Feisty Fern #11
A man in an expensive suit strode confidently from the black Lincoln Towncar. He carried a briefcase in his right hand. There was a bulge under the left flank of his jacket.
Stan swallowed deeply, but his mouth was so dry he didn’t get much out of it. An old Hawaiian shirt rested loosely on his back. Khaki shorts and leather sandals that covered his toes finished his ensemble. A scuffed, brown leather bag shifted back and forth between his sweaty hands.
I look like a goddamned cliché. Here to buy coke, and I look like a Delorean brought me here from the 80s. And from Miami, Stan thought. He fought back a self loathing laugh. Laughing was a bad move when you were stealing from Rocky Marciano.
Not Rocky Marciano the boxer—that would be a sane move. This was Rocky Marciano the top dog badass motherfucker. When someone told him the nickname Rocky was already taken by a man named Marciano, he carved an “R” into the guy’s tongue. That was in the sixth grade—Rocky’s last year of school. He was a man who it was not sane to fuck with. But Stan had little choice. Rocky was the only guy moving the amount of coke he needed to cover his debts.
Stan put a hand across his forehead to shield his eyes from the setting sun. He and the suit were the only two around—Rocky had seen to that. It was late evening on one of Rocky’s construction sites, and all the workers had left hours ago.
^^^^^
A man in a blinding shirt walked methodically from the old, dusty Trans Am. It seemed as though he had to focus all his attention on each step, or else he might stop still where he stood. He carried a tattered brown bag in his right hand.
Ryan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He straightened the lapel of his suit and tried not to look nervous. The .45 strapped to his left side helped with the jitters. The two guys with shotguns behind the darkly tinted glass of the Towncar didn’t hurt either.
This guy looks like a holdover from Magnum PI. I wonder why Rocky even does business with him, Ryan thought. He was careful not to let his guard drop, despite the buyer’s schmucky appearance. When you worked for Rocky Marciano, underestimating the people around you was unwise.
One of Ryan’s former coworkers had once made such a mistake and had been taken by a buyer. Rocky held his nose against a meat slicer. It was the industrial strength kind where a whole log of meat swipes across the razor sharp blade, cutting it thin. Ryan had watched the man’s nose land in a pile one sliver at a time. He had seen the blade cut through the base of his nose and barely nick his upper lip. He had seen blood pouring from his mouth as the man begged for Rocky to stop—the deformed lips barely able to form words to explain that living without a nose would be punishment enough. Rocky had not stopped until he held a small section of the back of the man’s scalp by the hair, with the entire head splayed out in a pile of neat, deli thin slices. “Lunch, meatheads,” Rocky had said and then laughed a high pitched laugh. Ryan’s stomach turned at the thought.
The grinding of gravel underfoot was the only sound as Ryan walked to meet the buyer in the middle of the construction site. The buyer stopped next to a table saw with a two by four still resting, slightly bowed, across it. He set his bag on the table.
^^^^^
This is a fucking stupid plan. I’m going to die here, today, Stan thought. But then, he was going to die on Sunday if he didn’t try it. This was the only way he saw to make good on his fifty thousand dollar gambling debts. These were not friendly debts. These men scared him more than Rocky Marciano, boxer or drug lord. He had the first ten thousand of it. The only way he knew to turn ten thousand into fifty was to throw dice. He lost the money literally throwing dice, so now he was going for a more metaphorical roll.
The people he owed money to would take the coke. It was as good as cash to them. All Stan had had to do was figure a way to get fifty thousand worth of coke for ten thousand worth of bills. It was an amateurish method, really, but he thought that if he could give a good stare down, he might make it to the car. If he could do that, the Trans Am would outrun the Towncar, and he could find a way out of Rocky’s grasp later. He just had to hope the thug in the suit wouldn’t count his bag too closely until Stan got to the driver’s seat.
“Stan,” he introduced himself.
The suit nodded brusquely at him.
