A Violent Slushie
Stevie finally caught me outside the 7-11 on Boylston. Me and my stupid stomach had to have a blue and green slushie. Didn't even get a chance to squeak before he'd shoved me behind the ice box and jammed something hard into my ribs.
"Why's there a cruiser dogging me?" His breath stank of chili and onion, like he'd forgotten he was supposed to eat the hot dog and used it as toothpaste instead.
"Whoa, whoa," I said, trying to twist free. Stevie's grip matched the rest of him. Strong, large, and something I hoped would never touch me. "You got problems, I got problems too, ok?"
His grip tightened on my neck, his bodyweight crushing me against the cold brick behind. "Took me half the day to lose 'em in Central. I don't have time to play cat and mouse. Not with the boss breathing down my neck,"
"Look I don't know why they're following you. You said keep my mouth shut, I kept my mouth shut! Besides, who's gonna believe me anyway?"
I tried to sink inside my t-shirt, make myself look sad and small. Not hard to do when my life was being threatened. Stevie might not have believed me, but he finally let go. His hand ducked into his coat pocket and I caught the cold sheen of metal being tucked away.
My mom always told me I was a bad liar, that she could read me faster than the side effects on those prescription TV ads. She'd been a good teacher. I'd learned the hard way that the trick to a good lie was to not lie in the first place. Much easier to stretch the truth. Play the odds. Hand to God I didn't know why metro PD had decided to follow Stevie around. The detective inside, though, was probably the one I'd snitched to.
"Can I go get my slushie now? Please?"
I tried to leave, but Stevie shoved me back against the wall with a stiff arm. He looked like a professional linebacker clogging the gap against a pee-wee football team. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought I told you to lie low,"
I snorted. "Lie low, we ain't bank robbers on the lam. You wanna come over to mom's next? We're playing spades this afternoon." My brush with violence and need for high fructose corn syrup made me talkative. Not a good combo.
"Just remember what I said. There were only two people in that warehouse. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out if you squeal. Capisce?"
"Capisce? What the hell does that mean? You buy a word a day calendar or something?"
His arm pulled back. Pain exploded into my solar plexus. Nutella and two Twinkies, my brunch from earlier, painted the cement shades of hazelnut and chemical cream. Luckily none got on his shoes.
"You think I'm an idiot? You think this is a game? I'm trying to protect us!"
I coughed, my legs buckling. I ain't no stranger to getting smacked around, but practice don't make it hurt less. I spat phlegm on the concrete, wiped my mouth clean. "Wouldn't need protecting if you hadn't shot that guard," the words slipped out before I could stop them.
Rage flared in Stevies eyes and I knew I had fucked up.
A bell jangled. The store clerk stepped outside, legs shaking worse than mine were. Must have seen us on the cameras. "I don't want no trouble," he said in a wavering voice. He held a baseball bat the wrong end up, gripping the fat side and waving the skinny side like a flag. "I already called the cops."
Stevie dropped his hands and smiled that way that makes you feel cold all the way through your stomach. Like drinking Novocain through a fire hose. He carefully brushed my shoulder clean, straightened my jacket. The whole time his eyes never left mine. "Go get your slushie, Paul. I'll find you later."