"How you gonna pay for that pizza, boy?" the hot blonde asks. Brown chicken. Brown cow.
Sorry. Wrong storyline. Tuck it away, boys. Tuck it away....
Sorry. Wrong storyline. Tuck it away, boys. Tuck it away....
The Delivery Man by Paul Greenberg
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A trail of Keystone Beer dripped through the thick hair that
ran down the center of Bobo’s chest. He wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand and sat on the edge of his bed, cigarette stuck between his teeth, shaking
Jiffy Pop over a hot plate.
When the popcorn had finished popping he brought it to his
battered leather recliner that he had positioned by a window, where he could
eat, drink, and watch the street. Bobo lived in a low-income housing project.
Here, the former Bobby “Bobo” Hines eeked out a meager existence,
eating Ramen Noodles and anything else that was remotely edible from the Dollar
Store downtown. The Witness Protection plan wasn’t all that it was cracked up
to be. When he was promised a new life, he imagined it would be better than
this.
After finally flipping on the local mob in Cleveland, Bobo
found the Feds had taken a particularly strong disliking to him during
negotiations. The transition could have gone smoother. The Feds promised him a
new life, in a nice quiet seaside community on the North Shore of Boston. What
he got was a two-room apartment in a brick, single-story building with laundry hanging
from every window and dog shit decorating every front lawn. It was five hours to the
nearest beach.
To retaliate, Bobo spent his days looking out his window,
calling in reports on his neighbors. Douchebag’s dog is out without a leash. Mrs.
Cumstain is fighting with the mailman. Right now it looked like the asswipe in
309 just stiffed the Domino’s guy. Not worth calling this one in.
The police were always coming and going for one reason
or another, and when they showed up, Bobo would emerge from his apartment
wearing his stained wife beater, belly protruding. He’d watch the cops and take
a piss behind a bush where no one but Mrs. Gleason from next door could see him,
as she poked her big head out her window. He’d let her have an eyeful and
then tuck it back in and go inside.
The cops had no Idea that they were so close to the great
Bobo Hines, ex-hitman of the Cleveland mob.
Bobo’s days went by, each very similar to the next. He
didn’t take care of himself and was surprised that he’d lived as long as he had.
How long had it been since he was taken out of Cleveland? Five and a half years,
maybe more. He didn’t keep track. What did it matter, anyway?
“Old Man” by Neil Young was playing on someone’s radio. Appropriate,
he supposed, having a chuckle at his own expense and thinking that maybe he was
getting a little melodramatic.
He continued to watch as the Domino’s delivery guy had a
meltdown by his car, putting his foot into the back panel of his Ford Fiesta.
They locked eyes and the deliveryman reached into his back seat and started to
walk over with another pizza box in his hands.
Bobo met him at the door. “Hey man,” he said. “That fucking
asshole just stiffed me on a delivery. I have an extra pizza and I’ll give it to
you for five bucks if you want it. It’ll be that much less that will have to
come out of my pocket at the end of the day. What do you say? You’d be helping
me out. It’s a fresh hot pizza, man.”
“Sure. Let me get some money.” As he went into the house the
deliveryman opened the box, taking out a .38 special. Stepping through the
doorway, he dropped the pizza on the ground and when Bobo turned around, crinkled
five-dollar bill in his fist, the Delivery Man shot him, three times in the
face.
The Delivery Man took a piece of pizza from the box and walked it over. Opening what was left of Bobo’s
mouth, he shoved the slice in, and took a picture with his iPhone. Then he took
the five-dollar bill and stuffed it in his pocket.
