another part of him that was so in need of a petting that it completely undercut the part of him that could fuck a person up if he were pushed hard enough against a wall.
Now he had the Chechen mob looking at them because he’d been stupid enough to give free information to a cop. And not just any cop, it turned out. A cop he knew . From church.
The Chechen mob. Looking at them. Because Bob was weak.
Marv got home early that night. Not much going on at the bar, no reason to stick around when he was paying Bob to do, you know, his fucking job. He paused in his mudroom to take off his coat and gloves and hat and scarf, winter being just one big fucking excuse to wear more shit than someone in Hawaii knew existed.
Dottie called from the kitchen. “That you?”
“Who’s it gonna be?” he called back even though he’d promised himself he’d be kinder to his sister in the new year.
“Could be one of them kids claims to sell magazine subscriptions because he’s working his way out of the ghetto.”
He searched for a hook for his hat. “Wouldn’t that kid ring the front doorbell?”
“They could slice your throat.”
“Who?”
“Those kids.”
“With magazines. What, they grab one of those, what do they call ’em, inserts, and bleed you out with a paper cut?”
“Your Steak-umm’s on.”
He could hear it sizzle. “On my way.”
He kicked off his right boot with his left but then had to remove the left by hand. At the tip, it was dark. At first he thought it was the snow.
But no, it was blood.
Same blood had leaked out of that guy’s foot, through the hole in the floor of the van, and onto the street.
Found Marv’s boot.
Those Chechens, man. Those fucking Chechens.
Give a dumb man pause. Give a smart man ambition.
When he came into the kitchen, Dottie, in her housedress and fuzzy moose slippers, eyes on the pan, said, “You look tired.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“I looked yesterday.” She gave him a weary smile. “Now I’m looking.”
Marv grabbed a beer from the fridge, trying to shake the image of that guy’s foot from his head, of that sick fucking Chechen beside him tightening the drill with his chuck key.
“And?” he asked Dottie.
“You look tired,” she said brightly.
AFTER DINNER , DOTTIE WENT into the den to catch up on her shows and Marv went to the gym on Dunboy. He’d already had a beer too many to work out but he could always catch a steam.
This time of night, there was no one in the steam room—there was barely anyone in the gym—and when Marv came out he felt so much better. It was almost like he had worked out, which, come to think of it, was usually what happened when he went to the gym.
He showered, part of him wishing he’d smuggled a beer in with him because there was nothing quite like a cold beer in a hot shower after a workout. When he came out, he dressed by his locker. Ed Fitzgerald stood at the next locker over and idly fiddled with the lock.
“I hear they’re pissed,” Fitz said.
Marv stepped into his cords. “They’re not supposed to like it. They got robbed.”
“Scary-fucking-Chechen pissed.” Fitz sniffled and Marv was pretty sure it wasn’t from the cold.
“No, they’re fine. You’re fine. Just keep your head down. Your brother too.” He looked at Fitz as he laced up his shoes. “What’s up with his watch?”
“Why?”
“I noticed it doesn’t work.”
Fitz looked embarrassed. “It never did. Our old man gave it to him for his tenth birthday. It stopped, like, the next day. Old man couldn’t return it because he’d stole it in the first place. He’d tell Bri, ‘Don’t bitch—it’s right twice a day.’ Bri don’t go anywhere without it.”
Marv buttoned his shirt up over his wife-beater. “Well, he should get a new one.”
“When we going to hit a place that’s holding the actual drop? I don’t like risking my life, my fucking freedom, my, ya know, everything for five fucking grand.”
Marv closed
Now he had the Chechen mob looking at them because he’d been stupid enough to give free information to a cop. And not just any cop, it turned out. A cop he knew . From church.
The Chechen mob. Looking at them. Because Bob was weak.
Marv got home early that night. Not much going on at the bar, no reason to stick around when he was paying Bob to do, you know, his fucking job. He paused in his mudroom to take off his coat and gloves and hat and scarf, winter being just one big fucking excuse to wear more shit than someone in Hawaii knew existed.
Dottie called from the kitchen. “That you?”
“Who’s it gonna be?” he called back even though he’d promised himself he’d be kinder to his sister in the new year.
“Could be one of them kids claims to sell magazine subscriptions because he’s working his way out of the ghetto.”
He searched for a hook for his hat. “Wouldn’t that kid ring the front doorbell?”
“They could slice your throat.”
“Who?”
“Those kids.”
“With magazines. What, they grab one of those, what do they call ’em, inserts, and bleed you out with a paper cut?”
“Your Steak-umm’s on.”
He could hear it sizzle. “On my way.”
He kicked off his right boot with his left but then had to remove the left by hand. At the tip, it was dark. At first he thought it was the snow.
But no, it was blood.
Same blood had leaked out of that guy’s foot, through the hole in the floor of the van, and onto the street.
Found Marv’s boot.
Those Chechens, man. Those fucking Chechens.
Give a dumb man pause. Give a smart man ambition.
When he came into the kitchen, Dottie, in her housedress and fuzzy moose slippers, eyes on the pan, said, “You look tired.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“I looked yesterday.” She gave him a weary smile. “Now I’m looking.”
Marv grabbed a beer from the fridge, trying to shake the image of that guy’s foot from his head, of that sick fucking Chechen beside him tightening the drill with his chuck key.
“And?” he asked Dottie.
“You look tired,” she said brightly.
AFTER DINNER , DOTTIE WENT into the den to catch up on her shows and Marv went to the gym on Dunboy. He’d already had a beer too many to work out but he could always catch a steam.
This time of night, there was no one in the steam room—there was barely anyone in the gym—and when Marv came out he felt so much better. It was almost like he had worked out, which, come to think of it, was usually what happened when he went to the gym.
He showered, part of him wishing he’d smuggled a beer in with him because there was nothing quite like a cold beer in a hot shower after a workout. When he came out, he dressed by his locker. Ed Fitzgerald stood at the next locker over and idly fiddled with the lock.
“I hear they’re pissed,” Fitz said.
Marv stepped into his cords. “They’re not supposed to like it. They got robbed.”
“Scary-fucking-Chechen pissed.” Fitz sniffled and Marv was pretty sure it wasn’t from the cold.
“No, they’re fine. You’re fine. Just keep your head down. Your brother too.” He looked at Fitz as he laced up his shoes. “What’s up with his watch?”
“Why?”
“I noticed it doesn’t work.”
Fitz looked embarrassed. “It never did. Our old man gave it to him for his tenth birthday. It stopped, like, the next day. Old man couldn’t return it because he’d stole it in the first place. He’d tell Bri, ‘Don’t bitch—it’s right twice a day.’ Bri don’t go anywhere without it.”
Marv buttoned his shirt up over his wife-beater. “Well, he should get a new one.”
“When we going to hit a place that’s holding the actual drop? I don’t like risking my life, my fucking freedom, my, ya know, everything for five fucking grand.”
Marv closed
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