his waistband, and tugged it once, twice, until it was free. She brought it up nice and smooth and pointed it between the sales-bro’s eyes.
She said, “Go get me the keys for the red Tiburon.”
Hands up, not even dropping the Dr. Pepper. “Hey, hey, hold on. Please. My boss. Please.”
“Get me the keys.”
Salesbro blinked a lot. DeVaughn wondered if he would do the same, someone pointing a gun at him. Wondered if his brother had when Lafitte and Asimov did that shit. Melissa held it like a girl, of course. Bit limp and flippy with it.
The problem with Salesbro was he was still trying to think his way out of this. DeVaughn stepped up to him—watched him go “No no no no!” and cower back—and grabbed the back of his neck, turned him right around back through the glass door into the shop. First thing DeVaughn saw was another guy peeking over a desk in the next room, wood panel walls with a Plexiglas window. He pointed so Melissa would see, and she turned her aim onto the new guy.
This one, sandy spiky hair, no sideburns. Jeans and a dress shirt, knit tie. Loafers and no socks. Hands sort of up, at his waist, because shit, he wasn’t no coward, was he? He’d dreamed of this day, wasn’t going to react like some people, just give away the store. Not when he had taken those ju-jitsu classes. No, he would—
Melissa shot him. Right through the Plexiglas. Surprised the goddamned living fuck out of DeVaughn, the shot shutting down his ears, making him flinch and lose his grip on the bro. Didn’t matter, because the bro had probably shit himself. He dropped to the floor, curled up. Through the ringing, it sounded like he was crying. Melissa stepped into the office and squatted beside the guy she shot. Knees together, heels up off her flip flops. The gun dangled loose in her grip, over her knee. She watched, waited. A very patient killer. He must’ve moved or some shit, because she stood up and shot him again. Then she turned back to the bro.
Dude was all a mess. Sloppy and fat and useless. Melissa took her foot, asphalt-stained flip-flop and all, and pressed it on his cheek, going, “Sh, sh, shush. Sh, sh, shush.”
When she had his attention, she said, “Red Tiburon. Keys. Now.”
He climbed off the floor, still holding his Dr. Pepper, now crushed and oozing and all over his sleeve. Melissa palmed the back of his neck the way she might a lover, and she jabbed the gun into his gut. She didn’t have to say anything. He nodded. He wheezed. They headed into the office where the other man lay dead on the floor.
DeVaughn looked away, out the front windows. It was a really nice day, maybe a little too hot, sure. It was always a little too hot most of the time. No breeze today.
Lafitte should’ve died when they hit him in the car. Should’ve died when DeVaughn shot at him. Shit, he should’ve died instead of DeVaughn’s brother, is what he should’ve done.
Another gunshot.
DeVaughn spun round to watch Melissa do a Beyonce walk out of that office where there were now two dead men. She tossed the key and fob in the air, caught it again. “Ready?”
He held the front door open for her. He had to play catch up when she sashayed past.
“Girl? Goddamn! Someone had to have heard.”
“I figured.”
“You better walk a little faster, then.”
“Ain’t no need. I’m driving, too. I’ve always wanted a sports car.”
“Jesus, baby, you even listening to me?” He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him and got up in her ear. “You just killed those motherfuckers.”
She rested her cheek against his lips. “Look, you’re the one told me you want Lafitte dead. Then you shoot at him like we’re at the fair. Like you want to win me a stuffed monkey. Do you want to win me one of them?”
“Shit.”
“I don’t need monkeys.”
“What you need?”
She grinned. Broke away from him and kept walking. “Look at this car! It’s a fine-ass car.”
“I said what you need, baby?”
She
She said, “Go get me the keys for the red Tiburon.”
Hands up, not even dropping the Dr. Pepper. “Hey, hey, hold on. Please. My boss. Please.”
“Get me the keys.”
Salesbro blinked a lot. DeVaughn wondered if he would do the same, someone pointing a gun at him. Wondered if his brother had when Lafitte and Asimov did that shit. Melissa held it like a girl, of course. Bit limp and flippy with it.
The problem with Salesbro was he was still trying to think his way out of this. DeVaughn stepped up to him—watched him go “No no no no!” and cower back—and grabbed the back of his neck, turned him right around back through the glass door into the shop. First thing DeVaughn saw was another guy peeking over a desk in the next room, wood panel walls with a Plexiglas window. He pointed so Melissa would see, and she turned her aim onto the new guy.
This one, sandy spiky hair, no sideburns. Jeans and a dress shirt, knit tie. Loafers and no socks. Hands sort of up, at his waist, because shit, he wasn’t no coward, was he? He’d dreamed of this day, wasn’t going to react like some people, just give away the store. Not when he had taken those ju-jitsu classes. No, he would—
Melissa shot him. Right through the Plexiglas. Surprised the goddamned living fuck out of DeVaughn, the shot shutting down his ears, making him flinch and lose his grip on the bro. Didn’t matter, because the bro had probably shit himself. He dropped to the floor, curled up. Through the ringing, it sounded like he was crying. Melissa stepped into the office and squatted beside the guy she shot. Knees together, heels up off her flip flops. The gun dangled loose in her grip, over her knee. She watched, waited. A very patient killer. He must’ve moved or some shit, because she stood up and shot him again. Then she turned back to the bro.
Dude was all a mess. Sloppy and fat and useless. Melissa took her foot, asphalt-stained flip-flop and all, and pressed it on his cheek, going, “Sh, sh, shush. Sh, sh, shush.”
When she had his attention, she said, “Red Tiburon. Keys. Now.”
He climbed off the floor, still holding his Dr. Pepper, now crushed and oozing and all over his sleeve. Melissa palmed the back of his neck the way she might a lover, and she jabbed the gun into his gut. She didn’t have to say anything. He nodded. He wheezed. They headed into the office where the other man lay dead on the floor.
DeVaughn looked away, out the front windows. It was a really nice day, maybe a little too hot, sure. It was always a little too hot most of the time. No breeze today.
Lafitte should’ve died when they hit him in the car. Should’ve died when DeVaughn shot at him. Shit, he should’ve died instead of DeVaughn’s brother, is what he should’ve done.
Another gunshot.
DeVaughn spun round to watch Melissa do a Beyonce walk out of that office where there were now two dead men. She tossed the key and fob in the air, caught it again. “Ready?”
He held the front door open for her. He had to play catch up when she sashayed past.
“Girl? Goddamn! Someone had to have heard.”
“I figured.”
“You better walk a little faster, then.”
“Ain’t no need. I’m driving, too. I’ve always wanted a sports car.”
“Jesus, baby, you even listening to me?” He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him and got up in her ear. “You just killed those motherfuckers.”
She rested her cheek against his lips. “Look, you’re the one told me you want Lafitte dead. Then you shoot at him like we’re at the fair. Like you want to win me a stuffed monkey. Do you want to win me one of them?”
“Shit.”
“I don’t need monkeys.”
“What you need?”
She grinned. Broke away from him and kept walking. “Look at this car! It’s a fine-ass car.”
“I said what you need, baby?”
She
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