Good People

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THE SMILE WAS FAMOUS. Jack Witkowski wasn’t particularly a fan, but he’d seen those teeth plenty of times. They shone in the huddle of supermarket checkout lines, gleamed on the cover of a hundred magazines. After a while it was natural to think of the smile as separate from the man, and watching him stop on the club steps to throw it at a gawking chick with a camera phone only reinforced the idea. One minute the guy was just a guy – good-looking and well dressed, sure, but just a guy, and even a little on the short side – then that spotlight smile hit, raw wattage that announced you were in the presence of a Star.

Jack gazed through the windshield, forefinger tapping absently against his shoulder-slung.45. Nines might be the gun du jour, but you couldn’t beat a.45 for stopping power. “One more time.”

Bobby said, “ Marshall lets us in. We take the service steps up. Put on the masks. Be careful not to use names. Will and Marshall tie them. I get the money. We go back out the way we came, head for the Chrysler. If anything goes wrong, we split, meet up later.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

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