Allan Leverone - Postcards from the Apocalypse

After that it was like Gina had been with us forever, which made me happy in a way because I was now no longer the new kid in school. Every crew I’ve ever been a part of has a pecking order, and it’s usually based on seniority. That was the case here and I had gotten damned tired of having to do all the scut work just because I had only been around for six months.

After the stealing the cash from the gunrunners, we decided to cut out for a while, head down to the Florida Panhandle while Stupid Tommy finished his stretch. Gary had some connections down there and he figured we could run some profitable jobs while working on our tans during what was sure to be a long, cold winter in Boston. Plus, those arms dealers are some crazy motherfuckers, so everyone kind of agreed in an unspoken way that it might be a good idea to vacate for a while until things cooled down.

But before leaving, we decided to do one more job. It was a simple one with very little risk, and potentially very lucrative, a combination no self-respecting crew in the world could pass up. It was also a job G2 had come up with, which should have been another warning that something was maybe not quite right, but of course everyone was so dazzled by Gina’s smoking hot body and world-class driving skills that no one said a thing. New kid in town, and all that.

Gina Petralli worked a day job as personal assistant to some bigshot exec at Atlantic Insurance down in the financial district. The guy had it bad for her, not that you could really blame him. Everyone had it bad for Gina. Anyway, she had been fooling around with him for months and by now had him set up perfectly. He thought he was stringing her along, telling her he was going to leave his wife for her, treating her like a sap, and the whole time she was playing him like a fucking Stradivarius.

According to G2, the guy had installed a huge wall safe—get this—behind a painting in his bedroom. Again, I know what you’re thinking, because it was my first thought, too: that no one actually constructs a safe behind a picture in his house; it’s a total cliché, but Gina swore that’s what this guy had done. And she said this safe was filled with the best kinds of liquid assets: cash, jewelry, bearer bonds and the like. So naturally, we decided to relieve the guy of his treasure before hitting I-95 for Florida. Why wouldn’t we? I mean if we didn’t, it was only a matter of time before someone else did, right?

The night of the job, the rest of us waited while Gina worked. Her plan was simple. Go out to dinner, let Romeo wine and dine her like he always did before returning home to get sweaty, and then convince him to share the combination to his ridiculous safe and rob his ass blind. She would make sure the guy had plenty to drink and then, when he was good and worked up, she was going to strip him down and stick a gun in his ear. He would give up the combination and immediately afterward his valuables, and that would be that.

It seemed like a workable plan, and one which would not require any help from the rest of the crew, which explained why we were sitting around a piece of shit motel with our thumbs up our asses while G2 did all the heavy lifting. The only question was whether she actually had the stones to pull a piece on her boyfriend, and on that question opinions were split.

“Have you seen her eyes? There’s not a spark of life in them; they’re like shark’s eyes for chrissakes. She can do it; she’s one cold bitch.” Gary weighed in first on the subject, offering up his opinion with more than a little admiration in his voice. His words impressed me, since I had had the exact same thought about Gina’s eyes, but the wisdom of his insight was lessened by the fact he had his index finger buried to the first knuckle up his nose while he talked, rooting around like a plumber clearing a drain.

Bobby laughed. It sounded oily, if that was possible. “I wouldn’t know about her eyes,” he said. “I’ve never quite managed to make it all the way to her face when I’m looking at her. Man, the things I could do with that body. I’d make her squeal like a pig in heat.” He scratched his ass and then sniffed his finger.

Gary barked out a cruel laugh. It sounded like a car backfiring out on Industrial Drive. “You and Gina? Dream on, dumbass. The only way you could ever get your filthy paws on a chick like her is if she was dead. And even then you’d probably manage to scare her away.”

Bobby’s grin died on his face and his beady eyes narrowed as he stared unblinkingly at Gary. He spoke softly. “Watch your mouth, motherfucker. You talk big, but I don’t see you scoring with anyone like Gina, either. You’re lucky that fucking crack whore Deanna from the strip club lets you dip your wick in her, and she’s barely one step above a walking skeleton.”

Gary leapt to his feet, his rickety wooden chair crashing to the ancient, cracked and pitted linoleum floor behind him. He began walking slowly toward Bobby, who lay propped up against a pillow on one of the two ratty twin beds. Bobby’s eyes were slits as he watched Gary approach. He didn’t move a muscle.

I played hockey in high school and one of the few things I have left from those days is a beat-up old equipment bag that I take with me wherever I go. It’s falling apart at the seams and has seen better days—it’s a lot like me in that regard—but it’s mine and I always try to keep it close. Right now, it was on the floor at my feet looking like the world’s rattiest nylon and leather puppy dog.

I reached down and unzipped it, not taking my eyes off Gary and Bobby. Bobby’s mouth had twisted into an ugly sneer. He knew he had gotten under Gary’s skin with the comment about Deanna and seemed proud of himself. He was right though. Deanna did look like a walking skeleton. I figured the fact that a skank like her could earn a living stripping at The Little Devilz was a testament to just how scummy most guys are, especially when you add alcohol to the mix.

I rummaged around in my bag and found what I was looking for at the bottom, under a spare pair of jeans and my favorite Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. I immediately felt better. The Glock 21 radiated power and felt reassuring in my hands. I wondered whether the two squabbling idiots would notice me lift it onto the card table, but I needn’t have worried. They only had eyes for each other.

By now Gary had maneuvered himself right in front of Bobby, who still hadn’t moved on the bed. I thought that was a terrible move on Bobby’s part, strategically speaking. He didn’t want to show any fear, but he had also left himself at a huge disadvantage for when the trouble started, which was now inevitable. Stevie Wonder could see these two were going to get into it.

“At least I’m getting some, you fucking fairy.” Gary’s lips were pulled back from his teeth, showing off a set of yellow choppers that were eventually going to be a real windfall for some lucky dental hygienist. If he lived that long. “Instead of dreaming big with a chick like Gina, why don’t you just stick to the skin mags you keep under your bed in your mama’s house?”

I reached down again and retrieved the sound suppressor from my bag. It was long and cylindrical, sort of delicate-looking, in direct counterpoint to the massive solidity of the Glock. The buffoons on the other side of the room still paid no attention to me as I screwed the two items together. It only took a few seconds and I was done.

It had finally occurred to Bobby that he was going to be at a serious disadvantage once the Main Event started, which looked as though it would be kicking off any second now. I shook my head—And Tommy was the one they called stupid. Bobby tried to rectify the situation by easing up to a sitting position. The sneer had never left his face, although most of the confidence behind it seemed to have vanished.