Ten minutes later, Jake’s front door flew open. The angry pig stormed out, piled into the pig cart, and zoomed off.
And the Hummer followed.
Leo and Ryatt waited a few more minutes, deciding on a keyword, if things were to turn sour. Then they went in.
Jake sat behind a small desk that carried a bowl of popcorn and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Dark smoke rose from it. Yet Jake had another cigarette between his lips already. Ryatt knew Jake wasn’t a chain smoker.
Jake’s pale face turned paler when he spotted Ryatt and Leo. But he quickly masked the shock and pushed himself up. “My man.”
He opened his arms. Ryatt hugged him, Leo following suit.
Pleasantries out of the way, Ryatt sat across from Jake, while Leo perched on Jake’s side of the table, facing him. They’d cut Jake’s only escape route, just in case.
“Your next car’s ready. It’s outside.” Jake tried to get up, but Leo shoved him back into the chair.
“What’s this?” he asked, his breathing labored.
“I’ve seen that pig before,” Leo said.
“It—it’s not about you, guys.” Jake’s Adam’s apple bobbed once.
Ryatt knew then and there that Jake would fuck them over. Liars always did.
“Turkey,” Ryatt uttered the keyword.
Leo, giggling, pulled out a pistol and pointed at Jake.
“No, man.” Jake lifted his hands. “I said nothing to him.”
“What’d he ask?” Ryatt said. “And no more lying.”
Jake squeezed his eyes shut. “About that car I sold you, man…”
“The black Firebird?” Ryatt asked. It was the car they used on the Staten Island job.
“No,” Jake said.
“What do you mean, no?” Ryatt was confused. “Then about what car?”
“This guy, he is like a genius or something, I tell you. He was asking about the Mustang.”
Ryatt skipped a heartbeat. Why would a detective serving at Staten Island enquire about the car Ryatt had used in a different robbery, a robbery they’d pulled off in Chicago last week?
Ryatt knew the FBI used his lollipop habit and ballistics to connect the crimes. But they wouldn’t have any inclination to share the information with a pig from a different state.
“Why would he ask about the Mustang?”
“I don’t know. H-he’s got a list of all the cars I ever sold to you.”
“What the— How?” Ryatt felt something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Helplessness.
“I really have no clue.”
A stone had clogged Ryatt’s throat. All these years, no one had come this close.
“What’d you tell him?” Ryatt asked, though he could imagine what had transpired here. The angry way the pig stomped out of the shop meant Jake had resisted. But the pig must have threatened Jake to his core. That’s why he looked pretty shook up. The pig’s ego would never allow him to accept defeat. He would try his best to lock Jake up, by kindling some old dirt. Or he could just get a warrant and turn this chop shop upside down. Jake certainly had many things to hide.
So Jake would weigh his options, and arrive at a conclusion: either work with the pig, help him arrest Ryatt, and earn some neat reward on the side; or don’t rat, gain nothing, possibly lose the shop, and go to prison.
Jake didn’t know this yet, but eventually he would betray Ryatt. Jake, as if he had read Ryatt’s thoughts, eyed the doorway.
“Can’t you see there’s nowhere to run?” Leo nudged Jake’s head with his gun. “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”
Ryatt told Leo, “Don’t shoot. The noise will attract people. We have no car.”
Jake’s eyes started spilling tears. “Please, man. I— we just had a baby.”
Ryatt chose to hear nothing. In his mind, Jake was already a dead man. So he got up and switched on the TV above, fixed on the wall. Rerun of The Simpsons was airing. Nice. He grabbed the popcorn bowl and sat back.
They all waited as the clock ticked. Jake was whimpering like a hurt dog, crying rivers and drenching his sleeves. He sometimes bent and held Ryatt’s hand and begged him to let him go.
But Ryatt and Leo were busily watching the episode, Lisa On Ice, passing the popcorn between them.
Finally, when the Hummer honked outside, Jake almost jumped out of his skin. Ryatt shot up to his feet and retrieved a baggie from his front pocket. It had various sizes of earplugs; each pair blocked different intensities of sound waves. Ryatt looked around. The place was tiny and crammed, so he selected two big plugs and wedged them into his canals.
Once he was satisfied with the numbness the plugs had brought, he pulled out the Desert Eagle. While Jake’s bawling was being muffled by the plugs, Ryatt lifted the gun, his forefinger wrapping around the trigger—
“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Leo put his hand in front of the muzzle, giving Ryatt a heart attack.
“What?!” Ryatt asked, easing the grip on the trigger.
“Give me a minute. Wanna see how this ends.” Leo nodded towards the TV.
Ryatt sighed and blew out air. He stood like that, right arm extended with a pistol in its extremity, aiming at a pathetic excuse of a man clasping his hands, weeping. As seconds passed, the pistol became heavier. Ryatt gave up and transferred the weight elsewhere, putting the barrel on his shoulder.
Leo’s arms stretched with the popcorn bowl and Ryatt scooped the last handful. It took them a good five minutes before the credits finally rolled in, the chirpy music filling the office.
Thank fucking God.
Ryatt’s shoulder cramped when he brought down the weapon. Wincing, he took aim once again.
Leo placed the empty bowl on the table and plugged his ears with his forefingers.
Jake lifted his arms, his palms facing the muzzle of the Desert Eagle.
