Gun Monkeys

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I turned the Chrysler onto the Florida Turnpike with Rollo Kramer’s headless body in the trunk, and all the time I’m thinking I should’ve put some plastic down. I knew the heap was a rental, but I didn’t like leaving anything behind for the inevitable forensics safari. That meant I’d have to strip all the carpeting in the trunk, douche out the blood with Clorox, and hope Avis took a long time to notice. I should’ve just taken a second and put some plastic down. Shit.

“Slow down, Charlie. You’ll flag us.” Blade Sanchez popped a Winston into his mouth, crumpled the pack, and tossed it into the backseat.

I grabbed the cigarette out of his mouth and jammed it into the ashtray. “You light another one of them fucking things, and you’re in the trunk with Rollo.”

“Christalmighty, that’s my last one. Jesus, Charlie. What the fuck?” He pawed at the cigarette, but I’d smashed it up good. “I just said slow down is all. You want the state police should pull us over and find Rollo?”

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