When Chaplin’s mom got to the hospital she gave him a slap upside the head saying, “You damn idiot. How many times you gonna be shot?”
Chaplin said, “This is my first time, ma, the last time was just a graze.”
“You know better than this anyway, somethin’ smells bad you get out, or at least keep your eyes open; sum bitch. Stealin’ from drug dealers, Jesus Christ, you’re better than that and you didn’t even get your cut. Hasn’t even been a month since the Stark job, we still got that money and you go off and do this.”
“Okay, okay,” said Chaplin, “Let’s just go.”
They were driving out of the hospital parking lot; Chaplin’s mom at the wheel saying, “After your uncle was nice enough to take you in on that Starks Antiques festival-whatever-the-hell. That was a hell of a pay day; those antiquing people got money. You’re nearly thirty god dammit you can’t be doin’ such stupid shit.”
Chaplin angled his hat on his head and the rings on his fingers saying, “The bastards shot at me four maybe five times before they hit me. Ha, dumb bastards.”
His mom said, “well I hope your gonna’ do something about this.”
“Of course I’m gonna’; those bastards wouldn’t of even done it without me. Hey, you know Jay Street?”
“’course I do.”
“Then go over there four-hundred block. Is the revolver still in the glove, yup, good old snub nose.”
Chaplin had the top buttons of his flannel shirt unbuttoned and only a few buttons of his vest done; leaving room for the revolver under his arm in his vest. His hat sat low on his sunglasses and when his mom started down Jay Street he told her to go slow.
Chaplin said, “Alright stop here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He got out of the car and walked to an off-white house with more weeds than grass in the yard. After knocking on the door a skinny man not wearing a shirt opened the door swearing. He was shut up by Chaplin shooting him once through the heart.
Chaplin stepped over the skinny guy’s body and found another one near identical on the couch. “Hey Lane,” Chaplin said holding the gun on him, “Get the money.”
“What money, Chap?” Lane said.
Chaplin stood there with a deadpan expression and said, “You got five minutes to get the money you owe me. Then you’re dead like him.”
Lane got up from the couch and moved around to the nightstand. He opened a drawer and wheeled around with a beretta nine. Chaplin shot him in the shoulder before he could do anything.
Lane said, “Sum bitch you shot me.”
Chaplin said, “You gonna’ get the money Lane?”
“Son of a Bitch, ah, it hurts like a motherfucker.”
“Stop being a pussy and find the money.”
“Why the fuck you get a cut anyway? It was me and PJ’s idea.”
“Would you have done it without me?” Lane didn’t answer so Chaplin said, “that’s what I thought; now, get the goddamn money.”
Lane started walking into the other room. Chaplin pushed him forward to get him moving saying, “hurry the hell up; my ma’s waitin’ out in the car.”
Lane said, “Dude you brought your mom?”
“I’m losing my goddamn patience. Find the damn money.”
“Just saying I wouldn’t’ve brought my ma.”
“Well,” said Chaplin, “there is a difference. Your Ma is probably in a house around here anyway blowin’ some coke head. My ma carries a .44 Magnum in her purse; now if I don’t see green in two seconds you’re dead.”
“It’s in the bag on the table.”
“Show it to me.”
Lane opened the bag; it was full of loose bills. Chaplin said, “good; I’m gonna’ take it all.”
“’Cause you pissed me off and no goddamn idiot should have this much money.”
Lane surprised Chaplin saying, “why do they call you Chaplin, asshole.”
“Because I’m a mother fucking preacher,” Chaplin said before shooting him twice in the chest.