“Jesus, I just shot another **** guy. Holy ****!” Yeah, I’m yelling to no one. I inadvertently skid a little in Angelique’s blood. Angelique, ****, I bend down to see if she’s alive. Does it matter which side you check a person’s pulse on? She’s alive, I think. ****, what am I going to do with her? She’s not so hot now, her eyes are swollen shut, her nose is purple. There’s blood everywhere. What am I going to do with her? I could lock her in the room and come back for her later. I could carry her out with me. I wonder if I can trust her. **** it. I hold the gun to her temple and pull the trigger. Then I shoot the Captain once more for adrenaline’s sake. I gotta stop shaking. Cool mother **** don’t shake like wet Chihuahuas when they kill people for no **** reason. I look down at the once strawberry blond hair splayed all over the floor, now stringy and soaked in bright red. I take a deep breath and the black folder sitting on the desk reminds me of why I’m still here. I don’t want it. If I leave it, I can just leave. Go back to Florida. Shirley and the gay dude, whoever else is chasing this thing, they can fight amongst themselves for it. If I’m not here and it is, they’ll probably just assume I’m already dead.
But then again, killing three people just to make a clean escape with no loot seems like something the old Toby would do; the one who used to sit around the house drinking Nyquil, watching MASH reruns, and jerking off to Houlihan. Half assed, that’s the old Toby. The one who worked hard all through high school and got a scholarship to U of F only to ditch every single class in favor of smoking pot. I am not the old Toby who took a job one year out of high school as a receptionist at a Raytheon, worked my way up to Software Engineer II, turned down a management position, and then, after ten years, got fired. That Toby is dead, or at least his blood pressure is dropping, vitals aren’t good. I grab the black folder. I can feel the weight of the Glock in my hand and I bend down to search Angelique for the extra clips I know she’s carrying, both are stuck in a holster around her back. Her skirt is pulled down a little and I can see the thin black T of her thong. The full picture of her naked **** pops into my mind and I feel a pang of regret. But I’m a killer now, there will be others.
“Che, if you say a **** word to the Captain, I’ll cut you off,” Shirley warned as the two made their way through the throngs of black clad post-teens with faux hawks and horn-rimmed glasses. Che didn’t hear her, he had stopped and was kissing the hand of a buxom blond in a short camo skirt and combat boots. Shirley, expecting at least some reply to her threat, turned just in time to see Che’s hand cup the girl’s ****, his fingers wandering a little to the sweet unknown between her thighs. Clenching her fists Shirley looked around for a suitable weapon to fell the philandering Cuban. She couldn’t shoot him here. A waitress walked by and Shirley grabbed a full Corona off her tray. With expert aim she chucked it at Che, hitting him right in the temple. He sank to the floor. In the ensuing melee, Shirley made her way upstairs to the Captain’s office. On the second floor, remembering the three flashes she’d seen in his window, she pulled her Kimber 1911 out of her purse. She inhaled the gun oil. She’d had this gun for a long time, it was her security blanket. She would have felt safer with Che up here to shove in front of any bullets. But this was good too. Just a girl and her gun against the bad guys. She felt her heart race, a smile played on her lips. Silence mingled with the now faint music from downstairs. Shirley just wished she knew who the bad guys were.
At the top of the stairs on the third floor, she paused to listen. She heard a door click quietly shut. Shirley held her breath, gun at the ready.
Egg and Skeeter walked casually along the sidewalk towards The Pageant. Egg explaining that haste is extremely uncool. Skeeter rolled his eyes. Like he needed a pasty white fag telling him what’s cool. ****. A block before the club Skeeter stopped Egg with a hand across his chest and quick head nod toward a big ugly goon on a bench.
“Brett,” he mouthed just as the goon, maybe from some kind of instinct, turned and spotted the unlikely couple. Egg and Skeeter stepped back, both a little confused. Brett’s face was red and swollen, his hands empty and clasped in front of him.
“Dog,” he said, “You the dude from the tower?” Skeeter, with the distinct impression that the goon was crying, nodded in wonderment.
“What the **** do you want?” Egg hissed.
“She left me, dude,” he sank back down onto the bench, face in his hands. Egg and Skeeter looked around. There were at least a couple hundred people milling around. No way the guy would try anything. They sat on either side of him.
“What’s the problem?” Egg asked with his hand on Brett’s shoulder, noting how muscular he was. Goons weren’t really his type, but a two day dry spell wasn’t his thing either.
“Angelique, dog, she ditched me for that bitch-**** little homo,” he sniffled. Skeeter wondered who exactly was more of a homo, this goon or the white boy inside with the girl. He spotted Egg’s hand on Brett’s shoulder and shivered, reminding himself to split before the sausage fest started.
“Yo, can you get us in the club?” Skeeter asked Brett.
“Sure, Smoke, Mofo, and I are all in the same Union. They got me the job with little Angel.” Brett’s lip quivered, he looked on the edge of breaking down again. Egg picked up on Skeeter’s plan.
“Look, man, get us inside, and we’ll take care of Toby. You can make a break for it with Angelique. Take her back to the hotel, slap her around a bit, she’ll come to her senses,” Egg stood up a walked behind the bench. He dug his fingers deep into Brett’s shoulders. The goon smiled and relaxed a little into the massage.
“Yeah, ok, let’s go. You two are ok, man,” he looked at Skeeter and slapped him on the shoulder, “I’m glad you didn’t die over there in Detroit, man.”“Me too,” Skeeter mumbled as he followed Brett toward the entrance to the club.