“If we were stupid enough to steal from you, we would have crossed into Canada by now, along with the truck. Why am I here, unarmed, talking to you?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
Ryatt let out an exasperated breath. “Know what? You take me to any other place except the boathouse, but it should be on neither of our turfs. A no man’s land where you can’t hurt me and I can’t hurt you.”
“Boy, you can’t hurt me anywhere.”
“Yes, sir, I know. I completely agree.” Ryatt placed a hand over his heart. “I was just trying to make a point. When we reach the neutral territory, I’ll ask one of my team members to drive the truck there.”
Bugsy studied Ryatt with eyes that were just a pair of slits.
Ryatt continued, “Don’t even have to bring the cash with you. Come and check your stuff. If you’re satisfied, call one of your guys and tell him to deliver the money to my other team member, who will be in a totally different location. In fact they will go wherever you tell them to. Your choice.”
Bugsy looked at Roman. “You smell a trap?”
“We don’t have enmity with the blacks, so it makes no sense for them to instigate a war they know they can’t win.” Roman shrugged. “Plus we ain’t taking the money with us. And he agrees to bring the truck anywhere we tell him to; he is riding around with us all the while. If this is a trap, it’s pretty shitty.”
“I wanna do business with you, Mr. Hat.” Ryatt leaned on the smooth shiny wood with his arms. “I swear, this ain’t no trap.”
“Take your damn mitts off my table.”
Ryatt did and stepped back, hands up in the air.
Bugsy regarded Ryatt, the black beads scrutinizing his blue ones. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”
They exited the same way they got in and walked to the Alfa Romeo. But not thanks to fate, it had a flat.
“We can use my car,” Ryatt offered.
Roman sat in the passenger seat while Bugsy commandeered the entire back row.
For the first few minutes, Roman and Bugsy discussed where to transact business. They still wandered around in Bugsy’s turf.
Ryatt said, “Rome?” He was more than aware that this was the first time he addressed Roman by his first name, something that would surely rub him up the wrong way.
“Rome?” Roman stopped his chatter with Bugsy and stared at Ryatt. “What happened to Mr. Roman—”
Ryatt’s arm sprang out; a tight slap from the back of his right hand impeded Roman’s words, his paws shooting up to tend to his face.
“What the—” Bugsy lurched from the backseat but froze midway. His face slowly drained all anger and became pale as all the movements in his body stopped.
Roman lifted his fist to punch Ryatt, who calmly said, “Ask your boss if it’s really a good idea to do that.”
Temples twisting in fury, Roman looked back. “Mr. Hat?”
Bugsy replied with a subtle shake of the head.
“If you so much as breathe fast, see how close my hand is to the horn.” Ryatt’s palm hovered over the center of the steering wheel for a moment before receding back to its circumference. “I’ll honk thrice.”
Roman’s features displayed a kaleidoscope of confusion. “You’ll honk?”
“That’s the signal for him to pull the trigger.”
Roman looked even more flustered than before. “Him? Whose him?”
Bugsy finally broke out of his trance and answered, “I have a gun pressing against my spinal cord. And it’s mighty fucking big.” His voice failed him at the last word.
Roman’s face slowly showed recognition. “That little psycho bastard is with us, isn’t he?”
Ryatt couldn’t help giggling. And Leo, from inside the trunk, cackled in return. “Yup. We cut out the backboard and put it together in a way that it’s easy to remove from the trunk.”
Roman shook his head. “You unbelievable punks.”
“Whatever.” Ryatt smirked. “Throw your gun out and hand me my baby back. I miss her.” Ryatt pressed a button on his side and Roman’s window rolled down. “Did you see that?!” His voice betrayed excitement. “I can lower your glass from here. Also look at the speedometer. It’s digital! Everything’s digital! What a time to live in!”
Roman didn’t move.
Ryatt let go of the wheel and traced the horn with a finger.
“Do it, goddamn it,” Bugsy barked.
Roman pulled out his gun and chucked it out the window. Then he returned Ryatt’s revolver to him.
Ryatt roamed around the city, making sure no one followed them.
For some time, Roman didn’t open his mouth. Until he got bored that was. “So that weasel punctured our car?”
“Look who decided to stop pouting.” Ryatt rubbed Roman’s blond hair, which was oily. “And, yes. We built a small set-up inside the trunk, so Weasel let himself out and slashed your tire.”
“But why?” Bugsy asked. “Why go through all this trouble?”
“Survival,” Ryatt said.
“What?”
Ryatt did not answer.
“What do you mean survival?” Bugsy asked.
Ryatt rolled his eyes. Looked like the asshole would not shut up without an explanation, so he gave him one. “Once we deliver the MacSharp truck to you, you’d kill us three and dump us in Lake Michigan. Following tradition, probably slice open our torsos, so as not to let the gas build up inside and balloon us up to the water’s surface. Maybe tie cinder blocks to our feet, just in case. The world would never find our bodies as they’re slowly absorbed into the lakebed, eaten by bottom feeders and time.”
“Is he for real?” Roman scoffed and turned to his boss.
“We didn’t plan to kill you,” Bugsy said between his clenched teeth, as if that really was the truth.
A little more frustration in his voice, Ryatt would have believed
