Lust For Kicks
by Anthony Rain

It was four thirty in the morning and the sky over the East River was dark. Jimmy could see the Swingline Staples factory sign lit from the lights on the 59th Street Bridge. The factory had closed years ago, but the sign remained part of the Queens skyline.
Jimmy stamped his feet from the cold and cursed. The motherfucker was late. He wondered if he should bail, wondered what Joey Flowers would do to him. Just then, a white 1994 Crown Victoria, with dents and rust marks, pulled up to the corner.
The passenger side door opened. "Get in," said the driver.
The car was warm and smelled of cigarettes. Jimmy put his feet on maps and brown paper bags that littered the floor. The cigarette smell hurt his head.
"They’ll be in Alphabet City," said the driver. "They’ll either be picking up trash on Tenth and Avenue C already, or we’ll have to wait a few minutes for them." The diver swung the car onto the FDR drive. There was little traffic, mainly yellow taxis. "We’ll be downtown in five minutes. Less."
Jimmy yawned. He normally didn’t get up so early. He hadn’t made coffee this morning, not wanting to wake his wife and little girl in their tiny apartment. So he had one cup from the corner deli. He needed at least two.
"What’s your name?" said Jimmy.
"My friends call me Bobby April." He held the wheel with one hand and offered the other.
"Mine’s Jimmy," he said and shook April’s hand.
"Jimmy, check out the back seat." Jimmy looked behind him at the pump action shot gun, the barrel sawed-off, lying on the seat. It wasn’t new. It had scratches and dings in it.
"Pick it up, man. That’s for you. I got a .44 Magnum. Never leave home without it." Bobby April laughed.
Jimmy picked up the gun. He had met a man one night in his local bar, a man in one of Joey Flowers’ crew, like Bobby. Jimmy had hit a dry spot and was out of work. The man said he knew how Jimmy could make some money. He asked Jimmy if he was good with guns. "Good enough," Jimmy had said.
"Pretty neat, huh?" said Bobby. "I got it from a solid connection in the Bronx. You ever use one? This here uses two and three-quarter inch shells. That gives you six shots." Bobby talked without looking at Jimmy. "There’s only two guys. I’ll say who does who. Like I said, it gives you six pops. Fuck, you’ll probably only need one." Bobby laughed again.
The car swerved into the left lane and picked up speed. Jimmy saw a cop car in the middle lane. "Easy, Bobby." Jimmy motioned with his head.
"Fuck ‘em. That’s 34th precinct numbers. They’re past their borders. They’re probably heading to pick up some hotshot official. Fucking escort service." The Crown Victoria left them behind.
"So what are you doing this for?" said Bobby.
"What do you mean? Joey Flowers wants it done. Right?"
"No, I mean what are you doing this for?"
Jimmy noticed that the lights from the few oncoming cars made Bobby’s blue eyes gold, like sometimes happened to Jimmy’s wife in photographs. "I’m doing it for the money."
"Yeah, there’s that," said Bobby.
"My little girl has a birthday coming up. I need it to buy her some things. She’s into that Pokemon shit."
"That’s cool."
"How about you?"
"Me? I’m just fucking crazy, is all." Bobby laughed. "It’ll give me pull. Probably give me a bump."
They drove for another five minutes talking about pointless things. Jimmy’s stomach got tight. Bobby cut into the far right lane and exited the drive. He worked the streets, until he found Tenth. The headlamps caught a private sanitation truck idling halfway down the block. ‘Cassutto Brothers’ was painted on it in yellow. Two men were pulling bags of trash out of an alleyway next to an Indian restaurant and tossing them into the moveable bay of the truck.
Bobby double parked about ten feet behind and cut his lights. The taillights of the truck looked like two red eyes staring at them.
"The tall one with the bandana. That’s mine. You got the stocky guy in the plaid shirt. Ready?" Bobby had a mean look on his face. Spit had gathered in the corner of his mouth. Jimmy nodded and they got out. Jimmy put the sawed-off under his coat.
They walked into the alleyway, Bobby going first. The air smelled sour. The two men turned away from the pile of black garbage bags.
"Joey Flowers don’t like motherfuckers who think they can just take what they want," Bobby said to them. "This is not your turf. You don’t belong here."
"Hey man," said the one in the bandana. "We were given this contract by the city. By the mayor. Tell Flowers to take it up with them." He pointed his finger at Bobby for emphasis.
"Joey has a better idea," said Bobby. He pulled the Magnum from under his left shoulder and shot the man with the bandana in the face. The one in plaid started running up the alley. Jimmy pulled out the shotgun, pumped and fired. He hit the man square in the back.
