A regular comedian, this guy, Billy thought as he reached down for his worn fabric wallet in his lap. He tugged at the Velcro closure, making a ripping sound as it opened, then pulled out four fifties and five twenties. He folded the stack of bills twice and slid it to the top edge of the window.
“That’s three hundred.”
“Better be.”
Billy knew it’d be counted before he reached the delivery point. He’d be damn stupid if he tried shorting the big guy. He’d just keep Billy’s money. That, and maybe worse.
The wad of cash disappeared in the big guy’s left fist, which he then stuffed in the belly pocket of his sweatshirt as he straightened up and stepped back from the car. His left hand then came out of the pocket with a tiny walkie-talkie.
He looked down at the far end of the street. Billy and Dan looked there, too, as they heard the guy say into the walkie-talkie, “Two green Zs.”
They saw the skinny guy down on the corner lowering his left hand from his ear, then motioning to a young kid who was sitting on the crooked dirty concrete stoop of a row house. The kid, who looked maybe ten, then got up and disappeared behind a chain-link fence gate.
“All right, Little Man down there will fix you up,” the big guy said, then turned and went back to his corner.
Billy put the car in gear. It slowly began to move.
After a moment, Dan shook his head.
“Damn! You see how much he was sweating?” he said, nervously glancing back at him. “Like it was the middle of summer!”
“And paranoid. That’s why I shut you up. That’s the wet.”
“The sweat?”
“The wet-it’s weed, or sometimes just a cigarette, that’s been laced with PCP. That angel dust makes them sweat, yeah, but it really makes them crazy.”
“Huh,” Dan said, then in a mocking tone added, “‘Good shit. Fuck your head right up.’ Yeah, right. That’s why they call that crap hallucinogens.”
The car, its tires crunching on the snow, pulled to a stop at the end of the block. Billy put the gear shift in park.
The man on the corner stood staring at them.
“Is he going to get the dope or what?”
“No. He’s the lookout. Watching for cops. And he makes sure no one messes with the kid and the stash.”
How does he know all this? Dan thought.
He really must come here a lot.
The kid then reappeared from behind the fence. He carried something wrapped in a white plastic grocery bag.
“So, the kid hands over the dope? What’s up with that?”
Billy shrugged. “I guess they think the cops won’t bust a kid.”
The boy reached the car and went to slip the bag through the open window.
“Thanks, man,” Billy said, taking the bag and stuffing it in his coat pocket.
He then noticed the skinny guy on the corner was fast approaching.
“Oh, shit!” Billy blurted.
“What?” Dan said, looking. Then, “Oh, shit!”
Dan was staring at the muzzle of the black revolver pointing through the gap of the open window.
“Don’t you fucking make a move!” the skinny guy said. “Get outta the car! Now!”
Billy turned off the engine. He started to pull out the key from the ignition.
“Leave the key!”
Billy yanked back his hand. Then he and Dan slowly opened their doors and got out, taking careful steps on the snow.
The guy gestured with the pistol at them and nodded toward the boy.
“Get on the sidewalk. Give him your phones and wallets.”
When Dan came around the car, the little kid laughed and pointed at Billy. Dan looked. The crotch of Billy’s jeans was wet.
Damn! He pissed himself.
The kid took their wallets and phones.
The skinny guy said, “Somerset El’s two blocks that way. You be in Center City in fifteen minutes.”
“What?” Billy said, incredulous. “Take the train?”
“Get the hell outta here! And listen. You call the cops? I come and find your ass. I got your address on your IDs. You don’t want me in your hood.”
“Snitches get stitches! End up in ditches!” the kid blurted, almost as if rehearsed, then disappeared with their phones and wallets back behind the chain-link fencing.
Dan started to back away slowly.
Billy, looking terrified, stood frozen. He stared at the guy.
“Billy,” Dan said, and when there was no reply, he shouted: “Come on, Billy! Let’s go!”
The skinny guy waved the gun at Billy and said, “What you looking at? You hear what I said?”
Then Dan couldn’t believe his eyes.
It all happened at once, and in slow motion-the loud Bang-Bang-Bang!, the bright flashes of fire from the muzzle of the weapon, and then Billy grabbing at his chest and staggering back and finally falling and then not moving.
And then the blood flowing, running from his neck and open mouth, and saturating his shirt and fleece jacket.
Dan took one step toward Billy-then saw the guy swing the gun, its muzzle still smoking, and aim it in his direction.
Dan rapidly shuffled his feet to back away, slipped and hit the sidewalk, then finally got traction just as the guy fired a round at him. Dan crawled around the corner, onto Hart Lane, then got to his feet. He took off down the sidewalk as he heard two more shots going off behind him-the bullets ricocheting off the street not fifty feet away.
–
After running two blocks down Hart Lane, Dan stopped. He breathed heavily, the cold air making his lungs burn. He looked back. No one followed.
He put his hands on his knees, leaned forward, and shook his head, trying to clear it.
Damn it! He killed Billy! What the hell?
He crossed his arms over his stomach and dipped his head. He then lunged forward, trying to reach a patch of dirt off the sidewalk. He didn’t make it. There then came a deep guttural sound as he threw up, the vomitus splattering against the base of a flight of concrete steps, some of it splashing back on his shoes and jeans.
When the spasms stopped, he spit on the sidewalk and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Now what? I can’t go back.
I can’t call for help. He’s got my phone.
And if I did, he’s got our wallets. My license has my damn address.
He knows where I live. .
The foul acidic odor floated up to him, burning his nostrils and triggering his gag reflex. He fought it back, turning his head and quickly breathing in fresh air. His brain felt as if it were spinning.
Dan glared back down the street as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked in the other direction and saw two rough-looking males across the street glaring at him. He jerked his head at the sound of a car that turned onto Hart, then rattled toward him. Frozen, he just stared blankly as a battered Ford sedan with darkened windows rolled past.
I’ve gotta get the fuck out of here.
And, his lungs still burning, he took off running.
–
The slick high-gloss tan brick and bright blue painted steel of the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority train station stood out on the street, its modern design sharply contrasting with the neighborhood’s dilapidated hundred-year-old gray stone storefronts and the dirty broken sidewalks.
The elevated station on the SEPTA Market Frankford Line had been built over the five-way intersection of Kensington Avenue and Somerset Street.
There were four young males standing by the entrance, and Dan carefully kept his distance as he moved past them. He then ran up the steps, taking them two at a time, catching the distinct foul odor of urine as he went.
When he reached the level with the turnstiles, a line of them directly ahead, he picked up his pace.