. It was like going to fuck a man’s wife and parking in his driveway, which was a no-no. In the event of a quick getaway, there should be some maneuvering possible. While in the car, I had slipped the gun into my waistband and it was now nudging against my bare skin. I took it and a small pillow to the arranged meeting place. I threw the pillow a few feet away from where our meeting was supposed to be held.
I went into the park and did a few stretches. There were about two other people running in the park. I watched one of them speed by me as if he was about to catch a moving bus. The other was a woman in her late fifties; her pace on the track meant that time was not of the essence to her. She was most likely of the opinion that whenever you finished, it was a good thing. The hood was over my head as I started the jog around the park. The increase in the air pressure felt good as my heart pumped blood through my body. The gun nudging against my skin was becoming unbearable. I made it around the park twice, then I jogged off the track to wait for the arrival of Mr. Malcolm. As expected, he was punctual, parking his black 2006 Chrysler 300 behind a black Mazda 626. I watched him get out of the car with a black bag. He adjusted his black slacks, then started the trek across the park. He had a fedora pulled down over his eyes. I waited for him to go to the arranged meeting place before I started walking over to join him.
I removed the gun as I walked down the small path that led to the clearing. I saw Mr. Malcolm ahead of me; his face turned in the opposite direction.
“I see you made it,” I said, hoping not to spook him.
“Yes, I have it all here for you,” he said, still facing away from me.
I picked up the pillow and put it in front of the gun. I moved swiftly toward Mr. Malcolm, my finger on the trigger. As I approached, he began to turn around. I reached forward with both hands, my left hand holding the pillow and my right hand, the gun. The blood circulated in my body three times as fast as when I was running earlier. As soon as I made contact against him with the pillow, I jammed the gun into it and pulled the trigger. My hand jerked as three bullets left the barrel of the gun and Mr. Malcolm pitched forward. In his right hand, he was clutching a forty-five pistol; definitely a relic from his younger days. He had fallen forward on his face with his mouth and eyes wide open. I reached down and disengaged his fingers from the black bag he was carrying. I unzipped the bag and opened it to find a bag full of torn newspapers. I smiled because my prediction had come true. I went through the bag, then later his pockets. I removed his wallet and his keys. I made one last look around the area, then exited the parking lot in the opposite direction from where I had come in.
It took me a minute to make the complete circle back to my car. I got in and drove off. It took me about two minutes to get onto the Belt Parkway; then I exited to a rest area overlooking the sea. I got out of the car and ignored the couple humping in a white Toyota Camry. I walked out to the water and under the cover of the night, I threw Mr. Malcolm’s belongings into Jamaica Bay. I lashed out with my right hand to crush a mosquito that had made preparation to use my neck for dinner. The small red blotch of blood was barely visible