Dog Pile
The old man sat facing the fire. He didn’t even glance at the ever-growing pile of money.
Fool. Three years of planning, three years of scrapping together a team which could steal this much money. Trustworthy guys, the sort which could steal twenty million and not take a dime until they were safe. The kind of guys who were still bringing in bags full of cash.
It was all Skins could focus on. He’d never seen so much money, not unless you counted the old man’s mansion. But that wasn’t money, it was property. They’re different. Or so it had been explained to Skins. He’d never understood why someone would want a teak fireplace rather than a fast car and some blow. Those were freedom, this is an expensive fire pit. You can have fire wherever.
Skins turned back to the pile of money. Lord, he was nearly salivating. One of those millions was going to be his. He could see it turning into a hot rod in his mind. That and cocaine. The old man had cut him off for the job, despite the good work which Skins had done in building the team. Now it was over, no restrictions any more. Maybe he would spend some of that money on a ticket to Brazil, where he’d never need to see these guys again.
Gunney brought in the last bag. All there, all there. Skins had counted and recounted every dollar bill. Yes, that was all of it alright. Half was going to the boss, but then, it was his money. Taken from the company he founded for kicking him out. The rest of the crew crowded round.
“All here, boss,” Skins said in his reedy voice. Even he recognized that it was not the most pleasant thing to listen to. He used it to his advantage, most people were willing to agree with him just to get him to stop talking.
The boss didn’t move, caught up in watching the fire. That was all well and good for an old man, but the sooner Skins was on a plane the better. With as much deference as he could muster for a man who had used him as a whipping boy for the last three years, Skins approached the high-back seat.
A stench he’d not noticed before began washing over him. It was atrocious. How had he not noticed it? The smell of rain had filled the hall, as well as the hickory wood. The new smell was death. Skins knew it well.
“Uh…boss, the money…” Skins could feel the gang start to tense up behind him. They all knew the boss, he wasn’t a patient man. Skins rounded the chair to find the old man, his eye’s glazed over. Blood soaked his clothes. The boss was unmistakably dead, shot in the chest. How had Skins missed it?
“Boss is dead,” he said back to the gang. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Jumpy as his guys were, they were about to overreact. “Take double your share and get out of here. Now!”
“Who killed him?” Gunney asked. Leech was already scooping up bags, Lane close behind him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Skins roared. He could see the cocaine evaporating before his eyes. “Just grab double and go.”
Leech was already at the door. Skins threw himself at the bags, he wasn’t going to lose his piece, not now. Gunney was still arguing, but none of that mattered, not anymore. The rest were grabbing what they could, slipping on loose dollars, wrestling. It was only a matter of time before this went wrong.
Screw it, Skins thought. Enough was enough. Better to have one million than be dead with two. He took off for the door, dollars trailing after him.
Behind him was the unmistakable click of a gun.
Oh no.
Shots rang out into the rainy night.
Michael Frutig 