"Finish him," said Bobby looking down at the faceless mess he had caused.
Jimmy walked on shaky legs. The man was groaning and twitching. His plaid shirt was wet and turning black. Jimmy pointed the gun at the man’s head, pumped and fired. He stopped twitching.
They quickly walked back to the Crown Victoria and pulled out. Bobby drove fast for a few blocks, then cursed when he passed a street he wanted to take.
"I’m too juiced. I gotta calm down. You know, I was diagnosed ADHD, as a kid. They tried to put me on this shit. No way, man. I don’t believe in drugs." He smiled and looked at Jimmy.
Jimmy was breathing hard. He nodded his head and wished Bobby would shut the fuck up. He knew he’d feel better when he had that fifteen hundred in his hand.
They drove through Chinatown. The merchants were setting up their fish and vegetable stands in the dark. Jimmy saw a man take a bag of ice and pour it over rows of clams and mussels. Soon, they were on the Brooklyn Bridge and the rising sun was turning the sky a navy blue. Bobby took the Cadman Plaza exit and turned left onto Court, then down to Henry.
"What the fuck are you doing?" said Jimmy. "We’re supposed to keep going until we get to Pennsylvania. Those were the orders. Drive to Pennsylvania, change cars, stay in the Poconos for two weeks." Jimmy had told his wife he took a job doing construction on some new housing tracts. He would call her that night. "We should be on the Thruway right now."
"I know, I know. But I got a Win For Life ticket that has ten dollars on it. I feel lucky today, man. I want to cash it in. Buy some more tickets. I can’t do that in Pennsylvania."
"I don’t know about this, man."
"Chill," said Bobby. "It’ll take two seconds. You should feel good, man. You did real nice. Joey is going to love us, baby. Relax."
By now they were in Red Hook. Bobby parked near a candy store on a wide block across from some projects. He put his hand on Jimmy’s arm. "Come in with me. Take the gun with you." Jimmy looked at him. "Just take it. We might have us some fun." He winked and got out of the car.
Jimmy put the sawed-off under his coat and held it in place with his right hand. He followed Bobby inside. The store was cold. An African-American man was behind the register.
"I’d like to cash this for another Win For Life, five Lotto tickets and three of those scratch games there, with the cherries on them. And throw in a pack of Marlboros." Bobby put his lottery ticket down on the gray counter. The man behind the register looked at it, turned around and reached up to pull new tickets from the rolls hanging behind him. "Oh yeah, I feel lucky today," said Bobby. He patted the gun under his jacket.
The door opened and two teenage kids walked in, one in a gray sweatshirt with the hood up, the other in a dark pullover. They went over to the snack section. The one in the pullover pulled a bag of Cheez Doodles from its metal clip and put it on the counter next to Bobby’s lottery ticket. The one in the sweatshirt looked out onto the street, then swung around and pulled out a chromed handgun. The other did likewise.
"Don’t nobody move. Back away from the counter, motherfucker." The one in the sweatshirt jabbed his gun at Bobby. "Back away from the register," he yelled at the storeowner.
Jimmy froze in place. He decided to wait until one of them went behind the counter, then he would pull his gun. He would waste one, letting Bobby finish the other.
The kid in front of him looked young, maybe even twelve or thirteen. The label on his pullover said ‘Sean Jean’. He had a silver cap on his front tooth. Jimmy started to get mad. He wanted to blow that cap right out of the kid’s mouth. Finishing his thought, he realized the kid was saying something to him.
"What is wrong with you, motherfucker? I said put your hands on your head." From the corner of his eye, Jimmy could see Bobby with his hands resting on his black hair, a smirk on his face.
The kid shifted his eyes to Jimmy’s jacket. "What you got blood on you for?"
Then he squinted at Jimmy’s right hand, the one holding the shotgun under the coat. He saw the outline of the stock. His eyes widened. "You fucker," he said softly.
Jimmy started to lift the gun, but the kid was fast and shot him twice in the stomach. Jimmy fell backwards against something and it caught him, then gave way and dropped him gently to the floor. He could hear more gunfire in the store, Bobby yelling. But sound in general started to go soft. He was surprised he felt no pain. He focused past the front door and could see a graffiti mural on the wall across the way. It started to go fuzzy. He tried to keep it in focus. Look at the colors, he told himself. But it started to lose light, then faded to black.


This is Anthony's second appearance in PWG. He has also previously published stories with Thrilling Detective and Without A Clue. He has forthcoming stories in Nefarious, Judas EZine and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. Anthony makes his home in New York City where he is completing a hardboiled novel. He is a member of the Mystery Writers of America.