Sally sat in a black leatherette recliner, feet up, in front of the television. The Flintstones was on, Fred and Barney propelling their Stone Age vehicles with rapidly moving feet. Sally was dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. There was an open box of Froot Loops on the carpet next to his chair and a half-empty glass of Slim-Fast wedged between his meaty thighs. He wiped his fingers on the front of his T-shirt, leaving brightly colored pink-and-blue trails of Froot Loop dust across his belly. '
Sally threw the lever on the side of the recliner and brought his feet down to the floor. He rocked back and forth a few times, gathering momentum to get out of the chair, and then hauled himself to his feet. He lumbered into the bathroom and returned with a toenail clipper. He was just starting in on the big toe of his left foot when the doorbell rang. It was Skinny and Victor.
"You're early," said Sally. "I'm just eatin' breakfast. You bring some crullers or somethin' at least?"
Victor looked dubiously at the box of Froot Loops. "That's some fuckin' breakfast. I don't eat nothin' that color. Gives you cancer."
Victor's arm was heavily bandaged above the elbow, and his hand was in a cast. There was an aluminum splint on the middle finger; it extended out from the hand in a fixed reproach, the gauze around it stained with yellow antiseptic and dried blood.
"How's the hand?" asked Sally. "You ever gonna be able to play the violin again?"
"S'alright," said Victor, settling into the recliner. "It's my fuckin' arm that's killin' me. They wanted to keep me overnight inna hospital. It throbs like a motherfucker. They gimme some pills . . ."
There were some dark threads from the stitching running along the top of Victor's right ear. His nose was swollen, and he had two black eyes. "I'd like to kill that fuckin' nephew a yours . . ."
Sally chuckled, "You gotta admit, the kid showed he had some balls . . ."
"I'd like to cut his balls off. Feed 'em to a fuckin' dog. Did anybody find my fuckin' gun?"
Sally shook his head. "Why don't you just relax a little bit there, Vic. You look like shit."
"Yeah . . . " said Victor, turning his attention to The Flintstones. "Fuckin pills they gimme got me buzzed."
"We gotta be in his office in a hour," said Skinny.
"He said eleven o'clock. He said eleven yesterday, didn't he?" asked Sally.
"It got moved up," said Skinny. "He's got another client he's gotta see, so we got moved up."
"I'll get dressed," said Sally.
Sally went into the bathroom and shaved with an electric razor. He slathered Bijan for Men all over his face and neck, and went into the bedroom and laid out a V-neck sweater and a Members Only bomber jacket on his unmade bed. He kicked off his pajama bottoms and put one foot in a pair of black, pleated slacks. He was having trouble bending over his belly to reach the other leg of his pants when Skinny came into the room. Skinny was naked, holding a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter automatic in one gloved hand. The rubber nipple from a baby bottle was stretched over the muzzle.
Sally had time to look up at Skinny with a puzzled expression and wonder how he got undressed so fast before the first round crashed into his forehead. The gun made a loud fwap-fwap sound as Skinny kept firing, the noise getting louder as the rubber nipple disintegrated. His pants around his ankles, Sally was knocked backward between his night table and his bed, an ashtray falling to the floor. He crashed down onto the carpet in a heap, his arms pushed forward from his shoulders in the narrow space. Sally's shiny black wig slipped down over his face, blood running out from under it, soaking his T-shirt. The colorful pink-and-blue trails merged with the spreading blood and disappeared.
Skinny walked back to the living room, took off the single glove, and put it in the brown paper bag with the gun. Victor was engrossed in The Flintstones, still sitting in Sally's leatherette recliner. Skinny put on his clothes, then walked back into the bedroom and collected the shell casings from the floor. He put them in the bag and put the bag in his jacket pocket.
"That was loud," said Victor.
"So's the television," said Skinny. "This neighborhood, we should be okay."
"Do we gotta wipe the place down?" asked Victor, his eyes still on the screen.
"No," said Skinny. "We're here alla time. It's normal they find prints. Long as nobody sees us comin' in or out. Try and keep your hand in fronta your face onna way to the car."
"That's good . . . My fuckin' arm . . . I don't feel like cleanin' no apartment the way I feel . . . " Victor jerked a thumb toward the television. "You believe this Betty Rubble? The dress she got on? You can almost see bush unner there!"
"We're all done," said Skinny.
Victor got up from the chair. "Wilma's not too bad . . . " he said. "But that Betty, she's got it all over the other broad. Barney's got the better piece a ass hands down. I'll bet she's better inna sack too."
"Let's go see the lawyer," said Skinny.
They let themselves out the door and closed it behind them. They left the television on.