He trained his body and mind.
Ryatt’s thumb, forefinger, palm, and wrist ached almost always because he practiced his draw and precision five hours a day, for more than three months. He did okay, but he was far from becoming the most proficient shooter that he aimed to be.
If Ryatt kept training, he would achieve speed and accuracy, better than that of any gun-toting individual on the planet. As the fastest and the sharpest gunslinger he would literally be the one guy in the entire world no one fucked with. Each and every person would kneel and yield, but only after seeing Ryatt’s determination to kill.
And that’s what Ryatt would do. Flaunt his skills—shoot first, intimidate everyone in the vicinity with shock and terror, then watch them turn into putty in his hands. Hadn’t Ryatt got what he wanted only after killing someone, having wasted so much time appealing to the better senses of man? Ryatt had decided it wouldn’t be like that anymore. It would be fast, effective, and streamlined. For his method to work, the targets must be incapacitated within seconds, either by bullets or fear. So ‘fast draw’, as the gun magazines named it, was the most important skill he could master.
Ryatt put the tip of his thumb in his mouth and nibbled on the skin. It didn’t exactly callus but slightly hardened. Maybe Ryatt should switch to pistols soon and forsake his SW Model 63 22LR.
While Leo and Thomas had been partying, chilling, and fucking, Ryatt was dreaming. Ryatt didn’t smoke, drink, or even have a girlfriend. He was a teetotaler. His only pleasure came from robbing, the guarantee that he and his mom would never suffer again.
That’s what he was thinking about now. The trio needed to graduate in order to make a proper income. Twenty grand was a lot for many, but for someone who didn’t have anything at all, from a small TV to a big house with a pool and beautiful garden in the back, twenty grand was a pittance and grossly insufficient.
As Ryatt thought about their next hit, the music stopped, and a minor ruckus ensued. Ryatt rolled his eyes. Probably more small-timers trying to measure their dick sizes by kicking each other’s face in.
But when Ryatt sat up and looked over the windshield, he found that was not the case.
An Alfa Romeo had rolled onto the floor, parting the crowd. The car’s passenger was young, probably in his early thirties, but demanded supreme respect from the mafias, both Italian and Black. He was the untouchable Thomas talked about the other day.
“Mr. Hat,” Thomas said, his voice grave.
Ryatt didn’t need to be told who that was. Only one person he knew of travelled in that not-very-inconspicuous Cosa Nostra vehicle. An insufferable sense of dread wrapped around his heart the moment he saw it. The same car that had dragged his mom away that evening, leaving the parasites to fester upon his eyesight, slowly turning him blind.
Bugsy didn’t pay attention to the fact the car had come to a stop because he was sitting in the back, two girls smooching him from both sides. They eventually licked their way down his chest and their heads disappeared under the window.
The front doors flew open and two white guys alighted. One was slim and tattooed. He wore a tank top, which for some reason, they called a wife beater; the other had on a shiny purple shirt, a gold chain, white-blond hair, and thick eyebrows; his body shook like a Jell-O blob as he waddled. Must be stuffing in pounds of cheesecakes but avoiding the gym like a plague.
Wifebeater was clearly a street soldier but Cheesecake was from the upper echelons.
Ryatt had been waiting for a chance like this to hit Bugsy; he cast a look at Thomas who gave a subtle shake of the head. Goddamn it, he was correct. Bugsy, before driving into a black hangout, would have intimated the leaders in this part of the city. Maybe paid them, too. If something happened to Bugsy, right then and there, the whole gang of black hoods would descend on them. They wouldn’t like to hurt one of their own, but it’s how it worked. Mutual respect, they said.
There was also a possibility that the Alfa Romeo could be bulletproofed. Ryatt’s pathetic .22 would hardly make a scratch, and by the time Ryatt shot enough rounds to penetrate it, Bugsy would have climbed to the front and driven away.
As hard a fact as it was to digest, it was not the right time. Ryatt pulled a lollipop from his pocket and sucked on it.
That obsequious runt, Congo, jogged toward Cheesecake, his shoulders slouched in subservience. He whispered something to Cheesecake, and they turned towards their Caddy.
Ryatt’s fingertip brushed against the gun at his hip. He might not have the fastest draw in the world, but in the last three months, he’d shot thousands of rounds in target practice. Spending time and dough to learn this requisite ability was a lifetime investment. No criminal that Ryatt knew exercised this skill. So he didn’t fear gangsters, because by the time they fumbled with their guns, cocked it, and took aim, Ryatt would have emptied his cylinder and made every bullet count.
As the Italians made their way towards them, Congo shouted, “Party’s over.”
Almost all the YBI vacated the space, and Congo had to intimidate a few drunk hecklers into leaving. The congregation waited until the floor was empty; then Congo addressed Thomas, “Buddha. You know who these gentlemen
