Amerikan Eagle

He took out the sap, grabbed Wild Willy by the shoulder, and in a voice he couldn’t believe was his own, growled, “Your money, asshole, and now!”

That was the plan.

But Wild Willy had his own plan.

The big man spun around and shouted, “Fuck you!” and a switchblade flashed in a gloved hand. Sam quickly backpedaled away, but not before the blade sliced across his knuckles. Sam punched back with the leather sap, catching Wild Willy on the side of the head, knocking his hat off. The large man cursed again and lunged at him. Sam stumbled back, slipping on the ice. Wild Willy was shouting, “You fucking little shit, you think you’re going to rob me? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Sam fell on his ass. He had never felt so terrified, so alone. Other times he’d been in trouble, he’d at least had other cops to back him up, but out here on this cold night, he was alone. And he had crossed a pretty big wide line, for he wasn’t a cop at this moment, flat on his back, with Wild Willy coming after him. He was a criminal. He kicked out hard with his feet, caught Wild Willy in the shins. The larger man fell back, and Sam scrambled up and went after him again, slamming the leather sap into his shoulder, into his neck. As the knife came at him again, Sam struck down on Wild Willy’s face.

Something went crunch, and Sam was now pissed off that he had to be out here, stealing money for a house, acting like a criminal because he didn’t get paid enough, mad that Wild Willy was putting up a fight.

Sam straightened up, breathing harshly, like a racehorse nearing the finish line. Wild Willy was on his back, gasping, wheezing, flailing, making horrible gurgling noises from what used to be his face. Sam grabbed the man’s arms, dragged him into the shadows of an alley. He knelt, wetting his knees in the snow, then went through the man’s pockets, his hand shaking so violently he dropped the thick paper envelope that he found. He picked up the envelope, trembling, and then ran up the street, the cold air burning his lungs. He ran two blocks. That’s where the shakes really hit him hard, and he threw up among some trash bins, heaving until all that was left was bile.

He got home to the cramped apartment about fifteen minutes later. He pushed himself into the tiny bathroom, washing and rewashing his hands, the brown blood from Wild Willy streaming into the sink. The water was cold, the water was always cold, and when he was done, he dried with some toilet paper, flushed it away, and opened up the envelope.

Seven hundred and twelve dollars. Two hundred more than what he needed. He put the money back in the envelope, hid it on a shelf in a rear closet, and stumbled off to bed.

A month later, when they looked at their house on Grayson Street, his very pregnant Sarah hooked her arm through his and said, “Sam, besides our wedding day, this is the happiest day of my life.”

He couldn’t say anything, for when Sarah had spoken, all he could hear was the desperate wheezing of Wild Willy, broken and bleeding, in that frozen alleyway.

* * *

So there. He looked at himself in the mirror, then at his hands.

They were clear of blood. All that covered his hands was his own skin.

He shook his head, ran the water some more, picked up the bar of soap, and started scrubbing again, knowing there were some things that just couldn’t be washed out.

PART FOUR