Jay Jay Brooks was at ease.
His eye throbbed terribly, but was somehow distant in the measure of things.
The noise of the world was diminished, even that which pounded within his skull.
His heart seemed to slow.
I’m sick, but no sicker. I guess I puked all I had—nothing left.
What would Bro do?
Bro would never go to prison. He would go to Mexico.
How much money does George have?
As George began shivering and kicking with big twitching booted feet on the floor Jay Jay cut his big biker wallet loose, lifted the bank card, and all the cash, which was about $200.
I need time to get a hack. I’ll grab a junkie hack and pay him.
He’ll want thousands, not hundreds. That is a haul to Mexico.
Jay Jay had never thought about going here, about getting to this point, had never considered killing—had buried that after the stabbing.
He felt good, felt right.
Shouldn’t I be mad?
“George, should I be mad?”
Silence.
“I suppose not, George.”
He felt kind of numb as he walked toward the door, pocketing the card and cash. Then Mister Charles’ giant wife-beater shirt caught on a nail and hung him up. He suddenly grew angry, his brain flaring at the base. He could feel his brows flex as he ripped against the shirt that was now his enemy and left it hanging. Jay Jay opened the front door and saw Mister Martin parking.
Shit!
He bolted through the house and out the back door, without a shirt, without shoes, with nothing but his jeans and his tool belt.
Jay Jay ran up the alley and caught some gravel and glass between his toes. Just then he saw the fat old Greek lady heading inside after hanging out her laundry. He ripped a red and white short-sleeve shirt off the line and grabbed her flip-flops and bolted over the fence and up the alley toward the #12 line.
My luck is turning!
