other kid, watching her, said, “Yeah, Romeo, she says that’s him.”
Romeo started toward Birk again. “Yo, tough guy, c’mere for a second.” He snapped his fingers and waved toward himself. “I think we have a problem.” The kid came forward too, and Birk noticed his hand moving within the hoodie pocket.
The transformation Birk made could’ve earned an Academy Award. In a matter of seconds, he went from cool and cocky to squeamish and terrified. His eyes widened,shifting between Romeo and his sidekick, and he took a short step backward while putting his hands up defensively.
“No, please,” he said, his voice unsteady. “You don’t understand. She wouldn’t . . . she wouldn’t do —”
Romeo got to him first and pushed him to the ground.
“I don’t care what she would or wouldn’t do. She was there, she did her thing, and now we get paid. That’s how it works.”
On his back but up on one elbow, Birk said, “Wait a second. For that kind of money I expect —oh no . . .”
The other punk pulled out a gutting knife. The blade was at least a foot long.
“No, please.”
Romeo crouched beside him. “Listen up. I don’t have time for this. You can hand over the five hundred now, or my buddy here can fillet your insides and we can take it along with whatever else you got.” Romeo hiked up his silk shirt and pulled out the gun that had been tucked in his pants. It was matte black and designed more like a sci-fi prop than a serviceable weapon. Birk recognized it immediately as a 9mm.
“And if you still have trouble deciding, maybe this will help. It’ll blow your head into a pink cloud. How’s that sound?”
Birk was hyperventilating now. Putting up a hand, he said, “Okay, let me get up. My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
Romeo rose and took a step back. As Birk got to his feet, he caught a glimpse of the prostitute, who had a triumphant look on her face. She leaned toward the open window on the passenger side and again displayed her fluency with objectionable language.
Struggling to catch his breath, Birk drew a brown leather wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans. He took out fivehundred-dollar bills and counted them demonstratively for everyone’s benefit. “Here,” he said, holding them out.
Romeo, the gun still in his right hand but held slack at his side, came forward. It was the last foolish mistake of his life.
Birk dropped the cash just before the pimp touched it, then spun around and grabbed the wrist of his gun hand while darting an elbow into Romeo’s face. Blood spurted from the pimp’s nose and he screamed. The street punk lunged with the knife, but Birk sidestepped with the kind of graceful dexterity one acquires only through years of training and experience. The blade went under Romeo’s shirt and penetrated his chest on an upward diagonal, slicing into his heart and killing him instantly. His eyes popped open in a darkly comic expression of surprise, then fell shut for good. Birk pivoted while maintaining his hold on the pimp’s body in a horror-show pirouette. Raising the lifeless hand still holding the gun, he wrapped his finger around the trigger and fired into the kid’s elbow. He screamed in agony and went down. Birk then released his dance partner, who crumpled like a doll on the filthy pavement.
As the kid tried to stanch the flow of blood with his good hand, Birk grabbed him by the hood and dragged him toward the BMW. The prostitute, whose face had gone deathly pale, scrambled from the vehicle and ran off screaming. Birk smashed the punk into the door face-first. Bone and cartilage splintered. Birk then rammed him against the car repeatedly until he lost consciousness.
Blood was everywhere now. Birk opened the door and forced the flaccid body inside. Then he walked casually to Romeo’s corpse, dragged it back, and deposited it in the trunk along with the gun; the knife he kept in hand. Getting behind the wheel, he set the BMW in gear and
Romeo started toward Birk again. “Yo, tough guy, c’mere for a second.” He snapped his fingers and waved toward himself. “I think we have a problem.” The kid came forward too, and Birk noticed his hand moving within the hoodie pocket.
The transformation Birk made could’ve earned an Academy Award. In a matter of seconds, he went from cool and cocky to squeamish and terrified. His eyes widened,shifting between Romeo and his sidekick, and he took a short step backward while putting his hands up defensively.
“No, please,” he said, his voice unsteady. “You don’t understand. She wouldn’t . . . she wouldn’t do —”
Romeo got to him first and pushed him to the ground.
“I don’t care what she would or wouldn’t do. She was there, she did her thing, and now we get paid. That’s how it works.”
On his back but up on one elbow, Birk said, “Wait a second. For that kind of money I expect —oh no . . .”
The other punk pulled out a gutting knife. The blade was at least a foot long.
“No, please.”
Romeo crouched beside him. “Listen up. I don’t have time for this. You can hand over the five hundred now, or my buddy here can fillet your insides and we can take it along with whatever else you got.” Romeo hiked up his silk shirt and pulled out the gun that had been tucked in his pants. It was matte black and designed more like a sci-fi prop than a serviceable weapon. Birk recognized it immediately as a 9mm.
“And if you still have trouble deciding, maybe this will help. It’ll blow your head into a pink cloud. How’s that sound?”
Birk was hyperventilating now. Putting up a hand, he said, “Okay, let me get up. My wallet’s in my back pocket.”
Romeo rose and took a step back. As Birk got to his feet, he caught a glimpse of the prostitute, who had a triumphant look on her face. She leaned toward the open window on the passenger side and again displayed her fluency with objectionable language.
Struggling to catch his breath, Birk drew a brown leather wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans. He took out fivehundred-dollar bills and counted them demonstratively for everyone’s benefit. “Here,” he said, holding them out.
Romeo, the gun still in his right hand but held slack at his side, came forward. It was the last foolish mistake of his life.
Birk dropped the cash just before the pimp touched it, then spun around and grabbed the wrist of his gun hand while darting an elbow into Romeo’s face. Blood spurted from the pimp’s nose and he screamed. The street punk lunged with the knife, but Birk sidestepped with the kind of graceful dexterity one acquires only through years of training and experience. The blade went under Romeo’s shirt and penetrated his chest on an upward diagonal, slicing into his heart and killing him instantly. His eyes popped open in a darkly comic expression of surprise, then fell shut for good. Birk pivoted while maintaining his hold on the pimp’s body in a horror-show pirouette. Raising the lifeless hand still holding the gun, he wrapped his finger around the trigger and fired into the kid’s elbow. He screamed in agony and went down. Birk then released his dance partner, who crumpled like a doll on the filthy pavement.
As the kid tried to stanch the flow of blood with his good hand, Birk grabbed him by the hood and dragged him toward the BMW. The prostitute, whose face had gone deathly pale, scrambled from the vehicle and ran off screaming. Birk smashed the punk into the door face-first. Bone and cartilage splintered. Birk then rammed him against the car repeatedly until he lost consciousness.
Blood was everywhere now. Birk opened the door and forced the flaccid body inside. Then he walked casually to Romeo’s corpse, dragged it back, and deposited it in the trunk along with the gun; the knife he kept in hand. Getting behind the wheel, he set the BMW in gear and
Similar Books
