Pete Greensmith arrived in his
beaten Toyota fifteen minutes late after stalling twice on the way over. He’d
get a nineteen-eighty Mustang once the cash started rolling in. The best car,
the only car. If God appeared on Earth with his long fucking beard, he’d choose
a Mustang. A real hitman needed a reliable set of wheels. Dennis owed him, and
he needed Pete.
He was getting out
of the car when he spotted Mercer coming down the street. “Fuck!” he hissed.
What was Mercer doing here? Pete’s head started pounding, which happened
whenever he was stressed. It probably didn’t help that he smoked all that crystal
an hour ago. No biggie – professionals handle shit. Time to start being one,
headache or not, high or not. Mercer was his second hit, but Dennis still hadn’t
paid him for his first. Whatever – that’s how Dennis rolled, and Pete would
roll with it, because he did fuck up. He could still hear the phone conversation
with Dennis last night:
“What the fuck did
you do? You fricken bone head!” Dennis yelled into the phone.
“Dude, relax. Just
a miscalculation,” Pete replied.
“A pretty fuckin serious
miscalculation. You shot him in front of a God damned McDonald’s!”
“You said that’s
where he hung out.’
“Yeah, the same
one a bunch of my clients hang out at.”
“Look, you wanted
him dead, I said I’d do it for a grand.”
“You could’ve led
him somewhere.”
“Didn’t think of
it.”
“You tossed the
piece, right?”
“What? Naw. It’s a
good piece.”
“Christ, you
really are a fuckin idiot.”
“I was wearing a
ski mask.”
“Then how come
Mercer knew it was you?”
“What?”
“He was over here
getting high the other night and he told me. How did he recognize you?”
“Oh. I guess I took the mask off.”
“You guess?”
“I did. I was running,
and I couldn’t see.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey, I’ll make it
up to you.”
“Are you high?”
“What? Sure, a
little.”
“Oh, you’re gonna
make it up to me, Pete.”
“OK. Yeah, no
problem, it’s all good.”
“Shut up! Look, Mercer’s
leaving tomorrow night. No mistakes. No impulsive shit.”
“Why’s he gotta
die?”
“I told you, you
fuckin clown! He knows!”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Loose lips.”
“Can’t you front
me something for the first one?” Thinking about the down payment he could make
on the Mustang.
“Do this right
first.”
“How much for this
one?”
“This one’s to
save your ass as well as mine, Cinderella. Tomorrow, my place, one o’clock.
I’ll tell you what you gotta do.”
• • •
There were too
many mistakes: too much drinking, the occasional bit of crystal. School wasn’t
working out, and getting high was the answer. Fuck it. You made choices and you
lived with them. Time to straighten shit out.
Mercer was headed
up the porch. Could be a new plan – Mercer shows up first, they kill him in
private, no mess. It made sense. Then there was always the possibility Pete
could take care of Dennis, grab the cash and then go straight to the dealership.
Play it by ear, he decided. He charged up the steps behind Mercer, gun at the ready.
The door opened
just as Pete grabbed Mercer, shoving him into the apartment. Dennis pulled the
door shut. Everything was covered in plastic. Pete had guessed right.
“What you wanna do?”
Pete asked, gun in Mercer’s side. “Take him somewhere?”
“Here’s fine,” Dennis
said, pulling his Glock, silencer attached, and in one fluid motion stepping up
to Pete and putting a bullet in his head. Pete hit the floor with a slap, blood
pooling out with the viscosity of spilled pancake batter, disbelief in his glassy
eyes.
• • •
Mercer grabbed a towel
to sop up the expanding puddle.
“Thanks,” Dennis
said.
“No problem. You
got a change of clothes?” Mercer asked, holding up his arms to display his blood-spattered
shirt.
“Not necessary,”
said Dennis, plugging three shots in his chest, dropping Mercer on the sofa
like a fallen marionette.
Dennis stared at the death tableau. Lesson
learned: you want something done right, do it yourself. It was tough finding
good help these days.
