John, and concenfuckingtrate, all right?” Sorry cracker trash.
“Uh. That's the two thousand block so youuns goin’ in the right direction. Bo. I'm sorry, I won't forgit again."
“I'm sorry, I won't forgit again,” he mimicked him. “Man, ya can try a person's fucking soul with that shit. Ya GOT to git y'r shit together now."
“Okay."
“An’ don’ say NOTHING inna house or the bank. I'll do it. Ya just do what I tell ya."
“Right.” John Monroe nodded.
“Ya go in back and cut everything ya find like I tole ya. Jes’ like I showed ya yesterday with them bolt-cutters. Right?"
“Right."
“Cut ever’ fuckin’ thing. Phone lines, air-conditioner, the goddamn antenna thing, the fuckin’ copper water line. I don’ give a rat fuck what it is, CUT that sucker. Right?"
“Right."
“Then youuns come on back around real fast ‘n come right on inna door behind me. Got it?"
“Gotcha."
What a fuckin’ lamebrain. He looked over at the imbecile that bad luck had saddled him with in the joint. What a fuckin’ mistake.
“Twenty-one hundred block, Bo."
Shit, now the dumb fuck was a gonna call out the numbers of every goddamn block to him like it was the countdown f'r a fucking rocket. Well. Fine.
“Real good, pud. Jes’ keep callin’ out them numbers an’ thataway we might git lucky and not drive by the thirty-four hundred block, eh?"
Donald Fields had just looked at the clock. It was six-fifteen a.m. He missed Clara and little Bud. Usually he and Clara had coffee and chatted together in the breakfast nook while they woke up. He never saw the boy before he went to work because he got up so early, but with them at Earline's, he missed the kid's presence in the house and was glad they'd be home by the following night.
After Clara got her heart started, she'd make him another cup and fix them cereal and freshly squeezed orange juice all icy cold, and he'd read the paper until six-forty or so. He liked getting there about five-to-seven. Seven at the latest. Come in a full half-hour before anybody came to work. There'd be the maintenance man and the night guard there and he'd unlock and go on in and arrange his day.
He loved that time and always looked forward to that first half-hour when he'd be in his nice office and it'd be so quiet out front, and he'd sit there arranging the day, getting it all just so. Smooth and prepared. He was going to have to sit down with the boy this morning. “The boy” was what he called his top man. A young hotshot named Joe Gillespie. He was problems. Short-fused. Thought he was the only kid who knew anything about the banking business. He'd had an offer from that asshole at American Fed and he was pressuring Donald for a vice presidency and all the usual. Fields was chewing over in his mind how he'd handle it. He wanted to keep the boy. He was a killer in trust work.
Fields was putting his pocket items in his trousers when he heard the noise downstairs. It didn't startle him that much because he was always bearing noises in the damn house ever since they bought it two years before. There was something wrong with the dining-room lighting fixtures, big white globes that fit into metal retainers on the ceiling. About once a week, BANG, one of the globes would drop down out of the retainer, never dropping all the way out, but good Christ it always scared them to death, because when the globe would catch on the outer metal lip it sounded like glass breaking. He wondered when the damn thing would fall on them during dinner one evening. He'd looked at it a dozen times but the globes looked identical to the ones in the kitchen. He was no handyman. He could barely change the bulbs in them, and he just told Clara to call somebody and see if she could get them fixed so they wouldn't drop out, and this is the prosaic and mundane and trivial thought he could recall going through his mind as he started downstairs to make sure the glass hadn't fallen out and a tall thin
“Uh. That's the two thousand block so youuns goin’ in the right direction. Bo. I'm sorry, I won't forgit again."
“I'm sorry, I won't forgit again,” he mimicked him. “Man, ya can try a person's fucking soul with that shit. Ya GOT to git y'r shit together now."
“Okay."
“An’ don’ say NOTHING inna house or the bank. I'll do it. Ya just do what I tell ya."
“Right.” John Monroe nodded.
“Ya go in back and cut everything ya find like I tole ya. Jes’ like I showed ya yesterday with them bolt-cutters. Right?"
“Right."
“Cut ever’ fuckin’ thing. Phone lines, air-conditioner, the goddamn antenna thing, the fuckin’ copper water line. I don’ give a rat fuck what it is, CUT that sucker. Right?"
“Right."
“Then youuns come on back around real fast ‘n come right on inna door behind me. Got it?"
“Gotcha."
What a fuckin’ lamebrain. He looked over at the imbecile that bad luck had saddled him with in the joint. What a fuckin’ mistake.
“Twenty-one hundred block, Bo."
Shit, now the dumb fuck was a gonna call out the numbers of every goddamn block to him like it was the countdown f'r a fucking rocket. Well. Fine.
“Real good, pud. Jes’ keep callin’ out them numbers an’ thataway we might git lucky and not drive by the thirty-four hundred block, eh?"
Donald Fields had just looked at the clock. It was six-fifteen a.m. He missed Clara and little Bud. Usually he and Clara had coffee and chatted together in the breakfast nook while they woke up. He never saw the boy before he went to work because he got up so early, but with them at Earline's, he missed the kid's presence in the house and was glad they'd be home by the following night.
After Clara got her heart started, she'd make him another cup and fix them cereal and freshly squeezed orange juice all icy cold, and he'd read the paper until six-forty or so. He liked getting there about five-to-seven. Seven at the latest. Come in a full half-hour before anybody came to work. There'd be the maintenance man and the night guard there and he'd unlock and go on in and arrange his day.
He loved that time and always looked forward to that first half-hour when he'd be in his nice office and it'd be so quiet out front, and he'd sit there arranging the day, getting it all just so. Smooth and prepared. He was going to have to sit down with the boy this morning. “The boy” was what he called his top man. A young hotshot named Joe Gillespie. He was problems. Short-fused. Thought he was the only kid who knew anything about the banking business. He'd had an offer from that asshole at American Fed and he was pressuring Donald for a vice presidency and all the usual. Fields was chewing over in his mind how he'd handle it. He wanted to keep the boy. He was a killer in trust work.
Fields was putting his pocket items in his trousers when he heard the noise downstairs. It didn't startle him that much because he was always bearing noises in the damn house ever since they bought it two years before. There was something wrong with the dining-room lighting fixtures, big white globes that fit into metal retainers on the ceiling. About once a week, BANG, one of the globes would drop down out of the retainer, never dropping all the way out, but good Christ it always scared them to death, because when the globe would catch on the outer metal lip it sounded like glass breaking. He wondered when the damn thing would fall on them during dinner one evening. He'd looked at it a dozen times but the globes looked identical to the ones in the kitchen. He was no handyman. He could barely change the bulbs in them, and he just told Clara to call somebody and see if she could get them fixed so they wouldn't drop out, and this is the prosaic and mundane and trivial thought he could recall going through his mind as he started downstairs to make sure the glass hadn't fallen out and a tall thin
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