South Central Noir

Vince guessed George would be at the 54th Street drugstore. They didn’t serve booze, but they’d sell a man a setup at the soda counter and there was always somebody hanging around out front hawking half-pints of the cheap stuff.

It was only a little before eight, but George was nursing his last rum and coke at the counter before heading home. He coughed on a swallow when Vince sat down next to him.

“Don’t choke yet, George. I might have to do that for you.”

The short, soft man looked up at Vince through watery eyes. He was still coughing and couldn’t speak.

“George, you’re in deep shit. I don’t want to take you back in the alley, but if I have to, you know I will.” The guy wasn’t bad, just stupid. He should know better than to be in the kind of trouble he was in, and Vince felt sorry for him. But not much.

“Vince, I, I’ve got thirty bucks. If I don’t bring it home the wife’s gonna kill me.”

Vince slumped for a moment. He was good at acting the tough guy, maybe he got it from all the movies he watched, but it took effort. “That’s not enough. You’re about to get it at both ends, George, the wife and me.”

“Wait, wait, Vince, maybe we can work something out.”

Vince waved a fist in front of his face to shut him up. “That’s what we did last week. And the week before and the couple of weeks before that. The Luccas are done making deals, George. They’re not the patient type. Finish your drink and we’ll go for a walk.”

“Jeez, Vince, wait, I, you, you can have my car. You can hold onto it until I come up with the dough. That oughta be worth at least the six hundred.”

The car wasn’t worth anything like that. It was a beat-up old Ford coupe that might go for a couple of hundred if it was nicely polished and parked in the dark when the buyer took a look. Problem was, the car plus thirty bucks still wasn’t enough. The jerk was wearing a watch, but it was a crappy Timex. His wedding ring didn’t look like much either. Maybe the Luccas’d think a good beating was worth another hundred.

George was never going to be good for the rest of the money no matter what happened. Sooner or later the Luccas would have to write off the debt, which Vince knew wasn’t going to happen. Or have Vince kill the guy, which was a line he wasn’t willing to cross. Roughing up a mope was fine with Vince, he understood the necessity. It was business. But offing a guy? Vince didn’t really much care if George lived or died, but leave him out of it. Once he did that there’d be no going back. The Luccas would own him, forever. He’d be stuck doing whatever the hell they wanted him to. So long as he was making money for them and didn’t do anything they could hold over him, he was his own man, mostly.

“Hand over the keys, George.”

The soft guy smiled. “Thanks, Vin.” He handed them over.

“And the thirty bucks.”

He lost his smile. “Gee, Vin, can’t I? You know, the wife, she’s gonna...”

Vince didn’t smile. “No, you can’t, George. Fork it over.”

He pulled out his wallet and took out two tens and two fives, carefully, with two fingers like he was handling something hot. “How’m I gonna get home, Vin? You gonna give me a ride?”

Vince was getting happier by the moment about having to pound on the guy. “No, George, you’re gonna have to figure out how to get home on your own. We’re going out to your piece-of-shit car, you’re gonna give me the registration and sign over the pink slip if you’ve got it.”

He could drag George into the alley once the paperwork was done. There wasn’t much sense in letting the guy know what was coming next. It’d just make him harder to handle.

The car was parked in the alley. That was perfect. It was even more of a heap than Vince had remembered. That wasn’t so good.

“Damn, George, look at this thing. It’s not worth a hundred fifty bucks.”

“It runs good, really it does, Vince. You’ll see. It just needs some detail work, that’s all, really.”

“Shut up and get me the papers.”

George fished the registration and the pink slip out of the glove box. He must’ve been expecting something like this. Who the hell drives around with their pink slip?

“Sign the car over, George.”

“Vince, can’t you just hold onto this stuff? Let me have the car back when I get you the money?”

“No, George, I can’t. This shit barely covers the vig. I’m gonna have a hell of a time convincing the Luccas not to take it out on me.”

“But Vince, I—”

The little guy didn’t see the solid right that took the wind out of him. He doubled over, his eyes going bleary, tears squirting. Vince looked down at him in disgust. His fist had sunk so deep into the blubbery gut that he was amazed it came back out so easily. He waited for George to catch his breath.

The stupe finally straightened up.

“Sign it over and you don’t have to get hit again.” Of course he was going to get hit again, and worse, but for the moment Vince needed him conscious and cooperative.