change of heart?
I went with: 'I got ... side-tracked.'
Patto roared. I could hear the Irish coming into his
voice; most parts, I'd say it was left in the old country, but now and again it
came back ... usually when he was about to go Ned Kelly on someone's ass.
'Now, you listen here ye little gobshite, I will permanently
end your ability to play the hard fuck by removing your tongue and any other
protuberance I find to my feckin' fancy if you are not at exactly where you are
supposed to be in the next fifteen minutes ... do I make myself feckin' clear?'
Those Irish, real way with words.
I clicked the cell to end the call.
****
Patto saw me pulling up in the Mustang and burst a
blood vessel.
'You dumb Yankie fucker, what the hell are you bringing
that piece of shit for?'
I wound down the window, it played on his nerves, kind
of accentuated the car's vintage. 'It's your car.'
'I know it's my feckin' car ... holy mother of God,
that's why ... look, fuck it!' He called over to his feckless son, yelled at
him: 'Ben, get those feckin' plates changed ... and stick a feckin' rocket up
yer arse would ye!'
We were late already. Later now, with the plates change.
I gunned the engine.
Patto and Ben sat silently in the backseat; Patto
running a hand over a Mossberg 12-gauge. I thought it looked a very sexual
movement. Wondered what Freud would say? I saw Ben and Angie watch him too;
they didn't seem to have the same feeling as I did. They didn't see it as
sexual ... it was fear I saw in their eyes.
The Mustang was a noisy car to take about town. The revs
attracted glances.
'This will never feckin' do,' said Patto.
I pushed him, 'Want to back out?'
He put the shooter to my head, 'Don't feckin' rile me,
laddie.'
Ben placed an open hand on his father's shoulder, 'Come
on, calm it! We got a job to do, right here and now.' It had the desired
effect; Patto settled. I knew I never had that level of influence on my father.
If I had, maybe Kimmy would still be with us.
I screeched the tyres to a halt.
We dived out — masks on.
Angie was the first. Fearless. I guess she felt she had
the least to lose.
The driver of the security truck had too little time to
react before Ben put a round through the gap in his visor. He turned to his
father grinning like an imbecile as the man twitched in his death throes.
'Drop the fucking box!' yelled out Angie. The second
guard stalled, his eyes fixed on the dead driver where he lay, head contents
spilled on the asphalt.
'I said drop the fucking box!'
This time he complied. Angie took the box and keys from
his belt, then led the way back to the Mustang.
Inside of five, we were done.
I drove back to Patto's bar.
****
After the gunshot Patto came running through from
the back holding the Mossberg out in front of him. I had my Glock aimed on his
shoulder, dropped him easier than tagging cattle. Angie appeared at his back,
fists full of dollars from each hand fell all over him as she looked down.
I wanted to see her smile.
I wanted to see her sigh, in relief.
I wanted to see her run to me, open arms, shower thanks
on me.
She cried.
'Angie,' I said. I put the Glock in my belt, went to
her. Patto writhed on the floor, tried to get to the shooter. I picked it up.
'Angie, why the tears?'
She couldn't find words. Breath was trouble. She raised
hands to her face.
'He's in pain.'
'So fucking what?' I said.
Patto slapped about on the floor, grimaced in agony.
She started to pat her cheeks and make bellows of her
face. 'He's in pain.'
'So fucking what?' I repeated.
I knelt, put the Mossberg in his face.
Patto yelled out: 'Arggg, Jonny ... you're fucked!'
I wanted Angie to see him in agony, the way he'd seen
her in agony — I hauled her down.
'Look at his face, remember that ...' I grabbed Patto's
hair, he screamed as I smacked at his head, 'see the way he's squirming, trying
to get away?'
She looked, her eyes wide. All colour left Angie's face.
She was white as an angel, just like
I went with: 'I got ... side-tracked.'
Patto roared. I could hear the Irish coming into his
voice; most parts, I'd say it was left in the old country, but now and again it
came back ... usually when he was about to go Ned Kelly on someone's ass.
'Now, you listen here ye little gobshite, I will permanently
end your ability to play the hard fuck by removing your tongue and any other
protuberance I find to my feckin' fancy if you are not at exactly where you are
supposed to be in the next fifteen minutes ... do I make myself feckin' clear?'
Those Irish, real way with words.
I clicked the cell to end the call.
****
Patto saw me pulling up in the Mustang and burst a
blood vessel.
'You dumb Yankie fucker, what the hell are you bringing
that piece of shit for?'
I wound down the window, it played on his nerves, kind
of accentuated the car's vintage. 'It's your car.'
'I know it's my feckin' car ... holy mother of God,
that's why ... look, fuck it!' He called over to his feckless son, yelled at
him: 'Ben, get those feckin' plates changed ... and stick a feckin' rocket up
yer arse would ye!'
We were late already. Later now, with the plates change.
I gunned the engine.
Patto and Ben sat silently in the backseat; Patto
running a hand over a Mossberg 12-gauge. I thought it looked a very sexual
movement. Wondered what Freud would say? I saw Ben and Angie watch him too;
they didn't seem to have the same feeling as I did. They didn't see it as
sexual ... it was fear I saw in their eyes.
The Mustang was a noisy car to take about town. The revs
attracted glances.
'This will never feckin' do,' said Patto.
I pushed him, 'Want to back out?'
He put the shooter to my head, 'Don't feckin' rile me,
laddie.'
Ben placed an open hand on his father's shoulder, 'Come
on, calm it! We got a job to do, right here and now.' It had the desired
effect; Patto settled. I knew I never had that level of influence on my father.
If I had, maybe Kimmy would still be with us.
I screeched the tyres to a halt.
We dived out — masks on.
Angie was the first. Fearless. I guess she felt she had
the least to lose.
The driver of the security truck had too little time to
react before Ben put a round through the gap in his visor. He turned to his
father grinning like an imbecile as the man twitched in his death throes.
'Drop the fucking box!' yelled out Angie. The second
guard stalled, his eyes fixed on the dead driver where he lay, head contents
spilled on the asphalt.
'I said drop the fucking box!'
This time he complied. Angie took the box and keys from
his belt, then led the way back to the Mustang.
Inside of five, we were done.
I drove back to Patto's bar.
****
After the gunshot Patto came running through from
the back holding the Mossberg out in front of him. I had my Glock aimed on his
shoulder, dropped him easier than tagging cattle. Angie appeared at his back,
fists full of dollars from each hand fell all over him as she looked down.
I wanted to see her smile.
I wanted to see her sigh, in relief.
I wanted to see her run to me, open arms, shower thanks
on me.
She cried.
'Angie,' I said. I put the Glock in my belt, went to
her. Patto writhed on the floor, tried to get to the shooter. I picked it up.
'Angie, why the tears?'
She couldn't find words. Breath was trouble. She raised
hands to her face.
'He's in pain.'
'So fucking what?' I said.
Patto slapped about on the floor, grimaced in agony.
She started to pat her cheeks and make bellows of her
face. 'He's in pain.'
'So fucking what?' I repeated.
I knelt, put the Mossberg in his face.
Patto yelled out: 'Arggg, Jonny ... you're fucked!'
I wanted Angie to see him in agony, the way he'd seen
her in agony — I hauled her down.
'Look at his face, remember that ...' I grabbed Patto's
hair, he screamed as I smacked at his head, 'see the way he's squirming, trying
to get away?'
She looked, her eyes wide. All colour left Angie's face.
She was white as an angel, just like
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