kids. For some reason, that pissed him off. Some people go to college, some people go to work throwing boxes at UPS.
MINNESOTA WAS GRINDING him down. Before the last cold front came through, he’d taken the BMW for a ride down the highway, and in fifteen minutes, even wearing full leathers, fleece and a face mask, he’d been frozen to the bike like a tongue to a water pump.
He needed to ride, he needed to do something, but he had no money. None. His life couldn’t much be distinguished from life in a dungeon: work, a space for food and drugs, sleep, and work some more—with nothing at the end of it.
He smeared shaving cream on his face and thought of California; or maybe Florida. He’d never been to Florida. Had been told that it was lusher and harder than California—meth as opposed to cocaine—with lots more old people.
And he thought again about the liquor store. Big liquor store in Wisconsin, next to a supermarket. He’d been in just before closing on a Friday night, nobody else in the store, and he’d paid $12.50 for a bottle of bourbon, fake ID ready to go.
They never even asked: he looked that old. But more interesting was that when he’d paid with a fifty, the checkout man had lifted the cash tray to slip the bill beneath it, and there’d been at least twenty bills under there, all fifties and hundreds. With the five, tens and twenties in the top, there had to be two thousand dollars in the register.
Enough to get to Florida. Enough to start, anyway.
He caught his eyes in the mirror and thought, Stupid. Every asshole in the world who wanted money, the first thing they thought of was a liquor store at closing time. They probably had cameras, guns, alarms, who knew what?
No liquor stores, Cappy. Have to think of something else.
Some other job.
He was staring at himself, thinking about the bed, when the phone rang.
He picked it up, and Lyle Mack asked, “That you, Cappy?”
CAPPY SAT in the back of Cherries and looked at Lyle Mack and said, “So that fuckin’ Shooter told you I kill people.”
“He made it pretty clear. Didn’t exactly say the words,” Lyle Mack said.
“That could get you locked away in California,” Cappy said. “Maybe get you the needle.”
“That’s exactly the reason we have a problem with Shooter. He talks,” Lyle Mack said.
Cappy, his voice flat: “Ten thousand dollars?”
“Five thousand each.”
“Then what?” Cappy asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t just leave them laying out there,” Cappy said. He’d had some experience with the disposal issue.
“We’ll ... dump them somewhere.”
Cap sat staring at Lyle Mack for a long time, his flat crazy-man stare, until Mack began to get nervous, then said, “Fifteen.”
“Aw, man, we don’t have a lot of cash,” Lyle Mack said. “C’mon, Cappy, we’re asking you as a brother.” Lyle Mack had never contracted for a murder, and he was jumpy as hell. Joe Mack sat next to him and kept rubbing his face, as though he couldn’t believe it.
“Fifteen is the brother price,” Cap said. “I need a new van.”
“You can’t get a new van for fifteen,” Joe Mack said.
“Well, it’s not a new-new van, it’s new for me,” Cap said.
Joe Mack leaned forward. “Tell you what. I’ll sign my van over to you. It’s worth that, Blue Book. Perfect condition. Dodge Grand Caravan Cargo, three years old, good rubber, twenty-eight thousand actual. It’s got XM radio and a drop ramp for bikes, it’s got nav. It’d be perfect for you.”
“How’s the tranny?”
“The tranny’s perfect. Never been a glitch,” Joe Mack said.
“I gotta Dodge; it’s been some trouble,” Cappy said. But he was thinking: Florida.
“Everything got some trouble. But in vans, the Dodges is the best,” Joe Mack said.
Cappy stared at Joe Mack, then said, “I’d want to look it up in the Blue Book.”
“Be my guest,” Joe Mack said.
“And two grand in cash. I gotta eat, too.”
Lyle
MINNESOTA WAS GRINDING him down. Before the last cold front came through, he’d taken the BMW for a ride down the highway, and in fifteen minutes, even wearing full leathers, fleece and a face mask, he’d been frozen to the bike like a tongue to a water pump.
He needed to ride, he needed to do something, but he had no money. None. His life couldn’t much be distinguished from life in a dungeon: work, a space for food and drugs, sleep, and work some more—with nothing at the end of it.
He smeared shaving cream on his face and thought of California; or maybe Florida. He’d never been to Florida. Had been told that it was lusher and harder than California—meth as opposed to cocaine—with lots more old people.
And he thought again about the liquor store. Big liquor store in Wisconsin, next to a supermarket. He’d been in just before closing on a Friday night, nobody else in the store, and he’d paid $12.50 for a bottle of bourbon, fake ID ready to go.
They never even asked: he looked that old. But more interesting was that when he’d paid with a fifty, the checkout man had lifted the cash tray to slip the bill beneath it, and there’d been at least twenty bills under there, all fifties and hundreds. With the five, tens and twenties in the top, there had to be two thousand dollars in the register.
Enough to get to Florida. Enough to start, anyway.
He caught his eyes in the mirror and thought, Stupid. Every asshole in the world who wanted money, the first thing they thought of was a liquor store at closing time. They probably had cameras, guns, alarms, who knew what?
No liquor stores, Cappy. Have to think of something else.
Some other job.
He was staring at himself, thinking about the bed, when the phone rang.
He picked it up, and Lyle Mack asked, “That you, Cappy?”
CAPPY SAT in the back of Cherries and looked at Lyle Mack and said, “So that fuckin’ Shooter told you I kill people.”
“He made it pretty clear. Didn’t exactly say the words,” Lyle Mack said.
“That could get you locked away in California,” Cappy said. “Maybe get you the needle.”
“That’s exactly the reason we have a problem with Shooter. He talks,” Lyle Mack said.
Cappy, his voice flat: “Ten thousand dollars?”
“Five thousand each.”
“Then what?” Cappy asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t just leave them laying out there,” Cappy said. He’d had some experience with the disposal issue.
“We’ll ... dump them somewhere.”
Cap sat staring at Lyle Mack for a long time, his flat crazy-man stare, until Mack began to get nervous, then said, “Fifteen.”
“Aw, man, we don’t have a lot of cash,” Lyle Mack said. “C’mon, Cappy, we’re asking you as a brother.” Lyle Mack had never contracted for a murder, and he was jumpy as hell. Joe Mack sat next to him and kept rubbing his face, as though he couldn’t believe it.
“Fifteen is the brother price,” Cap said. “I need a new van.”
“You can’t get a new van for fifteen,” Joe Mack said.
“Well, it’s not a new-new van, it’s new for me,” Cap said.
Joe Mack leaned forward. “Tell you what. I’ll sign my van over to you. It’s worth that, Blue Book. Perfect condition. Dodge Grand Caravan Cargo, three years old, good rubber, twenty-eight thousand actual. It’s got XM radio and a drop ramp for bikes, it’s got nav. It’d be perfect for you.”
“How’s the tranny?”
“The tranny’s perfect. Never been a glitch,” Joe Mack said.
“I gotta Dodge; it’s been some trouble,” Cappy said. But he was thinking: Florida.
“Everything got some trouble. But in vans, the Dodges is the best,” Joe Mack said.
Cappy stared at Joe Mack, then said, “I’d want to look it up in the Blue Book.”
“Be my guest,” Joe Mack said.
“And two grand in cash. I gotta eat, too.”
Lyle
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