YEAH, HE ASKED ME if I’d help off her old man. You’re fucking right I said yes. Not because of this shit about how tough her life is. Money, man. She was going to pay me a thousand bucks.
You could tell Jimmy was pussy whipped all right. I mean, he’d of jumped off a cliff, sniffing after that tight little crotch of hers. The boy was gone. I just needed new wheels.
The plan was we’d get these gloves so we wouldn’t leave no fingerprints. My car made too much fucking noise, so she was going to lend us hers. She’d leave it with the keys inside at the parking lot over at the mall, and then while she was in there shopping we’d take the Datsun over to her place, get in the back door that she’d leave open, only make it look like we broke the locks. We’d trash the house and shit, then wait for him to come home from work. I’d tackle him, Jimmy’d shoot, on account of it was him that was getting the pussy and all I was getting was cash. Then we’d take off in the car, back to the mall. Leave her car where we found it and cut out of there. No sweat. She’d come out with all her bags—and I mean, you knew she’d make sure plenty of people noticed her in stores, which wouldn’t be a problem. Then she’d drive home, open the door, and freak out naturally. The grieving wife.
She even made this list on her computer of shit to remember for chrissake. Like he’s got this exercise bike sitting in the kitchen right by the door so don’t bump into it or you’ll get real bruised, and be sure when we’re trashing the place not to wreck her stereo because it’s a real bitch to reconnect all the components. Just mess around in her jewelry drawer and stuff. And could we try and make sure when we shot him not to do it where he’d drip on her carpet she just installed? She tells us to throw the gloves in the harbor and dust the gun off to make sure there’s no prints on it before we get it back to Lydia. And one more thing: The dog’s got to be shut in the bathroom. Seeing something like that, Larry getting shot and all, could really traumatize him.
I think I’m pretty cool, but this chick is strictly Eskimo material. She tells me it should take six, eight weeks to get the insurance money. In the meantime she’ll give me this gold chain her husband had in ten days or so. Once things quiet down.
Jimmy’s sweating like a pig, not really listening to any of this, you can tell. He keeps trying to make out with her, kiss her neck. Her, she flicks him off like he’s a bug landed on a piece of meat. The cunt, Lydia, she keeps giggling like she’s been sniffing glue or something. Can’t quit laughing. I can tell it’s up to me—the Maretto chick and me anyways—to pull this thing off right. Jimmy won’t be good for shit.
The plan is to do it Valentine’s Day. Not for any message or nothing, that was just the day it worked out to be. We get our clothes all set, the gloves and all. Her and Lydia are all set to go shopping. “I could use a new bathing suit,” she says. “It’s always good to have a girlfriend along when you’re swimsuit shopping, to give you their opinion.” She wasn’t kidding neither.
That afternoon, Lydia gets her old lady’s gun, and we buy the bullets. Jimmy and me take a few practice shots down at the clam flats, just assassinating sea gulls. Gun works fine. We smoke a little weed, get to the parking lot at seven-thirty, right on schedule. He’s nervous, you can tell, but he’s really got hisself psyched too. “After tonight she’s all mine,” he says. “Then I’m going to fuck her till it drops off.”
Sure, I think to myself. Right. But it ain’t none of my business.
I drive. She’s got this tape in the cassette, starts playing right when I turn the key. I mean it didn’t mean nothing, only it kind of made you jump, hearing this music come blasting out of nowhere when you wasn’t expecting it.
So we drive over her place. No trouble finding it. She’d told us how we should pull in round the back, where nobody’d spot the car or nothing. Door was open, just like she said. I step inside.
That’s when the dog starts going crazy. I mean, you’d think there was a whole pack of dogs in there, instead of one little mutt, from the sound of it. He’s howling and jumping up and stuff. I reach for the gun in Jimmy’s hand, thinking I’ll just blast him too. Jimmy stops me.
“Fuck man,” he says. “She loves that dog. She’d go apeshit if you killed it.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” I say to him. “Turn on the lights and invite the whole fucking neighborhood over?”
“It’s no good,” Jimmy says. “We got to split. We can’t do it tonight.”
I don’t even try arguing with him. You can tell the guy means it. He’s done for the night.
“Christ, man,” I say, once we’re back in her car heading to the mall. “You think I got nothing better to do than drive around town checking out animal life? Now we got to return the gun and everything. I could’ve been down by the beach balling some chick myself.”
Jimmy wants to go in the mall and explain it to her, how come we couldn’t finish the job. You can tell he’s relieved, but he’s scared too, that she’ll be mad. “Forget it, man,” I tell him. “It wouldn’t look good, later, if someone saw us tonight.” I mean we don’t exactly look like the type that would be wandering around the bathing suit section of some fancy store. Looking for a chick like her.
So we leave a note in the car, on the back of a gum wrapper. “Dog barked. Better luck next time.” Then we cut out.
When Mrs. Maretto found out, man, was she pissed. You should’ve heard her lay into Jimmy. I tell you, if things had worked out for them, he would’ve got a different kind of punishment. Endless pussy whipping. But try and tell him that.