I don’t think anyone saw us.
My mate Schimmel was on the street corner, keeping a lookout while I decorated the window with red paint. I’d only got as far as RACIST SCUM before I was overcome by the sour taste of anger that rippled up my throat. Fuck it. With the heel of my boot I kicked a cobble loose and levered it out.
I took a few steps back, turned, and lobbed the stone.
The window of Kaminsky’s office cracked, the glass hanging for a moment before sliding down, shattering as it went. Schimmel twisted around, shock splashed over his face. I grabbed his hand as I legged past him.
At the U-Bahn station we jumped down the steps as a train pulled in and I sat down, laughing at the dismay on my friend’s coupon.
“That wasn’t the deal!” he said.
“You feeling sorry for Kaminsky?”
Schimmel didn’t answer, and I stopped grinning. It was no fun any more, not with my friend looking so pissed off all the time.
“Oh, come on.” I tried again. “He deserves more than a smashed window!”
“He does. But what about sticking to agreements?”
“Fuck off!”
The train was pulling into the next station. As I stepped onto the platform my anger and frustration felt like a kick in the back.