by Andy Rausch
Candi looked up at Lefty, her big brown eyes sweet and innocent. “Can I still get that ride?”
“Where to?” asked Lefty.
“Wherever you're going.”
“You mean now?”
“I mean forever,” she said.
Ten minutes later they were all in the car with Lefty and Layla in the front, Orlando, Don Antonio, and Candi all smooshed together into the back. Orlando was sitting there holding his gun on his lap, the barrel facing Don Antonio. Prince was still playing, but it was turned way down so it was barely audible. Despite its low volume, Layla was still bobbing her head to the music.
“I don't keep my money in a bank,” Don Antonio said.
“Where do you keep it?” asked Lefty. “Under a mattress?”
“I got a guy who holds it for me. His name is Parker, but we just call him the Banker. He takes care of my finances and keeps all my money.”
Orlando asked, “What's to stop somebody from robbing him?”
Don Antonio looked at Orlando, a serious look on his face. “The fear of God is what. Everybody knows you don't steal from Don Antonio. You do that, you end up in a fuckin' hole quicker than you can say 'please don't kill me.'”
“Please don't kill me,” Candi deadpanned.
“You laugh now, and that's okay,” said Don Antonio, “but if you stole my money it'd be a different story. Your pretty little ass wouldn't be sittin' here making jokes right now.”
“So this guy the Banker,” said Lefty.
“What about him?” asked Don Antonio.
“Where do we find him?”
“He's got an office in a warehouse down on the pier.”
Orlando asked, “How do we know this isn't another set-up?”
“You don't,” said Don Antonio. “No way you can. But think about it, how would I have known we'd be doing this? I certainly haven't called him. You know that because you've been with me the whole time.”
“So how do we get the money?” asked Lefty.
“We go to the warehouse. The banker sees me, he'll give us the money. Simple as that.”
Hearing “When Doves Cry” playing beneath the adults' conversation, Layla piped up. “Can we turn this up, Daddy? Pretty please. It's my favorite.”
Lefty shrugged. “I gotta turn it up,” he said. “You can't argue with 'When Doves Cry.'”
Lefty turned up the volume and music filled the car, Prince singing about animals striking curious poses.
“This isn't music,” said Don Antonio. “This is just noise. The stuff these kids listen to today is garbage.”
Candi asked, “How the fuck old are you? The kids who listened to this song are all middle-aged now.”
“The album was released in 1984,” explained Layla. “The song was number one in the United States.”
This amazed the adults. “Wow,” said Candi. “That's impressive. How old are you, kid?”
“I'm seven and five-eighths,” said Layla.
“You sure know a lot about music for such a little girl,” said Don Antonio.
Layla beamed. “My daddy taught me all about it. But just good music, no country.”
Candi laughed. “You don't like country?”
“Oh no,” said Layla, deathly serious. “Daddy says the only thing worse than country music is the redneck assholes who listen to it. He says they sleep with their sisters, whatever that means.” She looked back at Don Antonio. “Are you one of those assholes?”
He smiled. “I'm a different kind of asshole.”
Layla looked at him with doe-eyed innocence. “What kind of asshole are you?”
“I'm just an old guinea who likes listening to guys like Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett,” said Don Antonio. “Do you know about those guys?”
“Nope,” said Layla. “Like I said, I only know about good music.”
Everyone in the car chuckled at this. Layla was oblivious to the laughter as she listened to Prince.
When they arrived in front of a nondescript door at a nondescript warehouse, the three men got out of the Caddy. Lefty, Orlando, and Don Antonio walked towards the place. Don Antonio knocked hard. A moment later, a heavyset man with a bad comb-over answered. He looked at the two black men, alarmed at first, and then his gaze fell on his boss.
“Oh,” said the man. “I didn't know it was you, Don Antonio.”
Don Antonio raised his fist to the man, exposing his gold ring, and the man kissed it. “This is the Banker,” said Don Antonio.
Lefty gave a half-hearted nod to the man, and they all entered the warehouse. The Banker led everyone through the dark building to his office. The office was a dank, dimly-lit room with concrete walls. It was smokey, smoke filling the room from a half-smoked cigarette sitting in an ashtray that was overflowing with spent butts. There was a calendar with half-naked models on it and a clock showing the incorrect time hanging on the wall. There was a cheap low-rent metal desk in the center of the room, covered in crinkled papers and stains from where the man had sat his coffee mug over the years.
The Banker sat down behind the desk. There were two metal folding chairs in front of it. Don Antonio took one and Orlando took the other, leaving Lefty standing there chair-less. The banker looked at Don Antonio. “I see you've got different guys working for you now.”
Don Antonio shrugged. “Nah, these are just some guys I owe some money to.”
The banker's brow furrowed, and his eyes looked over the two black men, silently trying to determine their motives.
“Nothing bad,” assured Don Antonio. “We got an understanding.”
“What kind of understanding?”
“The kind you don't need to know about.”
The banker sat back, blinking, visibly hurt by his not being included.
“I see,” he said. “So what can I do for you?”
“I need some money.”
“When?”
“Right now,” said Don Antonio.
The Banker looked at the two hitmen again, still suspicious.
“How much?”
“Two million.”
It was clear from the look on the Banker's face that the amount startled him. “Two million?” he asked. “That's a lot of money.”
“It ain't chump change,” said Don Antonio.
“And you need it now?”
“I need it now.”
The Banker was clearly unsure what his move here was. He bit his lower lip, considering the Don's request. Finally, he stood up and walked to the door. “I'll be right back.”
