Contagious

“I’ll tell you what,” Rome said. “Somebody has a serious f.u.c.king hankering for McDonald’s.”

They’d been watching an ATM on Mack Avenue, looking for an easy mark. This guy had walked up on foot and taken out money. Looked like a lot of money. Rome and Jamall then watched him go into McDonald’s. Five minutes later he’d walked out with the two big bags. The man turned south on Orleans and had been walking for fifteen minutes straight. Rome even drove a block past Orleans, to St. Aubin, then several blocks south to get ahead of the man, then cut back on Lafayette and finally up the other side of Orleans. Here the street was barren, a parking lot on one side, the long stretch of trees on the other. He’d parked and they’d waited, seeing if the man was stupid enough to keep walking down such a deserted area.

He was.

It just didn’t get any easier than this. And that made Rome nervous. “Am I missing something?” he asked after the man had gone a half block past the Delta 88. “For real, this guy is alone?”

“He’s just going straight,” Jamall said. “Not even enough sense to walk on a main road. Dude must be in a hurry.”

“No one here,” Rome said.

Jamall nodded. “No one. You said you wanted a sure thing, man. It don’t get more sure than this. We gonna do this, we gotta move. Let’s go get paid.”

Jamall and Rome got out of the car and left the doors slightly open. That wouldn’t give them away, because the dome light didn’t work. They pulled their guns, Rome a simple .38 revolver, Jamall his fancier Glock. They ran across the empty street and came up on the man from behind.

He heard them, because he turned—and when he did, he found two guns pointing at his face.

“Gimme your wallet!” Rome said. He held the .38 in his right hand. His left he held out, palm up.

The man just stared at him.

Jamall made a show of pulling back the Glock’s slide, then pointed it at the man’s face again. “You give my man that wallet, or it’s your a.s.s. And put them bags down—we’re takin’ those, too.”

The man turned to stare at Jamall. White as a sheet, big red beard—he couldn’t possibly look more out of place. Had to be a tourist or something like that. Or maybe a r.e.t.a.r.d, because he didn’t look scared. Not even a little bit.

“No,” the man said.

Fury crossed over Jamall’s face. Rome got nervous. Jamall didn’t like it when people told him no. Especially white people. Rome chanced a quick look up and down the street. No one there, but this was already taking too long.

“I’m only gonna tell you one more time,” Jamall said. “Put down those bags and give my boy your wallet. If there’s enough money in it, I won’t kill you.”

“No,” the man said. “I can’t. I still have to get ice cream bars. Chelsea will be mad if I don’t come back with ice cream bars.”

Jamall took two steps forward and put the barrel of the gun on the man’s forehead.

“I don’t give a f.u.c.k about your ice cream bars,” Jamall said. “Put down the motherf.u.c.king bags.”

The man knelt a little and set the bags on the snow-covered gra.s.s, then stood. He still didn’t look scared. Rome didn’t like this s.h.i.t, not at all. Usually people c.r.a.pped their drawers when you pulled a gun on them. This guy looked like he’d had a gun to his face so many times it bored him. f.u.c.k the money, Rome wanted out of there.

The man reached back with his right hand.

“That’s it,” Jamall said. “Real slow, gimme that wallet.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. He reached up with his left hand, grabbed Jamall’s gun and lifted it until the barrel pointed into the air. It wasn’t a fast move, but it wasn’t slow, either: just smooth. No hesitation. Jamall seemed to freeze for a second, almost in disbelief that someone could be so stupid as to f.u.c.k with him, and then he tried to pull the gun free.

It was only then that Rome saw the man’s other hand coming out from behind his back, coming out with that same speed, that same confident smoothness—and holding a gun.

The man put the barrel against Jamall’s stomach and pulled the trigger.

The sound was like a cap gun. It didn’t sound real. Jamall’s face twitched, more in surprise than in pain.

Smooth as before, the man raised his gun up under Jamall’s chin and pulled the trigger twice.

Then the man’s throat started spraying blood. At first Rome thought Jamall’s blood was spraying on the man, but Jamall wasn’t bleeding that much—he just wobbled for a second, then fell.

The fat man dropped the gun and put both hands to his throat. His expression didn’t change. The guy still looked bored, even as blood seeped between his fingers.

The man turned to face Rome.

Rome had fired his .38. That’s what had happened. Smoke curled from the stubby barrel. He hadn’t even known he’d fired, but he must have. He’d shot the man right in the throat.

The man blinked a few times, then knelt, one knee on the ground. He reached back with his hands and eased into a sitting position. Blood continued to pour out of his throat, some of it splattering on the white McDonald’s bags. The blood stained his collar and his shirt, dripping from his red beard.

“I wish,” the man said quietly, “I wish you could know the love.”

Then he lay down on his side and stopped moving.

The blood slowed to a soft pulsing.

Rome saw the man’s wallet in his back pocket. He looked at it for a second, then his common sense returned in a flash of panic. He’d just killed that man. Armed robbery, that made it murder one. He looked at Jamall. Jamall was dead. f.u.c.k! Jamall? How could Jamall be dead?

There were no sirens. There wouldn’t be. No one called the cops around here for a few gunshots.

Rome’s heart hammered away. His breath came fast and deep. This was so f.u.c.ked up.