Laurie threw the empty Bud can onto the couch. It skittered among the discarded cigarette cartons, magazines, and sandwich boxes, creating an avenue of disruption in its wake before resting against the curled edge of an old Simon and Garfunkel album. His eyes crinkled, and he fingered the black shape strapped to his waist.
“I am a Glock,” he sang, laughed at his joke, and gazed out of the window at the streets below. There was no silent shroud of snow, but there was a sedan with darkened windows under a streetlamp on the corner of 3rd. He drew the Glock and sighted on the driver’s window.
“Bam,” he said, holstering the gun again.
Catching his reflection, he decided he wasn’t a handsome man, fit but unprepossessing. His body was tight in the way of hungry dogs when they’re coiled to spring: knotted muscles and bristling hair. Baring his teeth at the window, he could see the brown stains of cigarettes and poor oral hygiene.
“Fuck it,” he thought, “once I get paid for this, I’ll book an orthodontist. Then maybe she’ll think again.”
In two hours, he’d do the job and in three, he’d pick up his money. Then he’d clean his apartment, maybe get some nice furniture from Carl’s Depot, paint the walls, perhaps get the boards varnished and a few colourful rugs. It would amaze Alice. He savoured that. Laurie lived for impressing Alice. He’d marry her, of course. He wasn’t a scuzzball.
He dreamed of a future as Mr and Mrs Laurence Paskovitch: two kids, nice seats at the back of the church, Father Kaplan greeting them with kindly eyes, a couple of bucks in the collection, and lunch with her parents. He’d bring the best turkey money could buy, and they’d hold hands as her mother busied herself in the kitchen. Her father would talk about the Dodger’s game and Laurie would surprise everyone by springing two tickets. Alice would look at him with love and they’d walk home after dinner, talking animatedly about a spring vacation in the Pines.
It was what he always wanted, but he had to earn his corn. He pulled on his overcoat, descended the stairs to the street and hid in the shadows.
Everyone knew Senator Murphy. His shock of white hair and winning smile marked him out. An easy ident for Laurie. That was when he made his mistake. He drew his gun as he crossed the intersection. Two guys with eyes like rats turned on him and drew theirs. Only they were trained. Laurie was a patsy. They fired and as the slugs ripped through his chest; he squeezed his trigger, sent a bullet into the sky and crumpled to the floor. One guy came over, his gun held ready.
“Good night, scumbag,” he said, as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Laurie lay there, Garfunkel singing in his head, “And a rock feels no pain, And an island never cries.” Then he was gone.
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