amber liquid over the seats, the dashboard, the floor, and, of course, over Michaels. He was fading fast and didn't seem to notice what was happening.
As the sharp, tangy smell of the whiskey filled the air, Tony roughly pulled Michaels's head back by his hair and poured some down the man's gullet. He choked as he reflexively swallowed.
Whiskey and spittle flew from his mouth in a fine mist, spraying Tony and everything else in its path. His eyes flew wide with fear and panic, but in his weakened condition he was unable to defend himself in any meaningful way.
The bottle now nearly empty, Tony pitched it hard against the dashboard. It smashed into a thousand glittering pieces, razor-sharp missiles shredding the air, and the brown glass from the liquor bottle mixed with the opaque greenish automobile safety glass scattered throughout the vehicle.
Tony glanced across the front seat and saw Brian reach for the briefcase full of cash Tony had given Michaels just a few hours ago.
The case had gotten wedged under the ruined dashboard, much like Michaels's legs, and Brian tugged it back and forth before it finally popped free, its battered leather shell ripping on an exposed jagged iron support bracket.
Tony studied the inside of the car thoughtfully, like an artist stepping back from his easel to get a better perspective on the entire canvas. Time was of the essence, but he wanted to make sure this was done right. Satisfied, he nodded and returned to the driver's side door of the disabled vehicle for the last time. The stench of cheap whiskey was overwhelming and almost made him gag.
Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell, Tony leaned inside and gently, almost reverently, placed two gloved hands around the flabby neck of Michaels. He was clearly terrified, but he gave Tony a look that was almost indignant, as if he couldn't wrap his brain around the fact that he was being double-crossed.
"Don't take it so hard," Tony said with a brief smile, leaning into the wrecked car and putting his mouth next to Michaels's ear so he was sure he could be heard. "It's nothing personal; this is just business. I'm sure you understand." With that he began choking what little life remained of Michaels, who tried to thrash and resist but was unable to do much of anything but shake his head like he disagreed with Tony's plan, which undoubtedly he did.
Within seconds Michaels was gone. He had been breathing only with extreme difficulty anyway, and even in the short time Tony and Brian had been working at the car, his respiration had become noticeably more labored.
Tony again examined the inside of the car with a critical eye, pulling off his latex gloves and stuffing them into the back pocket of his trousers. Blood and glass were everywhere, giving it the look of some twisted surrealistic painting. Michaels was slumped in the driver's seat, an indignant expression still framing his slack, lifeless features.
"What do you think?" Brian asked, handing Tony the briefcase with the slashed leather front and removing his own gloves with a snap. "Does it look believable? Will the cops buy the idea that the guy croaked as a result of the accident?"
"Well, that whiskey I splashed all over the place will lead the investigators to believe he was drinking on his way home from work and lost control of the vehicle. And his legs being trapped under the smashed dashboard is very helpful to us. The investigators will assume he was alive after the accident but couldn't move and died before help arrived.
"Of course, when the autopsy is performed, it will quickly become clear that virtually none of the liquor actually made it into his stomach, so he really wasn't drunk, and they will discover fine traces of powder from the latex gloves around his neck. The authorities will piece it together and will reach the obvious and correct conclusion--he was murdered. But by the time they put it all together, it will be irrelevant. At least to us."
The two men had now
As the sharp, tangy smell of the whiskey filled the air, Tony roughly pulled Michaels's head back by his hair and poured some down the man's gullet. He choked as he reflexively swallowed.
Whiskey and spittle flew from his mouth in a fine mist, spraying Tony and everything else in its path. His eyes flew wide with fear and panic, but in his weakened condition he was unable to defend himself in any meaningful way.
The bottle now nearly empty, Tony pitched it hard against the dashboard. It smashed into a thousand glittering pieces, razor-sharp missiles shredding the air, and the brown glass from the liquor bottle mixed with the opaque greenish automobile safety glass scattered throughout the vehicle.
Tony glanced across the front seat and saw Brian reach for the briefcase full of cash Tony had given Michaels just a few hours ago.
The case had gotten wedged under the ruined dashboard, much like Michaels's legs, and Brian tugged it back and forth before it finally popped free, its battered leather shell ripping on an exposed jagged iron support bracket.
Tony studied the inside of the car thoughtfully, like an artist stepping back from his easel to get a better perspective on the entire canvas. Time was of the essence, but he wanted to make sure this was done right. Satisfied, he nodded and returned to the driver's side door of the disabled vehicle for the last time. The stench of cheap whiskey was overwhelming and almost made him gag.
Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the smell, Tony leaned inside and gently, almost reverently, placed two gloved hands around the flabby neck of Michaels. He was clearly terrified, but he gave Tony a look that was almost indignant, as if he couldn't wrap his brain around the fact that he was being double-crossed.
"Don't take it so hard," Tony said with a brief smile, leaning into the wrecked car and putting his mouth next to Michaels's ear so he was sure he could be heard. "It's nothing personal; this is just business. I'm sure you understand." With that he began choking what little life remained of Michaels, who tried to thrash and resist but was unable to do much of anything but shake his head like he disagreed with Tony's plan, which undoubtedly he did.
Within seconds Michaels was gone. He had been breathing only with extreme difficulty anyway, and even in the short time Tony and Brian had been working at the car, his respiration had become noticeably more labored.
Tony again examined the inside of the car with a critical eye, pulling off his latex gloves and stuffing them into the back pocket of his trousers. Blood and glass were everywhere, giving it the look of some twisted surrealistic painting. Michaels was slumped in the driver's seat, an indignant expression still framing his slack, lifeless features.
"What do you think?" Brian asked, handing Tony the briefcase with the slashed leather front and removing his own gloves with a snap. "Does it look believable? Will the cops buy the idea that the guy croaked as a result of the accident?"
"Well, that whiskey I splashed all over the place will lead the investigators to believe he was drinking on his way home from work and lost control of the vehicle. And his legs being trapped under the smashed dashboard is very helpful to us. The investigators will assume he was alive after the accident but couldn't move and died before help arrived.
"Of course, when the autopsy is performed, it will quickly become clear that virtually none of the liquor actually made it into his stomach, so he really wasn't drunk, and they will discover fine traces of powder from the latex gloves around his neck. The authorities will piece it together and will reach the obvious and correct conclusion--he was murdered. But by the time they put it all together, it will be irrelevant. At least to us."
The two men had now
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