[u][b]an interlude[/b][/u]

Kidnappings weren't Eric's forte, but Santiago had paid a premium for this one, and a code was a code. Cleaners didn't question. They just executed. And there was time afterwards to deal with all the bullshit that came with hiding a body.

The rust-strewn streetlight he leaned against flickered above his head as he fumbled for a cigarette in his pocket. He frowned when his fingers caught only clumps of lint. Shit. He must have left them back at home. He observed the empty street—a cracked line of tar-black asphalt festering with clogged drains and heaping piles of fallen leaves. Midnight wasn't exactly Mineenoona's strength. The night life wasn't endangered back in Yonkers; you could still find a good watering hole around any block at that hour. But Eric always felt like something had swept through Mineenona —something biblical - like a plague or the Reaper himself. People seemed to live listlessly here, waiting for some kind of end.

At least the rent was cheaper.

He heard the mark before he saw him—a staccato of leather heels clicking against the concrete. Eric nodded, and the single van parked to the side of the streetlight shuddered, engine coughing, as it rolled forward down the asphalt and turned the corner. Eric slipped away from the streetlight into the shadow of a nearby alleyway. He fingered his Colt. Santiago's orders rang in his mind, verbatim: Shoot the fucker on the street. Leave him bleeding on the sidewalk. Don't bother to clean him up.

It would have been easy. But he owed the mark something better than a quick shootout in the open. There was history between them—history that deserved some respect.

So Eric waited. The mark whistled a jaunty three-note tune, some old bar jig.

"Hey, Tim."

It'd been three or maybe five years since he last dealt with Tim. The old iron dealer's nose was a purple car crash of fists and broken bones. A heavy beer gut poked out from under his shirt, and his glass-blue eyes were bloodshot, sharp to look at. A smile spread across his liver-spotted chin the moment he saw Eric.

"Is that you, Eric? What're you doing up this late?"

"Had to pick up something for the wife. You know how they are."

"Hey, listen. I'm on my way to Callahan's. Wouldn't mind an extra partner for the night—"

The sound of rubber tearing on the road interrupted their conversation. The van from earlier swerved onto the sidewalk, nearly colliding with Tim. Eric slowly walked behind Tim as the former arms dealer wheezed in shock.

"Jesus fuck, watch where you're goi—"

Eric rammed his shoulder into Tim's back. His head bounced off the van's chassis and he dropped to the floor like a sack of spilt flour. Eric breathed. Too easy. If the marks struggled, it somehow made it easier to go through with. The front passenger door opened and Connor stepped out. The two of them worked in unison, securing Tim's arms with cable ties before dragging his groaning form to the back of the van.

Eric sat in the rear as the doors slammed shut. Connor drove off. From the darkness, Eric watched silently, Colt drawn from his pocket, as Tim roused slowly, shaking his head.

"Really had to put these on tight?" Tim groused, wriggling his wrists in the cuffs.

"Sorry. You want me to loosen them?"

"Nah, nah," Tim shook his head, waving Eric away as he leaned against the thin metal chassis. Eric thought he was handling an impending execution well enough all things considered. "Don't suppose you'd let me out if I offered you money. Probably just pocket the cash, eh?"

"Probably," Eric admitted.

"I've—uh—got a fag in my jacket," Tim shimmied slightly to the left, nodding toward his right jacket pocket. "Mind cutting it for me?"

Without a word, Eric plucked the cigar from his pocket. The orange glow of a lighter released the smell of Cuban tobacco into the cramped interior. Tim nodded a quiet thanks, took it with both hands, and stuck it between his lips.

"So, who asked you to do it?"

"Santiago."

"Fuck!" Tim cried out, more offended than angry. "What did I ever do to him?"

"I don't know. I just follow orders. Looks like he probably thinks you snitched on him."

"Me? I've been out of the game for years now." Tim shook his head. "Fucking asshole."

"I wish it wasn't me."

"Ah, yeah, yeah, quit with that sappy shit. You still got that Colt I sold you?"

Eric nodded.

"Mind if I see it?"

Years of common sense told him it was a bad idea, but the wistful glimmer in Tim's eye made him relent. He checked the barrel to make sure no bullets were chambered before handing it over. Tim's fingers steepled over every chrome inch, thumb slowly turning the cylinder one click at a time. Tim took a deep breath near the barrel like he was drinking fine wine.

"Took good care of it," Tim said. He handed it back, clutching the revolver by the barrel. "Too many punks these days don't know how to take care of a wheel gun."

"Learnt it from someone after you left the business. You'd like him."

"Doubt it. It was simpler back in my time. Didn't have to worry about the cops or the feds moving in. Now, everyone's on edge these days." Tim coughed, longer than politeness allowed, edging toward genuine concern. His body shook, and Eric wondered if there was another reason for his calmness.

"You know, never really seen someone get shot before."

"Really?"

"Well, not really. Only ever saw the aftermath." Tim's face scrunched up in recollection. "Think it was about ten or fifteen years ago. Deal gone south. Shootout between Santiago's men and some other dipshit, and little old me in the middle. Anyway, one of his guys pulls me out, and I thought it was gonna be like the movies—you know, couple guys lying on the floor, windows broken. Nah." Tim shook his head. "One moment, it's a parking lot. The next, it's the friggin' Somme. Tires blown. Cars looking like Swiss cheese. Arms and blood everywhere."

The gun dealer paused, taking a puff of his cigar, holding it between both palms like incense. "Twelve guys dead in two minutes from my iron. Thing that still gets me is that some of their eyes were still wide open. One of these guys—twenty-something years old, was looking at me even though half his jaw was missing—and I thought he blinked at me for a moment."

The moment stewed in the damp, cramped interior of the van like an old rat behind drywall. Tim spoke up after a while, voice lost in his past.

"I did that. My guns did that."

"Couldn't have been someone else's," Eric said, staring out through the narrow viewport, the blurring lights coming to a crawl. It was nearly time. "Someone else would have done it if you hadn't."

"But I did it anyway. That's all that matters in the end, isn't it?"

The van lurched to a halt. Tim shuddered, dropping the burnt end of the cigar to the floor. The doors opened with a metal yawn and the dark waters of Lake Winnebago greeted them. Connor stood there by the side, grabbing Tim's hand roughly as he walked out. Eric shook his head and Connor let go. He wasn't running and if he did, he wouldn't get far.

Eric walked behind Tim as they both strolled away from the van to the lip of the lake's coast. He could see the prints of Tim's footprints on the damp sand as the waters licked their feet. His mind reminded him to wash it away later but he wasn't focused on that. Eventually, Tim stopped. His breath was steady as he looked up to the starless sky alongside Eric.

" Nice spot," Tim commented.

"Yeah, it is. ," Eric said.

Tim turned around slowly, dragging his feet on the sand. Eric could see a dozen last wishes in the creases of his face before they fell away.

"I'm glad it wasn't someone else today."

He then turned around again, back faced to him. Eric's arm trembled. 

His arm snapped up and he pulled the trigger twice. He walked over to the slumped body and the eyes were still open. He fired one final time just to make sure.