^^^^^
Ryan sat the case of coke on the table next to the leather bag. He opened it for Stan to examine, which he did only briefly. Going mostly with Rocky’s reputation, Ryan guessed. Most people would want a closer look at the stuff.
Stan opened the bag for him to look at, and he glanced in. A big pile of hundreds bound with bank bands. He looked into Stan’s face. Up close he looked worse than he had from a distance. His eyes were puffy and red. His face was covered in a couple days of patchy growth. Ryan thought, This fucker looks hard up. No wonder he’s in a hurry to get this stuff. An honestly set jaw stuck out under a cool steel blue gaze. Ryan shut the leather bag, took it in his right hand and walked away.
When he was about three-quarters of the way back to the Towncar, he pulled a banded stack of bills from the bag and flipped through it gently.
^^^^^
When the suit’s back was turned, Stan grabbed the coke off the saw table. A held breath whooshed from his lips as he turned toward his car, careful not to rush. He was tantalizingly close when he heard what sounded like a stack of bills falling to the gravel covered earth. Excitement turned to panic. Stan ran. His life depended on it.
^^^^^
Under the Franklin on the top of the band was a stack of George Washington’s. After dropping the bills, Ryan set the bag down carefully as he heard Stan begin to run. Picturing his face sliced thin and eaten on a sandwich, he pulled his gun as he turned to face the running man. His arm paused briefly at a ninety degree angle, and then slowly lowered until he was looking down its barrel with both eyes open. A practiced hand fired twice, placing a shot in each of Stan’s lungs.
^^^^^
Stan fell and broke his nose on impact. Small bits of gravel scratched at his throat and sucked into his lungs as he fought for breath. He coughed out three mouthfuls of blood and took a rough gasp. Hot, crimson liquid splashed on his face as he raised his head. He saw his Trans Am, still running, a foot from his outstretched hand. After that, he gave in and lay still. The dice came up seven and his roll was done.
^^^^^
When he picked up the case full of coke, Ryan saw the stare on Stan’s face. It was the same icy look that had convinced him not to count the money immediately. He left the dying body for the weekend crew to bury in the morning.
Stan swallowed deeply, but his mouth was so dry he didn’t get much out of it. An old Hawaiian shirt rested loosely on his back. Khaki shorts and leather sandals that covered his toes finished his ensemble. A scuffed, brown leather bag shifted back and forth between his sweaty hands.
I look like a goddamned cliché. Here to buy coke, and I look like a Delorean brought me here from the 80s. And from Miami, Stan thought. He fought back a self loathing laugh. Laughing was a bad move when you were stealing from Rocky Marciano.
Not Rocky Marciano the boxer—that would be a sane move. This was Rocky Marciano the top dog badass motherfucker. When someone told him the nickname Rocky was already taken by a man named Marciano, he carved an “R” into the guy’s tongue. That was in the sixth grade—Rocky’s last year of school. He was a man who it was not sane to fuck with. But Stan had little choice. Rocky was the only guy moving the amount of coke he needed to cover his debts.
Stan put a hand across his forehead to shield his eyes from the setting sun. He and the suit were the only two around—Rocky had seen to that. It was late evening on one of Rocky’s construction sites, and all the workers had left hours ago.
^^^^^
A man in a blinding shirt walked methodically from the old, dusty Trans Am. It seemed as though he had to focus all his attention on each step, or else he might stop still where he stood. He carried a tattered brown bag in his right hand.
Ryan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He straightened the lapel of his suit and tried not to look nervous. The .45 strapped to his left side helped with the jitters. The two guys with shotguns behind the darkly tinted glass of the Towncar didn’t hurt either.
This guy looks like a holdover from Magnum PI. I wonder why Rocky even does business with him, Ryan thought. He was careful not to let his guard drop, despite the buyer’s schmucky appearance. When you worked for Rocky Marciano, underestimating the people around you was unwise.
