Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

I turned the Chrysler onto the Florida Turnpike with Rollo Kramers headless body in the trunk, and all the time Im thinking I shouldve put some plastic down. I knew the heap was a rental, but I didnt like leaving anything behind for the inevitable forensics safari. That meant Id have to strip all the carpeting in the trunk, douche out the blood with Clorox, and hope Avis took a long time to notice. I shouldve just taken a second and put some plastic down. Shit.

Slow down, Charlie. Youll flag us. Blade Sanchez popped a Winston into his mouth, crumpled the pack, and tossed it into the backseat.

I grabbed the cigarette out of his mouth and jammed it into the ashtray. You light another one of them fucking things, and youre in the trunk with Rollo.

Christalmighty, thats my last one. Jesus, Charlie. What the fuck? He pawed at the cigarette, but Id smashed it up good. I just said slow down is all. You want the state police should pull us over and find Rollo?

Its your fault hes back there, I thought. But I slowed down. He was right, and that made me like him even less.

You botched this good.

So you keep telling me, said Blade.

Me and some of the other boys had been riding Blade Sanchez hard about his lack of originality. We called him Blade because he always whacked his marks the same way: a quick flick of his stiletto, an ear-to-ear smile. Thats a sure way to tip your hand, doing it the same way every time. Not quite as bad as leaving a thumbprint, but it sure helps the profilers put together an M.O. when you fall into a pattern. Everyone knows what everyones up to. Its just the difficulty proving it that keeps guys like Blade out of stir.

Now me, Id never, ever developed bad habits or fallen into a routine, and as a result my name wasnt on a single piece of paper in a single precinct in any state in the union or the District of Columbia.

Anyway, we were riding Blade pretty good about his knife at OMalleys over beers. And mostly we were kidding, but he was getting pretty sore, because he knew it was true. Thats when guys get the most sore, when they know somethings true. It was the night before we got this Rollo job, and Blade pulled me aside and practically begged me to let him be trigger man. He already knew I didnt want to work with him, and now everyone was on his case about his knife, so he was all eager to show he could bump this Rollo guy in some new and improved way. As if me and the rest of the boys still wouldnt think Blade was a moron. So I had a couple of drinks, and he wore me down. And before I knew what I was saying, I told him he could do Rollo, only dont screw it up or hed have all of our balls in a vise.

Of course, it all went to shit. I should have known better.

When I picked up Blade the morning we were supposed to whack Rollo, gray clouds hung heavy in the winter sky but didnt quite threaten rain. All January the temperature hadnt dipped below fifty. Got to love the Sunshine State.

Blade had a fresh box of doughnuts all tied up in a yellow ribbon. I though maybe they were for us.

Hands off, said Blade. Theyre for Rollo.

Last meal?

Blade tapped a finger against his temple. Research, compadre, research. Old Rollos a doughnut junkie.

Rollos neighborhood looked like something God had scraped off His shoe. Dull brick buildings hunched along the wide street. Every third car was stripped and up on cinder blocks. The front lawns were yellowing postage stamps of dying grass. I pulled the Chrysler into an empty spot across from Rollos rented house.

Blade looked up and down the street shaking his head. Whoever said crime dont pay mustve been thinking of Rollo.

I didnt answer him, but I understood. It was like any other job. You were either good at it, or you werent. Rollo Kramer wasnt very good at his job. Hed been a middleman for Beggar Johnson, a big-time boss hood from down in Miami. Rollo thought skimming off the top of Beggars take would be a good way to supplement his income. Beggar caught Rollo with his hand in the till, and Rollo fled north. Orlando. Our territory. Since Beggar knew Blade from the old days, hed asked Stan personally to put Blade on the job.

But the problem was that Blade Sanchez was a grade-A screwup, and Stan had him on probation. Sanchez had stuck his knife into the wrong guy in Detroit, and a month before that hed dropped the ball in Tampa, letting a city councilman with a bulls-eye on his chest slip out of the crosshairs. So there I was in the car next to him on babysitting duty, making sure Blade didnt eat his own gun or forget to breathe or some damn thing. Id made it clear I wasnt happy with the job, but since I had Stan to thank for every nickel hidden in my safe deposit box, I couldnt really turn him down.

Blade slipped into a Do-nut Barn jacket and delivered the box to Rollos front door. When he returned, I gave him the fish eye.

What? Poison?

Blade shook his head. Youll see. I told him it was a gift from an admirer.

Just what? Wait?

Wait.

So I waited. I pulled an old issue of National Geographic out of my topcoat and looked at the front for the hundredth time. On the cover, the beautiful brown face of a young Polynesian woman hovered in front of an expanse of virgin beach and deep green sea. Id read every word of the article three times. I folded the magazine. It bulged awkwardly in the pocket of my topcoat, so I dropped it on the floor.

Waiting sucked.

That was Rollo at the door? I asked.

Yeah.

Why didnt you push him inside and whack him right then?

Blade frowned. Whatever.

God damn hotdog amateur.

Long seconds crept past.

If hes such an addict, dont you think hell already have doughnuts?

These are fresh.

The explosion shattered the windows in Rollos house and shook the rental car.

What the fuck was that?

Blade grinned big. That would be the Boston cream.

We tumbled out of the Chrysler and ran up the walk and into Rollos house to the scream of car alarms set off by the blast. I kicked in the door, and we found what was left of Rollo still sitting in a ladderback chair blown back about ten feet from the kitchen table.

Holy shit, Blade.

Rollos neck still oozed dark liquid. It pooled around his body on the linoleum. The walls and ceiling looked like a giant anteater had sneezed a watermelon. Thick chunks of red gunk dripped from the kitchen cabinets, and hung in gelatinous strands from the ceiling fan.

Blade looked around like he couldnt believe what hed done. Wheres his head?

I squinted hard at something fuzzy and bloody in the sink. I think this is a piece here. Crap. Whatd you put in that doughnut?

Four blasting caps.

I shook my head. Idiot.

Blade looked hurt. Hes dead, isnt he?

Were supposed to bring back the body to collect our bonus, I reminded him. Hows Beggar supposed to identify the body without the head?

Gimme a break, Charlie. I stayed up all night thinking of this. I got up at five in the morning to suck out all the cream with a straw. Then I shoved in the caps with my thumb and squirted the cream back in.

He seemed genuinely upset that I didnt appreciate his genius. Right about then I wished hed just stuck his knife in the guy. I went into the living room and came back with Rollos ugly green drapes. I spread them on the kitchen floor and motioned for Blade to help me lift Rollo.

Blade made a sick face. But hes a mess.

You dumb shit. Everybody in the neighborhood heard that Boston cream go off. Somebodys called the cops for sure. Now shut up and help me wrap Rollo up in the drapes.