The Subtle Art of Brutality

I walk out and hear the waitress say, “The bottle would do it. In case you’re curious.”

“Yes, I was curious,” I mutter and leave.

33

The ca

bbie drops me a block away from Roscoe’s.

I walk the distance. Smoke. Hide the bottle in my jacket. It keeps me warm. I make it to the bar and both Danny and Cherry are already there. I can see them through the front window. Danny looks like Blimpie only thinner and with less hair. Cherry must be the third guy. They’re berating Blimpie.

The bartender mans up and kicks them out. They storm off to a delivery van, peel out. I note the license plate.

Blimpie wanders out onto the sidewalk and stares down the road as the two others streak off. He looks like the word distraught doesn’t begin to suffice right now. I used to see the same look on dudes who had gotten out of prison and immediately get arrested for another felony. They knew they were going back and this time it’d be worse. That’s Blimpie right now.

I walk up behind him. Take him by the arm and keep walking. He startles at my touch. Darts his head my way and his face scrunches up into a little baby’s cry-face.

“Just walk. If you cry this will get out of hand,” I say, lift up on his arm. He walks. Chokes back the tears.

“Let me get this straight,” I say, light a smoke with one hand. “Dobbins sold you guys a pretty good score of Big Fry.”

“Y-yes,” he squeaks out. “Well, Danny and Cherry really. Not me. I just work at the bar—”

“Why those two?”

“They used to deal small stuff. Little bit of weed and whatnot.”

“So Dobbins picks the first dealer he can think of and drops the score of a lifetime in their lap?”

“Well, I-ughhh...I guess. Well, Cherry had been spreading the word they were trying to bust into the game, you know? Make it work—”

“They were trying to become full-time dealers?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I’m not really involved—”

“Knock off your horseshit. You’re involved.” I hate that. Anyone who’s afraid of the consequences will dime out their own mother if that’s what it takes. Every second of everyday a cop hears a chicken shit downplay his role in crime and shift all the blame onto someone else.

“Have they broken in?” I ask. We round the corner.

“They uhhh...they sold the stuff Dobbin’s got ’em and now they’re uhhh...popular. They needed more dope is all. Dobbins couldn’t turn up anymore, especially for the price he took for the first batch. So they want the girl. Well, Cherry does more than Danny. The folks they sold to are starting to go to other dealers already. Their street cred is drying up. They found another supplier who wants a shitload of cash. And...uhhh...”

Blimpie trails off. Of course their street credit is drying up. Junkies don’t wait for a hit. They move on to whoever has their fix.

Blimpie doesn’t start back up and I grip him by the neck. We round the next corner. One more right hand turn and we’ll be heading back to the bar.

“Finish the story, turd,” I say as I squeeze his neck until his eyes close and his teeth grit. “You were doing so well.”

“Okay!” he says and I let up. Encouragement. “They stole those ATM’s that have turned up missing...you know, the three that were on the evening news? They went to a hotel and stole a truck. They used that to hit three ATM’s and drag them to a storage shed outside of town. Just bam bam bam. Cherry said it would be like the movie Gone in 60 Seconds. You know, by the time they notice the first one missing all three will be hidden. That was like two days ago.”

“Have they gotten inside them yet?”

“They don’t tell me that kind of stuff, man. I just work at the bar. Okay? I didn’t steal your drugs or nothin’. I just—”

“So why do they still want the girl?”

“She’s got the fuckin’ hook-ups, bro! Cherry was pissed he needed to steal an ATM to get the same amount that girl sold ’em for next to nothin’. Cherry said it cut into the bottom line.”

We round the corner and stop two storefronts down from the bar.