One of Ryan’s former coworkers had once made such a mistake and had been taken by a buyer. Rocky held his nose against a meat slicer. It was the industrial strength kind where a whole log of meat swipes across the razor sharp blade, cutting it thin. Ryan had watched the man’s nose land in a pile one sliver at a time. He had seen the blade cut through the base of his nose and barely nick his upper lip. He had seen blood pouring from his mouth as the man begged for Rocky to stop—the deformed lips barely able to form words to explain that living without a nose would be punishment enough. Rocky had not stopped until he held a small section of the back of the man’s scalp by the hair, with the entire head splayed out in a pile of neat, deli thin slices. “Lunch, meatheads,” Rocky had said and then laughed a high pitched laugh. Ryan’s stomach turned at the thought.
The grinding of gravel underfoot was the only sound as Ryan walked to meet the buyer in the middle of the construction site. The buyer stopped next to a table saw with a two by four still resting, slightly bowed, across it. He set his bag on the table.
^^^^^
This is a fucking stupid plan. I’m going to die here, today, Stan thought. But then, he was going to die on Sunday if he didn’t try it. This was the only way he saw to make good on his fifty thousand dollar gambling debts. These were not friendly debts. These men scared him more than Rocky Marciano, boxer or drug lord. He had the first ten thousand of it. The only way he knew to turn ten thousand into fifty was to throw dice. He lost the money literally throwing dice, so now he was going for a more metaphorical roll.
The people he owed money to would take the coke. It was as good as cash to them. All Stan had had to do was figure a way to get fifty thousand worth of coke for ten thousand worth of bills. It was an amateurish method, really, but he thought that if he could give a good stare down, he might make it to the car. If he could do that, the Trans Am would outrun the Towncar, and he could find a way out of Rocky’s grasp later. He just had to hope the thug in the suit wouldn’t count his bag too closely until Stan got to the driver’s seat.
“Stan,” he introduced himself.
The suit nodded brusquely at him.
^^^^^
Ryan sat the case of coke on the table next to the leather bag. He opened it for Stan to examine, which he did only briefly. Going mostly with Rocky’s reputation, Ryan guessed. Most people would want a closer look at the stuff.
Stan opened the bag for him to look at, and he glanced in. A big pile of hundreds bound with bank bands. He looked into Stan’s face. Up close he looked worse than he had from a distance. His eyes were puffy and red. His face was covered in a couple days of patchy growth. Ryan thought, This fucker looks hard up. No wonder he’s in a hurry to get this stuff. An honestly set jaw stuck out under a cool steel blue gaze. Ryan shut the leather bag, took it in his right hand and walked away.
When he was about three-quarters of the way back to the Towncar, he pulled a banded stack of bills from the bag and flipped through it gently.
^^^^^
When the suit’s back was turned, Stan grabbed the coke off the saw table. A held breath whooshed from his lips as he turned toward his car, careful not to rush. He was tantalizingly close when he heard what sounded like a stack of bills falling to the gravel covered earth. Excitement turned to panic. Stan ran. His life depended on it.
^^^^^
Under the Franklin on the top of the band was a stack of George Washington’s. After dropping the bills, Ryan set the bag down carefully as he heard Stan begin to run. Picturing his face sliced thin and eaten on a sandwich, he pulled his gun as he turned to face the running man. His arm paused briefly at a ninety degree angle, and then slowly lowered until he was looking down its barrel with both eyes open. A practiced hand fired twice, placing a shot in each of Stan’s lungs.
^^^^^
Stan fell and broke his nose on impact. Small bits of gravel scratched at his throat and sucked into his lungs as he fought for breath. He coughed out three mouthfuls of blood and took a rough gasp. Hot, crimson liquid splashed on his face as he raised his head. He saw his Trans Am, still running, a foot from his outstretched hand. After that, he gave in and lay still. The dice came up seven and his roll was done.
^^^^^
When he picked up the case full of coke, Ryan saw the stare on Stan’s face. It was the same icy look that had convinced him not to count the money immediately. He left the dying body for the weekend crew to bury in the morning.
posted by Feisty Fern at 8:30 PM
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