Slices by Michael Montoure Page A

in. Craig looked under doors
to find the one unoccupied stall.
    Then
— Craig was good at this part, he liked this part — Craig
kicked the door open, reached in and grabbed the poor sonofabitch by
the shirtfront and hauled him out, threw him face-first against a
sink. Not hard, not teeth-breaking hard, just enough to bloody his
lip a little, let him know they weren’t fucking around.
Bright-red bloodsmear on white porcelain, like a candy cane, and then
the guy was on the floor, howling, making way too much noise.
    “Shut
up. Shut up,” Craig hissed. “Listen! Gimme your keys!
Gimme your fucking keys!”
    “My
— my keys?” The man on the floor was having trouble
talking. “You can’t — ”
    Gary
stepped further into the room, frustrated. “Come on. Just give
us your keys and we won’t hurt you.”
    “I
don’t — have them, they’re in the car — ”
    “Shit.”
Craig pulled out his gun. “What car? What one is yours?”
    The
guy just shook his head. “You don’t want my car.”
    Gary
drew his gun, too, and pointed it at him.
    “No,
you don’t understand, I’m serious — ”
    “Do
we look like we’re not fucking serious?” Craig snarled.
“Does this look like, what, playtime? Does this look like
recess to you?”
    The
man shook his head.
    “ Where is your car?” Craig pressed the gun to his head.
    The
man sagged. “I’ll show you,” he said.
    Craig
glanced at Gary. Gary nodded reluctantly — this wasn’t
the plan — and Craig let the man up.
    “Don’t
try to run,” Gary said. “No sudden moves, no calling for
help, or — ”
    “You’ll
kill me?” There was a strange smile on the guy’s face
when he said it. A sickly, sweaty smile, but a smile that was somehow
weirdly calm all the same.
    “Right,”
Craig said, missing it, and he hauled the man to his feet.
    Craig
kept his gun at the man’s back. Gary stood at his side,
concealing the gun, and looking almost casual, almost natural, the
three of them walked out of the bathroom, staying far from the eyes
of the playing children and watchful parents.
    Off
in the distance, someone was playing Frisbee. Someone else was
laughing. Gary thought the air seemed thick, like syrup. That they
were moving in slow motion. He looked around at people in their
motorhomes and RVs and thought about vacations he’d had as a
kid and wondered how exactly he’d come to wander so far away
from that life.
    The
man’s car was white, non-descript. No bumper stickers or a cute
license-plate frame.
    The
keys were sticking out of the lock on the trunk. The keyfob was still
swinging gently back and forth. Gary reached for the key as they
approached, but the man darted forward at the last moment and pulled
them out of the lock.
    Craig’s
finger tightened on the trigger. But the man turned and dropped the
keys in Gary’s hand.
    “We
said not to try anything,” Gary said.
    “I’m
not.”
    Gary
stared past him. “What’s in the trunk?”
    “Nothing,”
he said, way too quickly.
    “Uh-huh.”
    Craig
took the keys and unlocked the car. Gary put the money inside.
    “Whatever’s
in the trunk is not our goddamn problem,” Craig said.
    “That’s
right. That’s right,” the man said.
    Craig
stared at him for a moment. “What is your goddamn problem?”
    “No
problem,” the man said. His face was a dead mask of clam. “This
is just very important. All right? You can take the car, that’s
fine. That’s no problem at all.” His voice was flat and
soothing. “But you can’t open the trunk. All right? This
is very important. When you’re done with the car, just walk
away from it. Leave what’s in the trunk alone. Do you
understand?”
    Craig
was shaking. He couldn’t have said why. He also couldn’t
explain later, no matter how many times Gary asked, why he did what
he did next:
    He
raised the gun to the man’s face. He had a moment to notice how
dull and flat the man’s eyes looked (like
nailheads, they looked just like nailheads), and