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Marcus Sakey
The Blade Itself
Copyright © 2007 by Marcus Sakey.
For Mom and Dad, who said the stars were in reach;
and for g.g., who wished on one as it fell
The blade itself incites to violence.
– Homer
1
The alley wasn’t as dark as Da
“Keeps me cool.” Evan smiled the bar-fight grin that showed his chipped tooth.
“I don’t care if it makes you feel like Rick James. You shouldn’t have brought it.” Da
He shook his head and stared out the window. Earlier, munching greasy chips in a taco bar across the street, they’d watched the owner of the pawnshop lock up. The dashboard clock now read just after eleven, and the alley was stone quiet. Chicago life centered on the neighborhoods; once night fell, the downtown area died. Twenty minutes ago they’d cut the phone lines without a show from the cops, which meant no cellular alarm. Everything looked good.
Until something moved.
Fifteen yards away, in a pocket of black. There, then gone again. Like someone stepping carefully. Like someone hiding. Da
Then he saw it again. A slight motion. Someone getting closer to the wall, deeper in the shadow. His pulse banged in his throat.
Beat cops didn’t sneak around that way. They just rolled up with their lights spi
Out of the darkness stumbled a stooped man with greasy hair. He ran one hand along the wall to steady his cautious shuffle. A pint bottle nosed out of a frayed pocket. Reaching the trash bin, he glanced in either direction and unzipped his fly. Took a piss with one hand in his pocket like he was in the men’s room of his country club.
Da
Evan nodded, rubbed one hand across his chin, the stubble making a grating sound. “Now what?”
“Guess we could give him a minute.”
“He looks pretty tucked in.” Evan paused, then looked over. “Should I shoot him?”
Da
Evan drew the gun, sighted through the windshield. He closed one eye. “Bang.” He spun the gun to his lips and blew imaginary smoke.
Da
“Chase him off?”
“No. He might yell,” Da
“So I’ll knock him down.” Evan smiled. “You know they don’t get up after I knock ’em down.”
The idea wasn’t totally without merit, but lacked elegance. Too much noise, and it wasn’t like the bum had done anything to deserve a beating. Besides, Evan was Golden Gloves. Probably end up killing the poor bastard. Da
“He looks dangerous. Don’t forget the pistola.” Evan held it out, a mocking smile on his lips.
“Fuck you.” Da
At the sound of the door, the bum scrambled to his feet, holding his hands in front of him. The sleeves of his suit jacket were three inches too short. Beneath it he wore several sweatshirts. “I got nothing.” Drink rounded the edges of his words, and he reeked of urine and panic. “Don’t hurt me.”
Da
The man peered at him suspiciously, ready to run. “You got a cigarette?”
“Don’t smoke. My friend,” jerking a thumb toward the car, “he smokes. But he will hurt you.”
The man stiffened, yellowed eyes darting. “Listen, mister-”
“Shut up.” Da
The bum froze, eyes locked on the bill. “I – I don’t do that stuff, the faggot stuff…”
Da
“That’s it?”
“Easiest money you ever made.” He proffered the bill, trying to keep the laugh from his eyes. The bum reached, hesitated, took it. “Good man. Don’t let me down.”
The guy turned, started east down the alley, the wrong direction. Da
“Ten.”
Evan snorted, shook his head. “Let’s work.” He popped the trunk, light flooding across his black T-shirt, dug around and came up with a fistful of thick chain. Da
Robbing pawnshops was generally a dicey proposition. Because they kept cash on hand, security could be a hassle. According to Terry, this guy sold more than old TVs and secondhand bling. He also dealt weed in weight. That meant extra cash – more than enough to make up for the trouble.
Sure. Easy money. Same line you just sold the bum.
No time. Da
A long minute passed before he heard it. Slow at first, just a distant rattle, but it swiftly grew to a full clattering roar. From the elevated tracks, sparks blew sideways into the night, heralding the passing of the Orange Line El.