They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, or get a tiger to change its stripes. Good advice.
Especially in the Gutter. Because this place is a fucking zoo.
Especially in the Gutter. Because this place is a fucking zoo.
Blood Money by Garrett Box
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It was the ordinary
way that Stanley lived his life that made him forgettable. He took little risk
and garnered little reward for his safe efforts. Over the span of six years he achieved
the mantle of nighttime manager at a grocery store, a roll he accepted in spite
of his better judgment.
“It’s a guarantee,”
his brother-in-law Bill told him. “All you have to do is unlock the back door
and we’ll do the rest. I know my sister is cheating on you. Money is how you
get your life—and your wife—back.”
Recently his wife had
grown increasingly careless hiding her affair, and she displayed little pity
for Stanley as he moped about the house.
“Things are going to
be different,” Stanley would say.
“I’ll believe that
when I see it,” she’d respond.
On the day of,
Stanley kept to himself and didn’t speak much to the other employees, who were
too young to care. “All they have to do,” he told himself, “is not step out of
line.”
At the agreed time
Stanley slipped to the back and opened the locked door. He felt the chill night
air against his face as he imagined his wife with another man.
Three burly men
wearing ski masks and carrying sawed-off shotguns appeared from the shadows.
The last was Bill, who stepped calmly past him.
“Lead the way,” his
brother-in-law said.
Stanley brought them
to the security room. Before he could explain how to disconnect the feed to the
cameras, the three burly men had already begun smashing the necessary equipment
to bits.
“Now remember,” Bill
said, “you’re the victim. We bloodied you unconscious, took what we wanted and
then left. After you call the cops, you explain you don’t know shit about shit
and win back my sister.”
“And you really think
she’ll go for all this macho criminal stuff?” Stanley asked.
“They all do,” said
Bill as he slid on his ski mask.
Stanley winced at Bill’s
clinched fists. “Make it look convincing.”
Bill punched Stanley
as calmly as he would work a speed bag. Again and again he struck him until he
became a controlled bloody mess on the floor, a convincing victim.
“Almost there,” said
Bill cheerfully.
He dragged Stanley to
his office and dropped him on the floor to wait out the robbery.
Once Bill left, it
was Stanley’s chance to make it even bigger, taking a slice that wouldn’t have
to be divided up four ways.
He crept out of his
office and into his boss’ private safe. For years Stanley had wanted to take it
for all it was worth but had always been afraid to. This new Stanley, however, was
a different man. He had seen his boss punch in the code on several occasions, and
the numbers came back to him with ease.
Then he heard the
gunshots.
Several blasts rang
out through the store. The noise stopped for a moment, before another round of
gunfire unleashed.
Stanley ran back to
his office, his bloody fingers staining the money, and waited there for his
head to clear. This had gone too far. Robbery was one thing. But murder? He
picked up the phone and began to dial. He got as far as 9 and 1. . .
“Sorry,” said his
blood-soaked and wounded brother-in-law at the office door. “I’m up for eight
counts of felony murder, and right now there’s no difference between eight and
nine.”
The gun pointed at Stanley told him everything.
“But you said this
was how I’d win her back!” Stanley shouted.
“My sister doesn’t
love you. She hasn’t loved you for a long time.”
Stanley looked at him
confused, his world crashing down around him.
“I like you, bro. But
the cops are going to see right through you. You’d break in a New York minute.”
“This is a death
sentence.”
“You’re already a
dead man.” Bill lowered the gun a moment and smiled one last time. “I’m sorry,
Stanley, but rule number one of this game: no witnesses.”
