In a small corner of Philadelphia, a funeral director steals a man’s car as payment on a debt… “Where’s my fucking car?” Joey shouted over the phone. “Where’s my fucking money?” Dean shouted back. “You can’t just—” “But I did,” said Dean interrupting him. “I need the money you owe me.” “You don’t understand,” Joey implored. “This ain’t a fucking charity, Joey.” And he hung up. Dean Sassuolo tossed his cellphone onto the stainless-steel table next to him and went back to preparing Mrs. Chalmers for embalming. As he tied the rubber apron around his substantial girth, the phone buzzed angrily on the table, resonating with the steel. Joey again. He could wait. Friendships, good intentions. That’s what fucks you , he thought. Not that Joey was a friend. Not really. His father, Old Joe Tedesco, had been someone Dean looked up to, and for Old Joe’s sake, he had tried to be kindly with Little Joe, had agreed to work with him when he was short on funds for burying his...
H e was so focused on how many gold necklaces he could grab from the smashed display case that the distinctive cha-chunk of a pump-action shotgun behind his head almost caused Ziggy to faint. “You made a serious mistake, son.” The booming voice of the wrinkled, pink dude behind the glass counter was unnervingly loud. It reminded Ziggy of his grandfather, who would have tanned his hide if he knew what Ziggy was doing. Gramps had been loud too, though Ziggy never considered why that might be. Maybe old dudes with big ears and bumpy, misshapen noses were always loud to compensate for being ancient. “Drop the pistol, put down the necklaces, and face me,” the too-loud voice commanded. Ziggy did what he was told. Under his ski mask his face and head were soaked with sweat. The droplets trickled down his neck. The old dude came around the counter and collected Ziggy’s gun. “This thing is plastic. Is it a water gun? What the hell were you thinking?” Ziggy bit the inside of his chee...
I t never failed. Alex Ingram would approach the checkout counter at the downtown King Drug—it didn’t matter what he was buying, it could have been a birthday card, a newspaper, a Snickers picked up at the register—and there, just ahead of him, would be a senior citizen, on their own or with a husband, wife, or friend. This snowy early spring day was no exception. This one, solo and full-bore into her eighties, a dusty burgundy wig slipped forward, to starboard from Ingram’s perspective, was making an additional purchase besides the items in her cart, the holiday-decorated tin of remaindered hard Christmas candy and a cellophane packet of black support hose. “I’ll take five of them scratch cards,” she said, pointing at the scuffed fiberglass lockbox. “And one of those, just one. For the $100,000 prize.” The cashier pulled the cards, rang them up, told the elderly woman the cost. Burgundy Wave—the name Ingram christened her with while he waited, leaning against the counter—her face p...
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