Chapter 1
Bitch in a Lexus. Awesome.
Todd Brackman watched the silver SUV swing around the corner. The lane lights reserved for account holders only had switched from green to red an hour ago, when the bank had closed, but the ATM lane's light still glowed green.
Green for the green. Brackman wiped the sweat from his face onto his sleeve. Come to get me some cash.
Driving into the city and setting up for this job had taken hell near forever. Brackman had put up with the sweats, shakes, and fever, watching every car, knowing it would work only one time. He'd spent half the day out of sight, hiding behind the bank's Dumpster.
Now here she was. My bitch. Awesome.
She wasn't actually Todd's, but he knew her sort. Beauty-parlor babe, coming home after having her nails polished. Driving too fast, yammering away on the phone as she dropped by to tap the account for more cash. Didn't this one have a phone pressed to her head and a rock on her married hand he could see even this far away?
High-maintenance twat, Todd's old uncle George would have called her. All bucks, no bang.
Something metal crashed into metal, making Brackman tense. The wind must have slammed shut the Dumpster lid he'd opened earlier to shade himself from the sun.
Brackman forgot about the noise and watched the SUV. He guessed she would check him out, so he worked on the tree. Being sweaty might have given it away, but here it actually made him look like he was on the job.
As if he'd ever hump his ass like a landscaper.
Todd thought about his uncle George, who had humped plenty. The old man had had barely enough to eat, a Chevette that farted smoke, and a decrepit single-wide on a back lot in the Lake View Trailer Park. Seemed like heaven when Todd came to live with George after his parents had kicked him out, but then he'd watched his uncle eating mac and cheese four nights a week and never having more fun than getting snot-faced on Wild Turkey every weekend. What had it gotten old G? His heart crapped out, right in front of the drill press he'd run since Kennedy had been assassinated.
The crank Brackman had squirted in the old man's coffee thermos the morning he died had helped, but after George threatened to throw him out, what else could he do? The single-wide was only big enough for one, anyway.
Brackman had dreamed of his uncle when he'd been snoozing behind the Dumpster. Old George had been pissed as always: not about Todd spiking his Folger's, but about the plan. He'd told him not to touch anyone or their green. But the old prick had talked and smelled funny.
It didn't make sense: George had been a sad-ass ancient fart, but he'd have cut his own throat before he turned faggot and started wearing perfume, the way he had in the dream.
Brackman concentrated on the tree again. Screw George. This was a sweet idea, truly awesome, and if nothing went nuts-up, a guaranteed score.
Sweat soaked the front of his O'Malley's Lawn and Tree Service uniform shirt. The name Bobby had been embroidered over the pocket because Todd had stolen it from old George's neighbor. That and some shit from the work trailer hitched to the back of Bobby's rusted-out El Camino. He'd thought about boosting the car, but the nosy assholes at Lake View would have seen and called the cops.
Lousy job for picking up any tail, Bobby had said once when they'd been sharing a little weed after a paintball match. Won't look at me twice when I'm working.
Bobby's too-big uniform hung on Brackman. Last year Bobby had stopped playing paintball and turned into a lazy fat fuck. He'd even had to pay that skank, All-Night Lisa, for sex.
Brackman thought renting pussy when you had a working hand was like burning hundreds for the heat.
Bobby lost his respect for Todd, too. Why you keep saying "awesome" and "freaking" all the time? Sounds retarded. Bobby wouldn't play p-ball anymore, and he'd acted pissy after George had croaked. Bobby had even refused to lend him what he'd needed for this job.
That was why Todd didn't feel bad about sticking Bobby with one of the old man's steak knives that morning.
The bitch pulled up to the ATM and put the SUV in park. Brackman glanced over without moving his head. Phone down, arms elbow-out while she dug through her purse. Two cars sat waiting on a green light a block south.
Perfect. Freaking awesome.
Brackman moved around the trunk of the tree to get closer. He reached in his pocket for the paintball and found it wringing wet. He was sweating buckets; once the bitch put out he'd have to link up with his supplier.
The driver's-side electric window silently zipped down and a tanned hand fed the ATM a debit card. The autoteller's cheerful recorded voice welcomed the bitch to the Anytime Money Service Center and asked for her PIN.
Brackman squeezed the thin plastic ball so hard that he thought for a second it might explode. Wait for it, dude, wait for it. The ATM made a series of four same-tone bleeps as the woman's fingers tapped the number keypad.
The account services menu appeared.
Brackman ran up to the driver's side, reached around the edge of the windshield, and slammed the paintball against the glass. As the thick white paint exploded and the bitch shrieked, he grabbed her wrist and pressed the fourteen-inch blade of the chainsaw against her forearm. The chainsaw's little gas motor blatted as it idled.