Will Baer - Hell's Half Acre

Oh and by the way, says Miller. Don’t try to run.

No, says Huck. Why would I do that?

I don’t know, says Miller. I really don’t. But I would be more comfortable if you let me hold onto the car keys.

Huck hands over the keys, which Miller deposits in the breast pocket of his jacket. He now opens the briefcase and takes out three identical handguns. He gives one to Jeremy and one to me, and keeps one for himself, selecting them seemingly at random. Huck does not get one, apparently. I examine my gun, which is a.40 caliber Sig Sauer Pro, matte black, a nice gun. I feel fairly certain mine and Jeremy’s are loaded with blanks, if at all. But I refrain from checking the magazine. Finally, he passes out latex gloves.

Now, he says. Let’s play.

The four of us cross the parking lot slowly under a pale electric haze, walking abreast as if we’re going to a gunfight. Miller is a step or two ahead of me and I point my gun at the back of his head.

Pow, I say.

Miller reaches the door and hesitates, his breath ragged through Hitchcock’s mouth. The plan is simple enough. Jeremy will hold a gun on the clerk. I will control the customers and watch the door. Miller will roam the store, amusing himself. And Huck will get it all on film. He throws the door open and I go in first, thinking that if I’m careful, I can stop him from killing anyone.

This is a hold-up, I say.

The music in the store is loud, Sonic Youth. No one hears me. No one pays me any mind and I reckon people in Woody Allen masks walk in here every day. Hitchcock comes in behind me and fires one shot into the ceiling. There is a spray of falling white plaster and now everyone is paying attention. Marilyn Monroe comes in and goes directly to the counter with his gun held chest high. The clerk is a ratty white kid, mid twenties. He has a long dirty blond ponytail dangling from a black baseball cap. He’s chewing gum, the muscles jumping in his face. He watches Marilyn closely. I count four customers. In the back is a white girl in motorcycle leathers with a stud through her nose and blue hair, maybe twenty. She was stirring cream into her coffee when we came in and now stands very still, staring at me. Near the counter is a crusty old white guy wearing a T-shirt that says Jesus Freak. He holds a quart of beer in one hand, a package of beef jerky in the other. And near the Slurpee machine are the guy and girl who got out of the Toyota. They are attractive in a blue jeans ad, immediately forgettable way, twin models with blond hair and perfect teeth. The girl has a sweet smile but the guy is an arrogant bastard, probably abusive, you can tell by the way he talks to her. It’s not fair but I decide that if anyone in this scene gets shot, it will be him.

It helps to have a ready sacrifice in mind.

This is a hold-up, I say. Everybody be cool.

John Wayne cruises around the store, camera in hand. I stand by the door, one eye watching the parking lot. Hitchcock is amusing himself, as he said he would. He is tearing up the store, knocking displays over and throwing bags of chips and cookies and Hostess goodies into the air. He comes up behind Marilyn and tosses the flight bag at the clerk.

The money from the register, he growls. All of it. And throw in the latest issue of Playboy and a few cartons of cigarettes.

What brand? the clerk says.

Whatever.

This irritates me. I tell the clerk to give us Camels.

He begins to stuff money into the bag and I shake my head in disgust. There will be two hundred dollars in that bag, at most. Hitchcock continues to destroy the store and the candy falls like hail. John Wayne is getting a close-up of the girl in leather. Marilyn is watching the clerk and I notice that his body is vibrating. He’s going to pull the trigger any minute.

And at that moment, Hitchcock yells, hey Marilyn.

Marilyn turns his head, confused. And as he looks away, the ratty clerk drops the flight bag and reaches under the counter. I scream at Jeremy to turn around as the clerk comes up with a shotgun and blows Marilyn backward into a rack of cold medicine. The shot rings and rings in my head and it takes me forever to cross the store. I slide on my knees through blood and candy and come to rest beside my fallen false brother. The hole in his chest is the size of a basketball. I could put my head in there. I pull the Marilyn mask from his face and he is obviously dead, eyes rolled back and a crooked little smile frozen on his mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Jesus Freak running across the parking lot with a quart of beer in one hand, beef jerky in the other and I don’t care. I’m happy for him. But it won’t do to let the customers flee just yet. The blond girl with perfect teeth is screaming and screaming and it seems that she will never stop. I stand up in time to see Hitchcock hit her in the face with the barrel of his gun and she goes down hard, crashing into the Slurpee machine, her jaw no doubt broken. I turn to face the ratty clerk, expecting another blast from the shotgun.

But he has put the gun down and resumed filling the flight bag with cigarettes.

What the fuck? I point my gun at him.

The clerk squints at me as if he doesn’t understand English.

You kill my brother and now you want to cooperate? I say.

He was your brother?

No, I say. He was just a fucked-up kid.

The clerk looks at Hitchcock, who comes over to the counter with an armload of ice cream and potato chips that he apparently wants to take with him.

We had an arrangement, the clerk says.

Indeed, says Hitchcock. And you have fulfilled your end marvelously.

The clerk flashes a mouthful of yellow teeth. Do you want a bag for those groceries?

What kind of arrangement?

The clerk shrugs. I’m bagging groceries, dude.

Hitchcock looks at Jeremy on the floor, then at the clerk.

What kind of arrangement? I say.

Two thousand dollars to kill Marilyn, says Hitchcock.

Jesus…

It was a hell of a bargain, says the clerk. Damn good.

He stands behind the counter, beaming at us. Yellow teeth like a neon sign. I glance around the store and see that no one has moved. The blond guy kneels on the floor, cradling his girlfriend’s ruined face in his lap. John Wayne stands over Jeremy. He has stopped filming. The motorcycle girl is leaning against the far wall, holding her coffee.

Do you like her, Poe?

What?

Hitchcock points his gun at the motorcycle girl and she drops down behind a glass case of hot dogs. Hitchcock shrugs. He swings around and shoots the ratty clerk in the forehead.

Wow, he says. That felt good.

His voice is on fire and through the mask his eyes glow like he’s about to embark on a full-scale killing spree. This is out of control. I figure we have been in the store almost five minutes. Two people are dead and the cops will be here soon. I don’t know what good it will do but I raise my gun and point it at Hitchcock’s head. I shout his name and he turns, grinning. He raises his own gun and does a little dance, like a jig. We are perhaps five feet apart, Alfred Hitchcock and Woody Allen.

Wayne, says Hitchcock. Look alive, pilgrim. This is great stuff.

Fuck you.

Miller, I say. Put the gun down.

Unlikely, he says.

Are you going to shoot me?

Pull the trigger, he says. Pull it, baby.

I shrug and pull the trigger and I see his face twist in surprise. The gun jerks in his right hand but I have already hit the floor and rolled sideways. Everything slows down and I expect to see the cotton wadding from my gun bounce harmlessly off his mask. But there is no cotton wadding and Hitchcock goes down on one knee, groping at his mask and yanking it off. Blood spurts from his left eye and he howls like a monkey. I look at my gun in surprise.