Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I’m out of my element. I haven’t had to care for someone other than myself for years. I don’t remember my parents. I assume I had a mom, but I don’t remember her. Some of the other kids that work for Steve talk about their shitty parents—often with a confusing hint of longing. Take Gerry Lester, for example. One minute the ginger is moaning about how he misses his ma and the next he’s whining about how she’d burn his arm with her cigs if he didn’t move fast enough to get her a beer.
I drift off to sleep. I’d gotten sick after the cop killing, and as I was coming home, I wondered how I’d get the stomach to make my second kill, but I’m thinking it won’t be hard if I imagine it’s the person that hurt this girl. She’s a pure and innocent thing. No one should be hurting her. No one.
* * *
“Heard you offed a pig last night.” Gerry waggles his thick, peach-colored eyebrows at me. He looks like he’s got two caterpillars attached to his forehead and he tends to move them around a lot. It gives me the willies, but Gerry’s a decent guy, so I hide my response.
As part of my day job, I work at Marjory’s. Who the hell Marjory is, I have no clue. It belongs to the Big Boss—the one that turns Stinky Steve into a slavering fool. There aren’t many customers here other than the ones that work for Steve. As I understand it, cash businesses like this one wash the under-the-table money clean. Marjory could lose money every year and Stinky Steve and his boss would still be smiling.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I heft another flour bag off the truck. The girl is definitely lighter than one of these. I’ll have to take some food home for her tonight. She’s not going to fatten up on the bread and soup in the apartment. I toss the bag to Gerry, who catches it and stacks it inside the door.
“What was it like?” he asks.
“What was what like?” I’m not admitting to loose-lipped Gerry I killed a cop. I might as well hang a neon sign around my neck that says arrest me and make me your prison bitch. I toss another sack to Gerry and then throw the last two onto my shoulder before hopping off the truck.
After dropping the bags off, I turn to the two guys slurping down a plate of noodles and gravy. “Truck’s unloaded and you’re good to go.”
I wonder what these guys do for the Big Boss. One’s got a belly that hangs at least two inches over his belt and the other is whip-thin. I don’t see muscle or enforcer in their build. Not like Beefer, who’s all muscle and neck.
The curly-haired one with the high forehead and flat nose looks at his phone. “That was quick.”
I shrug. No sense in wasting time. Maybe these guys just do deliveries. That can be a difficult job, especially when you’re moving illegal product. I recall the hollow sound as I traipsed across the metal floor of the truck. I open my mouth to say something and then snap it shut.
I don’t know these guys, and they don’t know me. If I mention the false floor, they could decide I’m a liability. I save my observation for Beefer. He’s the guy who recruited me, and he’s who I report to. I give the two guys a brief nod and return to the stockroom. Gerry’s got the door propped open and a cigarette in his mouth.
“You want to do the dry goods or the fresh ones?” I jerk a thumb toward the crates of tomatoes.
Gerry makes a face. “Dry.”
Of course he’d say that. Fresh stuff takes more effort and care, and Gerry’s a lazy motherfucker with a big mouth. He runs it all morning as we unpack the stock. The meat and cheeses were delivered earlier. Now, we’re dealing with dry goods and produce.
“I was two blocks over when Mort got offed. Remember him?” Gerry says. It’s not really a question. Gerry can talk for hours without any prompting. “He was the dealer on 90th and E street. I once saw him snort his product off the back of his hand. How bad of a druggy do you gotta be that you gotta have a hit while you’re working?”
He rips open a bag of flour and dumps it into the holding bin while I stack the tomato crates in the corner.
“Anyway, it was pow pow pow. Three shots.” Gerry holds up his middle fingers. “I ran over and there was blood and brains and guts everywhere.”
“Guts, too?” I say. Blood and brain, I could see. Guts, not so much. That would require a shot in the belly, and if you’re doing a headshot, what’s the point?