Spotty and Pinky rushed out of the bookshop and headed down the sidewalk toward Spotty’s car.
“We need to find Hats,” Spotty said. “If we don’t get proof that he’s the rat instead of you, they’ll never call off the hit.”
“How do we get proof?” Pinky asked.
“We search his apartment, see if he’s got any listening devices stashed away in there. If that fails then we’ll beat a confession out of him.”
“You think that will work?”
Spotty chuckled. “No, but it will sure be fun to try.”
The smile fell from Spotty’s face as he saw something over Pinky’s shoulder. By the time Pinky turned around, it was too late. The yellow clown car raced down the street toward them, the popcorn tommy gun pointed out the window.
“Get down!” Spotty cried.
“Say good-bye, ya dirty rat!” cried the wild-eyed clown when he opened fire.
It was Winky Gagliano, a trigger-happy young turk from another crew who was always itching to whack anyone at any given opportunity. He giggled, firing popcorn bullets across the sidewalk and through the bookshop’s windows.
Spotty threw Pinky to the ground as the bullets rained down on them. Pinky covered his face and vital areas, surrounded by popping sounds as the bullets hit the cement. When the car drove on and the gunfire went silent, only the roar of the engine and Winky’s giggling could be heard echoing through the street.
Getting to his feet, Pinky felt his body. He wasn’t hit. He wasn’t even grazed. Pinky knew the danger of being hit by a popcorn bullet. Those things expanded the second they entered your flesh, like popcorn popping inside your body. They could do five times the damage of a normal bullet.
“That was a close one, eh Spotty?” Pinky said, looking over at his mentor.
But his mentor wasn’t moving. A pool of blood formed beneath him. Cockroaches scurried across the ground in circles around him.
“Spotty!”
Pinky went to him, turned his body over. Two bullet holes dotted his chest. The old clown wheezed.
“He popped me good,” Spotty said, gasping out a laugh.
Pinky put pressure on the wounds. “Hang on.”
Sir Reginald Van Pumpernickel looked out of the entrance to his store. He saw Spotty on the ground, bleeding all over the sidewalk.
“What happened?” Pumpernickel asked, standing in his doorway as if afraid to go out in the street. “Is he okay?”
“Call an ambulance,” Pinky told him. “He’s been hit.”
“I shall immediately,” Pumpernickel said, and ran back inside to call for help.
“Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right. I’ll get you to a hospital.”
Spotty shook his head. “No, you gotta get out of here, kid. You don’t have time for this.” He pulled his car keys from his pocket. “Here, take my car.”
Pinky ignored the keys, too focused on stopping the bleeding. “I’m not just going to leave you here.”
“You’ve got to go after Hats,” Spotty said. He pushed Pinky’s hands away from his wounds and folded his fingers around his keys. “Prove your innocence to the boss and the hit will be called off.”
“But I can’t let you die,” Pinky said, fighting the tears forming in his eyes.
“I’m probably dead already,” Spotty said. “But you still have time to save yourself. Get out of here. Prove you’re not a rat. Marry that girlfriend of yours. You still got your whole life ahead of ya.”
Pinky scanned the street. He didn’t want to leave until he heard the sound of ambulance sirens, but he didn’t have time to wait. And judging by the look of him, Spotty didn’t seem like he was going to make it either way.
“Don’t die,” Pinky said. “You’ve got to be the best man at my wedding.”
Spotty didn’t respond. His eyes rolled back and his body went limp. Pinky turned away. He didn’t want to believe his mentor was really dead. He got into the little red clown car and sped away.
After he was gone, Spotty’s pet cockroaches scurried around his body. One made its way up to his nose and perched off the tip, staring down at the clown and wiggling its antennae.
Spotty opened one eye and saw the roach staring down at him. “Luigi, what are you doing there?” He smiled a blood-caked smile and then lifted the little bug off his nose. “You wouldn’t by any chance know how to treat a bullet wound, would you?”
The roach wiggled his antennae.
“No, I didn’t think so,” he said.