On slow days Lester shot things. It was good practice for busy days when he shot things.
He didn’t want violence today, he just wanted to make a sale. When he was done he’d go home wanting Alana, but she wouldn’t be there tonight. He didn’t think much had changed between them but she’d sure stormed out. Like it was permanent, not like when she’d left him before.
He circled the area where he was willing to park until at last he found a large enough space. The Buick was stolen, his license plates provided by people he almost trusted. The name on the registration matched the name on the driver’s license in his wallet. A wallet he’d throw in the sewer once this deal was done.
Lester stepped out of the car and his coat slid open enough to reveal the Glock .40 on his hip. In case the Glock didn’t keep trouble away, Lester carried a Colt .45 in a shoulder holster and a Beretta Tomcat on his ankle. Crime prevention.
He didn’t know who he was meeting on the sidewalk, only that it would be someone Dorst sent. Dorst. That motherfucker was all over his life, not in a good way. But he was paying for a lot of product, at least he said he’d pay. Lester had a lot on his mind. Not so much that he’d trust Dorst.
The street was busy and cars moved slow. Lester didn’t like waiting. He could fake patience, he was a practical man, but the longer he waited the more he expected to shoot whoever showed up.
It was supposed to be a simple exchange. Lester would walk away with a suitcase of money, the buyer would take the suitcase in the trunk. The car had served its purpose.
“It’s not about Dorst.” Alana faced Lester from the open front door of their house, her back to the outside world. Lester stood five feet away, empty glass in hand. “I went to him,” she said, “when you were fucking around with I don’t know who, but I’m not leaving you for him. I’m just leaving.”
“Where?” He wanted to shout but she’d already left, his voice weak as he clung to the glass in his hand.
Lester blinked, got back in the Buick. Had to stop thinking about her, was stupid to wait outside where he was an easy target. He felt like shooting himself for leaving the car in the first place. He sat in the car and waited.
A couple more minutes and a car across the street left its parking space. A few cars drove past the empty space, then a Nissan stopped next to it, waited until the cars behind it went around, then pulled forward and paralleled back into the space. Lester tensed and his hand moved to the grip of his Glock. The lane the Nissan had been in once again filled. Its driver paused for traffic to pass. Lester’s eyes slid side to side in case someone else approached.
When the car had parked a thick-armed man in a snug black t-shirt got out, a suitcase in his left hand. The man with the suitcase looked both ways but the cars weren’t stopping. A slight break and he stepped into the street. The first car stopped. The car in the next lane braked hard. Its horn blared. The man with the suitcase stopped in front of it, turned and glared at the driver. The horn stopped and the man resumed crossing.
He made it to Lester’s side of the street. From halfway down the block he took steady strides in Lester’s direction. Lester got out of the Buick, watched the man with the suitcase and stepped onto the sidewalk, faced him.
The man’s skin was dark, his features Saudi or African, Lester didn’t care. Except about the contents of the suitcase and the gun the man probably carried. The man ten feet away, Lester spoke. “You from Dorst?”
The man nodded.
“Put the suitcase down,” Lester said. “Open it.”
The man laid the suitcase on the sidewalk. No one else walked here, the usual for this block. Drivers on the crowded street, their views of the sidewalk blocked by parked cars, drove on. The man popped the suitcase open, lifted the lid so Lester could see inside.
“Step back,” Lester said.
The man took two steps back.
Lester slid his coat open wide enough to show the Glock. “Way the fuck back.”
The man stepped back farther. Lester pulled the Glock, aimed it at him, and he backed up more. Lester flipped through the rubber banded stacks of money with his left hand, picked one from the middle of the suitcase. He looked at the thick-armed man standing still, arms at his sides.
The money looked right. Lester counted the stack, multiplied it by the number of stacks. The count was right. He shut the case, watched the thick-armed man blink. Behind Lester, a car door shut. Lester shot the thick-armed man in the chest and he fell on his back.
Lester turned. A car had stopped on this side of the street but the man who got out was street side. No angle to shoot him, Lester turned back, shot at the thick-armed man’s head. The shot missed, but the man didn’t even twitch. Lester returned his attention to the street.
He crawled forward on the sidewalk, reached his right front tire and crawled under the Buick’s hood.
Someone stood in the street to Lester’s left. In range, but he could only shoot a leg. There was a Honda parked in front of the Buick. The man ran in front of it and ducked down.
Lester crawled in the street next to the Buick. Cars honked at him. The hiding man stayed low. All Lester could see was his shoes and the bottoms of his black slacks.
Lester knelt around the front fender and fired in the man’s general direction. The man stood and shot back. He was short and wide. Lester fired again, caught him in one shoulder. The man fell.
Lester opened his door fast and got behind the Buick’s wheel. The key was in the ignition. He turned it, hoped the man he’d just shot stayed down. Hoped the car that dropped him off didn’t come back. His head low, Lester stuck his pistol out the door and fired. No response. He got out, dropped to the ground, fired again and made his way to the trunk.
He opened it and removed the suitcase of smack. There were sirens now. The cars in the street sat still, no one visible inside them, windows rolled up. Lester holstered his Glock, grabbed the suitcase of money from the sidewalk and ran, a suitcase in each hand. He rounded the first corner then slowed to a fast walk.
The sidewalk was empty, good for making time. And thinking about what he’d do next, but that wasn’t where his thoughts ran.
“I don’t care if there’s other women any more.” Alana in the living room then, shortly before walking out. “It’s the way you live, what you do. The shape you got in. Not just your body, all of you.” She didn’t yell, just stepped away, like she dared him to do something.
Lester approached the Camry he’d parked an hour earlier. He dropped the wallet into the gutter and kicked it through an open sewer grate.
Inside the Camry he dropped both suitcases on the passenger seat floor, started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Left hand on the wheel, Glock in his right, on his lap. He had one bit of business left with Dorst. There wouldn’t be a deal this time. Dorst was a dead man, but if Alana was with him? Lester didn’t know how busy this day might get.