Smart-ass in front of Slim in the security queue at Midway couldn’t keep his mouth shut, guy dumping his shit in the plastic box, two fucking cell phones and a PDA coming off his belt like he was Batman or something. Cole-Haan slip-ons, money clip with a Franklin on the outside, maybe a grand there unless it was a flash roll. Slim would have dipped that, but he was on a job.
“Take off your belt, take off your shoes, like being in the joint of something,” Two-Phones said, looking back at Slim for the smile and nod that would tell him he’s one of the big swinging dicks. But Slim figured if some hack hadn’t made you bend over and spread your cheeks, then it was nothing like the joint. Slim gave Two-Phones his shower face.
Slim did his first jolt in Joliet at 18. Being fresh young white meat in that hole made him the blue-plate special on the shower menu, so he learned early not to give it up easy, and he gave it up so hard that pretty soon he didn’t have to give it up at all. One look at the shower face and Two-Phones decided to give his act a rest.
The Old Men wanted Fish Garbanzo clipped. Had a couple guys take a run at him last week, but Fish had that mutant nephew of his, Beans, with him – size of a single family home, fists like knuckled cinderblocks, and some sort of handgun savant, like the only part of his brain that worked right was the part about shooting people. Couple hot shit trigger jockeys out of Detroit made the try outside a strip joint on Halstead and Beans left ‘em in the street sporting 9mm bindis.
So the Old Men called Slim. Fish was heading out of town – word was maybe a meet with the Feds. Airport suited Slim. Airport was the one place where Beans wouldn’t be strapped, and Slim didn’t want to get all OK Corral with Beans.
Fish and Beans were maybe a dozen people ahead of Slim, taking a left over to the Food Court. Slim cleared security and watched them from the bookstore at the mouth of A concourse.
Fish was a delicate old fuck, liver-spotted head, sipping on something. Beans sat down with a pile of slop he’d grabbed and started shoveling it in. Beans had been in the joint too, and still ate like it, but Slim figured there were some habits you oughta leave inside.
Then Fish and Beans got up, headed around the corner of the pretend Irish bar for the can, two-stall job most people didn’t know was back there. Showtime.
TSA pukes will take away your nail clippers, but Slim loved the shit they let you bring through. He had the computer power cord, the one with the half-pound brick of transformer, knotted up into a perfect sap, and he’d used the bench grinder on a toothbrush, filing that down to a point like an ice pick.
Beans was standing by the sinks when Slim pushed into the john. Slim had the sap in his right hand, behind the laptop bag, and the toothbrush tucked up inside his left forearm. He dropped the bag and snapped the transformer down hard right on top of Beans’ head. Not like that was gonna put Beans all the way down, though. Slim slipped under a massive right, let the force of the punch turn Beans, then drove the tooth brush up under the base of Bean’s skull all the way in to the bristles. He could see Bean’s face in the mirror, all Mongoloid looking now, eyes drooping, mouth hanging open. He caught Beans under the arms, backed him into the empty stall and plopped him down on the crapper. Five seconds since Slim hit the door.
“Fuck’s goin’ on?” Fish muttering in the handicap stall. Slim kicked the door in, the old man on the can, pants around his ankles, knees sticking out of his stringy legs like knots on tree branches. Slim waved his left hand up over Fish’s head, got his chin up, then drove the fingers of his right hand into the old man’s throat. Felt the trachea go. All over.
Slim locked the door to the stall then slid out underneath, did the same for Beans. Heard the old man’s bowels let go, dumping a load in the can. Last dump, last meal, whatever. Be a while before anyone forced the stalls open, plenty of time to get gone.
Slim was just about to zip the power cord back in his bag when Two-Phones walked in the door. Took one look at Slim, snapped his trap shut and took a hard left to the urinals. Slim washed his hands, watching in the mirror. Fuck just leaves, he’s still good.
But Beans’ head was leaking and he must’ve slumped against the wall closest to the pissers. Two-Phones saw the blood oozing out under the stall – Slim could see him tense up. Fuck.
Slim bull-rushed Two-Phones, putting a forearm up against the back of his head, bouncing his face hard off the tile, then got his right hand around to the far shoulder, left hand cupping the chin, snapped Two-Phone’s neck. Before he dropped him, he plucked the money clip out of the right front pants pocket. Franklins all the way through.