Chumps

Sammy Masters was dead. Bullet in the head, dead. He was now rolled inside a fake Persian rug in the trunk of Nicky Tomasino’s Ford Taurus, and he was just starting to smell, which worried Nicky Tomasino to no end.

“We gotta make this quick,” he said.

“Relax, would you?” Fatman said. He rang the doorbell. “We get the suitcase, put two in the old lady’s head, and we’re gone.”

An old lady opened the door. She looked up at the two men and they looked down at her. She said, “Don’t let the cats out!” and the men hurried inside and shut the door just as two ran out.

“You’re my Sammy’s friends?”

“That’s right, we talked on the phone,” Fatman said.

Sammy’s mother waved them down the hallway and told them not to step on the cats. The kitchen table had two cats sitting on it. The counter had three more.

“Sit down, sit down,” the old woman said happily. “I have cookies for you.”

Nicky said, “Sammy wants us to bring his clothes. We gotta… you know… jam.”

“His room's up-stairs," she said. "But first, have a cookie!” She opened a jar and both men took a few small round cookies and ate them as they climbed the stairs.

“This tastes terrible!” Nicky whispered.

“Sammy made them special for you,” Sammy’s mother called out. “He told me to give them to any friends who come for his suitcase.”

Both men froze on the staircase, both thinking the same terrible thought; maybe Sammy pulled a fast one, and when the walls began spinning, and they found themselves on their knees, they were absolutely one hundred percent convinced of it.

--297 Words--