apartment came into view, Alita could see Eduardo’s feet sticking out from underneath his car. Grabbing a wrench from his tool box, she banged on the fender.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Eduardo scrambled out from under the muffler.
Alita squared up, fists on hips. “I thought I told you to clear out.”
“Jesus, I’m just doing a little repair. We’ll get those boxes out of the apartment, don’t worry.”
“Where’s your dirtball amigo?”
“He’s on a beer run.”
“Get in here.” Alita marched into the apartment, dragging Eduardo along by the shirt sleeve, all while reading him the riot act.
“You talk crazy,” Eduardo protested. “No way did we kill that man.”
Irishman
Kieran pointed through the windshield of his parked car at the scarecrow figure exiting the liquor store. “There’s one of the tacos,” he blurted into his cell phone to Roddy, “that we saw on the webcam. I’ll call you back, got some persuading to do.”
The top three buttons of the man’s ragged denim shirt were unbuttoned and exposed his chest to the winter chill. Earlobe-length hair sprouted out below his soiled Caterpillar ball cap. He stopped on the sidewalk to fish a bottle of Grain Belt beer out of a brown paper bag.
Kieran gunned the engine, hopped the curb, skidded on the icy sidewalk, and sideswiped his target, knocking him into a boulevard tree.
Blood streamed from a cut above Rafie’s right eye. He weakly attempted to retrieve the unbroken beer bottle rolling on the sidewalk next to his knee.
Kieran jumped from the car, grabbed the crumpled man, and tossed him into the back seat. The tires spun in reverse, burned to the pavement, and caught. The car lurched back to the street and sped away.
“You ripped off the wrong people, mate!” Kieran yelled. “Where’s the lottery tickets? Where?” He stopped the car, swung his right arm into the back seat, and clutched Rafie by the throat.
“If you got any respect for breathin’, you’ll direct me right to those tickets.”
Alita opened the door of the garden-level apartment. Rafie stumbled across the threshold, followed by Kieran, who had him in a choke hold. The air had a greasy cooking smell. Beer bottles overflowed the kitchen wastebasket. A nervous bull terrier with a muscular neck stood with its legs apart and barked aggressively at the visitor.
Alita was still wearing her bank uniform. The gold-banded epaulets sewn to the shoulder of her starched white blouse gave her an air of authority. Kieran paused momentarily, cautious until he spotted the Minnesota National Bank logo on her breast pocket. He pushed his way into the living room, skirting past the dog. He surveyed the torn FedEx boxes and strewn lottery tickets. “You maggots are in some serious shit.”
“Eduardo! ¡ayuda! ¡ayuda!” Alita screamed.
A shotgun barrel emerged from the bedroom, with Eduardo at the trigger. He pumped a shell into the chamber.
“Be cool, mate.” Kieran produced a knife and pressed the razor point to the side of Rafie’s neck. “Or I put a shank into this edjit.”
“Talk Engleesh. What’s he saying?” Eduardo shouted at Alita, confused by Kieran’s thick Irish brogue.
“How about I draw ’em a picture?” Kieran ratcheted up the choke and Rafie’s face turned purple. He flailed his arms as if drowning.
“Stop, stop!” Alita pleaded over the frenzied bark of the dog. “Take your packages and get out of here.” She shoved a FedEx Box at Kieran.
Kieran grabbed at the box, providing an opening for the terrier. He heard the brown dog’s toenails click on the linoleum floor like castanets just before it sank its toothy grip into his leg. “Call the fucking dog off!” Kieran snapped a hard kick forward, sending the dog airborne. The canine landed on Eduardo’s chest, knocking the shotgun out of his hands onto the floor, butt first. The sound of the discharge vibrated off the apartment walls and stunned the scene into slow motion.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Eduardo scrambled out from under the muffler.
Alita squared up, fists on hips. “I thought I told you to clear out.”
“Jesus, I’m just doing a little repair. We’ll get those boxes out of the apartment, don’t worry.”
“Where’s your dirtball amigo?”
“He’s on a beer run.”
“Get in here.” Alita marched into the apartment, dragging Eduardo along by the shirt sleeve, all while reading him the riot act.
“You talk crazy,” Eduardo protested. “No way did we kill that man.”
Irishman
Kieran pointed through the windshield of his parked car at the scarecrow figure exiting the liquor store. “There’s one of the tacos,” he blurted into his cell phone to Roddy, “that we saw on the webcam. I’ll call you back, got some persuading to do.”
The top three buttons of the man’s ragged denim shirt were unbuttoned and exposed his chest to the winter chill. Earlobe-length hair sprouted out below his soiled Caterpillar ball cap. He stopped on the sidewalk to fish a bottle of Grain Belt beer out of a brown paper bag.
Kieran gunned the engine, hopped the curb, skidded on the icy sidewalk, and sideswiped his target, knocking him into a boulevard tree.
Blood streamed from a cut above Rafie’s right eye. He weakly attempted to retrieve the unbroken beer bottle rolling on the sidewalk next to his knee.
Kieran jumped from the car, grabbed the crumpled man, and tossed him into the back seat. The tires spun in reverse, burned to the pavement, and caught. The car lurched back to the street and sped away.
“You ripped off the wrong people, mate!” Kieran yelled. “Where’s the lottery tickets? Where?” He stopped the car, swung his right arm into the back seat, and clutched Rafie by the throat.
“If you got any respect for breathin’, you’ll direct me right to those tickets.”
Alita opened the door of the garden-level apartment. Rafie stumbled across the threshold, followed by Kieran, who had him in a choke hold. The air had a greasy cooking smell. Beer bottles overflowed the kitchen wastebasket. A nervous bull terrier with a muscular neck stood with its legs apart and barked aggressively at the visitor.
Alita was still wearing her bank uniform. The gold-banded epaulets sewn to the shoulder of her starched white blouse gave her an air of authority. Kieran paused momentarily, cautious until he spotted the Minnesota National Bank logo on her breast pocket. He pushed his way into the living room, skirting past the dog. He surveyed the torn FedEx boxes and strewn lottery tickets. “You maggots are in some serious shit.”
“Eduardo! ¡ayuda! ¡ayuda!” Alita screamed.
A shotgun barrel emerged from the bedroom, with Eduardo at the trigger. He pumped a shell into the chamber.
“Be cool, mate.” Kieran produced a knife and pressed the razor point to the side of Rafie’s neck. “Or I put a shank into this edjit.”
“Talk Engleesh. What’s he saying?” Eduardo shouted at Alita, confused by Kieran’s thick Irish brogue.
“How about I draw ’em a picture?” Kieran ratcheted up the choke and Rafie’s face turned purple. He flailed his arms as if drowning.
“Stop, stop!” Alita pleaded over the frenzied bark of the dog. “Take your packages and get out of here.” She shoved a FedEx Box at Kieran.
Kieran grabbed at the box, providing an opening for the terrier. He heard the brown dog’s toenails click on the linoleum floor like castanets just before it sank its toothy grip into his leg. “Call the fucking dog off!” Kieran snapped a hard kick forward, sending the dog airborne. The canine landed on Eduardo’s chest, knocking the shotgun out of his hands onto the floor, butt first. The sound of the discharge vibrated off the apartment walls and stunned the scene into slow motion.
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