Read Online The Devil’s Share by Wallace Stroby - Free Book Online Page A

beer, swirled what was left in the can, set it on the table.
    â€œSo you came here to pay me, and now you did,” Greggs said. “Are we going to sit around now, bullshit about old times?”
    â€œI just wanted to see how you were doing.”
    â€œAnd find out if you could still trust me?”
    â€œThat, too.”
    â€œYou think I can’t keep my mouth shut? That if I got pissed off enough about the money, I’d put us all in the shit?”
    â€œI didn’t say that.”
    â€œYou thought it, though.”
    Hicks stood, put his palms in the small of his back, stretched. “Where’s the head in this thing? I’ve got a long drive back.”
    Greggs pointed at a narrow door past the kitchenette. Hicks went inside, closed the door, pulled the string to turn on the light. It was no cleaner in there. His shoulders brushed the walls.
    He unzipped, urinated loudly into the toilet, knowing Greggs would hear it through the thin door. Then he zipped back up, put his right boot on the toilet seat, pulled up his jeans leg. He drew out the wood-handled ice pick from his boot, took the cork off the tip. Then he flushed, turned the light off, and went back out, the ice pick hidden in his cupped right hand.
    Greggs was counting the money, the envelope in his lap. Hicks closed the distance. Greggs looked up at the last moment, reached for the .45. Hicks slapped his left hand over Greggs’s mouth, slammed his head back into the wall, and sank the ice pick into the left side of his chest, angling upward to slip between the ribs.
    Greggs bucked, his eyes wide. Hicks held him there, leaning all his weight into him, drew out the ice pick and drove it home again.
    He felt Greggs’s teeth scrape against his palm, trying to bite. He straddled him, used a knee to knock the .45 to the floor. “Easy, Arlen. Easy. Don’t fight me.”
    The ice pick came out and went in again, all the way to the handle this time. Hicks twisted it, felt the wet warmth on his hand.
    Greggs groaned into his palm, bucked again, bills falling to the floor, his T-shirt darkening with blood. Hicks got in closer. “It’s okay,” he said into his ear. “Don’t fight it, brother. Don’t fight it. Go easy.”
    Greggs shut his eyes tight, then snapped them open again. Hicks drew out the ice pick, drove it home in a different spot.
    Greggs’s struggles weakened. His right leg spasmed, the heel tapping the floor. Hicks imagined what was going on inside him, the lungs filling with blood, the heart slowing, sluggish. He drew out the ice pick, took his hand away, stepped back.
    Greggs was gasping, dragging in air, blood on his lips. Red bubbles rose through the holes in his T-shirt. Hicks put a hand on his right shoulder, gently pushed him back against the wall again. “Easy, brother.”
    Hicks traced the red tip of the ice pick across Greggs’s chest, to his best guess at where the heart was. He held it there, no pressure yet. Their eyes locked. Greggs’s lips were moving.
    â€œSha…,” he breathed. “Shar…”
    â€œI’m sorry, man,” Hicks said. “I really am.” He leaned forward, used his weight to push the ice pick all the way home. Greggs’s eyelids fluttered, and then he was still.
    Hicks stood back, breathing hard. He drew out the ice pick, looked down at the blood on his hand. He’d been careful, so there was none on his pants, and only a few drops on his jacket sleeve. Nothing anyone would notice at night.
    In the kitchenette, he ran water in the small sink, washed the ice pick clean, then his hand. Blood swirled pink in the drain.
    He shut off the water, left the ice pick in the sink, dried his hands with a paper towel. Then he went back to the daybed, picked up all the bills, replaced them in the envelope, snapped the rubber bands around it. The envelope went back into his pocket.
    He had to move Greggs’s body to the