Flyboy watched the train pull in, just
before midnight, and kept an eye on the passengers who were getting
out. He needed an easy target—something he could pull off alone.
He'd score a few bucks and maybe increase his standing in the gang at
the same time.
The last two were perfect—an old man
in a wheelchair, and a skinny guy pushing him around. They wouldn't
make any trouble.
Flyboy followed from a distance, then
started to close the gap once they got away from the station. The old
man had some kind of instrument case with him; something like a
guitar, but with a different shape. Maybe that was worth some money
too.
About a block or so before the bus
station, Flyboy caught up with them, and pulled a revolver out of his
pocket. “'Scuse me, folks,” he said. “Wonderin' if you'd like
ta make a...whatchacallit, charitable donation.”
The young man looked very nervous;
Flyboy wasn't sure if the old timer noticed at all. “Please,
mister. My grandfather and I just got into town, and he's very sick.”
“I don't want your life story; I want
your money. And whatever's in that case.”
The young man started openly pleading.
“Not that, please. It's all he has left.”
Flyboy pointed at the patch on his
maroon jacket. “See this? This means I'm part of the Sevens, and
that means I run this part of town. I do what I want, and if you
wanna make it to breakfast tomorrow, you do what I want too. Now
let's see what's in that case.”
The old man obliged, his hands shaking,
although Flyboy suspect that wasn't so much from fear as from being a
thousand years old. When the case opened, Flyboy looked down on a
well-traveled banjo that had definitely seen better days. The rim was
dented in several places, and it looked like several repairs had been
made to the neck. Something was written on the head, but Flyboy
couldn't make it out for all the stains. “Oh, man. What the fuck
did you do to this thing?”
“I'll show you.” With astounding
speed—especially for such an old man—he leaped out of his chair
and swung the banjo at Flyboy's head. He was dead before he hit the
ground.
It took some effort, but the old man
finally dislodged his banjo from the gang member's skull, then
collapsed back into his chair, coughing.
The young man sighed. “Grandpa, you
can't be doing that kind of stuff anymore. Remember your condition.”
“Never been one to take shit; ain't
about to start now,” the old man grumbled. He put the banjo back in
its case, while his grandson covered him with the blanket. “Reminds
me of those days in Chicago...”
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