The Banker left and the three men waited in silence. About a minute later, the Banker walked back through the door with a .38 aimed at Orlando.
“No,” said the Don. “When I said there was nothing funny going on, I meant it. Now I'm gonna ask you one more time—and only one more time—go get me my money before I break your goddamn neck.”
This did the trick. The Banker looked hurt again, lowering both his gaze and the gun. “Alright,” he said weakly, turning away. He then disappeared again. He didn't return for several minutes. When he did, he was carrying a black duffel bag. He sat it in the doorway.
“This is all of it?” asked Don Antonio.
“No,” said the Banker. “This is half. I'll have to go and bag up the other half. It'll take me a few more minutes.”
The Banker disappeared from sight again, presumably to get the rest of the money. Don Antonio sat there in the aluminum chair. He motioned towards the bag. “You wanna look in it, make sure I'm not screwing you?”
“No, we're good,” said Lefty.
“Why's that?” asked Don Antonio.
“Because you don't wanna die today,” said Orlando.
Lefty moved forward, picking up the bag. He looked at Orlando. “Keep an eye on him. I'll put this in the trunk and be right back.”
Orlando nodded, looking at Don Antonio.
As Lefty walked out of the room, he heard Orlando say, “Thanks for stopping the Banker. That could have been a bad dea
l for everybody.”
“Don't worry about it,” said the Don. “I gave you my word and I intend to keep it.”
Lefty walked out of the dark warehouse and into the bright sun. He walked to the car, which was only a few feet away. He opened the trunk, sitting the bag inside it. Neither Candi nor Layla paid him any mind. He closed the trunk and walked back into the warehouse. He returned to the office. The Banker had not yet returned, so Lefty took a seat behind the desk.
“Did you take a photo of Bruno's body?” asked Don Antonio.
“We did,” said Lefty.
“Can I see it?”
Lefty pulled out his phone and brought the image up onscreen, handing it over. Don Antonio stared at the photo in silence for a moment before erupting into hearty laughter. “I guess you could call that a crushing defeat!” he said. He handed the phone back to Lefty, saying, “I like that. You guys did good work. Bruno looks better than he ever did.”
“You swear you're not gonna come after us if we let you go?” asked Orlando.
“How many times and ways can I say it?” asked Don Antonio. “I'm a man of my word. I know I fucked up by trying to have you whacked out there at the pier, and I'm genuinely sorry for that. There's nothing I can do about that now.”
“Well,” said Lefty.
“What?” asked the Don.
“You could throw in a couple hundred thousand extra. You know, just for the trouble and all.”
The old man grinned. “Yeah? And you could suck my dick, but I'm assuming you're not going to, just as you might assume I'm not giving you a dime more than the two million I owe you.”
Lefty nodded. “Can't blame a guy for trying.”
“No, you can't,” said the Don. “You don't get anything in life if you don't ask for it.”
Just as Don Antonio was finishing his sentiment, the Banker filled the doorway, carrying a second black bag. “Here's the rest of it,” he said, sitting it down.
“There you go,” said Don Antonio. “Now I would advise you to take the money and get out of here while I'm still feeling charitable.”
“You're not gonna wish us safe travels?” asked Orlando, smiling.
“Safe travels, motherfuckers,” said Don Antonio, laughing a big belly laugh. “Now get the fuck outta here.”
Orlando picked up the duffel bag. “Nice doing business with you,” he said, heading for the exit. No one said a word. Lefty followed Orlando. When Orlando opened the door, the bright sunlight pouring in, he saw Layla sitting on the concrete Indian-style, scratching the ground with a rock. The Cadillac was gone.
Both Orlando and Lefty looked around for a moment, the realization of what had occurred now coming to them.
Lefty knew what had happened, but he asked, “Where's Candi, Layla?”
The little girl looked up at them nonchalantly. “She said she had to go. But she told me to tell you she was sorry.”
Lefty and Orlando stood there for a moment, staring at one another in disbelief. Lefty momentarily worried that Orlando might believe he and Candi were in on the whole thing together, but that didn't seem to be the case.
“Well,” said Orlando, “half a million isn't really all that bad.”
Lefty looked off in the distance where Candi had obviously driven. “You sure you don't wanna track her down? We could do that.”
“I'm tired. I think I've killed enough people for today.”
Lefty looked down at the little girl sitting on the concrete. “Get up, Layla,” he said. “It's time to go home.”
She stood up and the three of them started walking down the street away from the warehouse.
“Daddy,” said Layla.
“Yes, Tator Tot?”
“Can we go to an amusement park now?”
Lefty sighed. Orlando chuckled at this.
“What?” asked Layla.
“Sure, we'll go to an amusement park,” said Lefty.
“Right now?”
“Not right now, but we'll go.”
“When?” asked the little girl.
“As soon as we can get the fuck out of Detroit,” said Lefty.
Orlando agreed. “Good riddance.”
THE END
Orlando and Lefty will return.
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About the Author
ANDY RAUSCH is the author of nearly forty published books. His fiction includes Riding Shotgun and Other American Cruelties, Bloody Sheets, and The Suicide Game. His nonfiction includes The Films of Martin Scorsese and Robert De Niro, The Cinematic Misadventures of Ed Wood, and My Best Friend's Birthday: The Making of a Quentin Tarantino Film. He is also a screenwriter, graphic novelist, and journalist. His work has appeared in a variety of publications including Shock Cinema, both Screem and Scream, Diabolique (where he is also an editor), Cemetery Dance, Scary Monsters, Cinema Retro, and many others. He resides in Parsons, Kansas, and became a heart transplant recipient in 2018.
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