Killshot (1989) Read Online Free Page A

thousand in cash ready and I'll come pick it up sometime. If you don't have it when I come, you're dead. If I see police cruising around that subdivision you're also dead. You understand? You get ready, 'cause you don't know when I'm gonna walk in the door. Or which one that comes in I'm gonna be." Richie paused to think about what he'd just said. He believed it made sense. "I'll tell you something else. You remember a guy working in a Amoco station, one up in Port Huron, was shot dead last year during a holdup? Not last summer but the one before?"
    The real estate man said he wasn't sure, he might've read about it.
    "Well, that was me. The guy had this big roll of bills in his pocket. I knew it was there, I saw it, but he didn't want to take it out. I said, 'Okay, I'll give you three seconds.' By the time he started to reach in his pocket I was at three and it was too late. So I blew him away. You understand? I won't hesitate to blow you away you give me any trouble. Or I find out you have cops in your office pretending to be real estate salesmen. Shit, I know a cop when I see one. Look him in the eye I can tell in a minute. See, you won't know me from any other home buyer that comes in, but I'll know who you got there in the office and if any're cops. If I see any I won't do nothing then, I will later on, some other time. Say you come out of your house to go to work, I could hit you with a scope-sight rifle. You understand? There's no way you can fuck with me. Ten thousand when I come to collect or you're a dead real estate man."
    That was how he'd set it up four days ago.
    The guy should have the money by now, ten thousand, a figure Richard had used in estimating how much he could make robbing a bank in every state of the union, a half million dollars minus Alaska. Except that robbing a bank by yourself you only had time to hit one teller and the most he'd ever scored was $2,720 from a bank in Norwood, Ohio. Another thing different about this one, besides the score, you had to look the part of who you were supposed to be, walk in that office as a young home buyer. The other day he'd swiped a sport coat at Sears, a gray herringbone, the sleeves a little too long but it was okay. Donna got excited and bought him some shirts and ties, thinking he was dressing to look for a job.
    So here he was sitting in Henry's drinking beer, wondering if he might go semicasual and wear the IT'S NICE TO BE NICE T-shirt under the sport coat. Thinking of that but mostly thinking about getting a car for tomorrow. He couldn't use Donna's. Once he drove away from the real estate office with all that money he was gone. If somebody read the license number they could I.D. him through her. Or if he took her car Miss Corrections would turn him in for walking out on her. So he'd have to steal one. Go out in the parking lot after it got dark, see if any fool left their key in the car. People did that, rings of keys they didn't want to carry--stick it under the seat. Otherwise, since he didn't have a tool to punch out the ignition, he'd have to wait for people to come out after they finished their dinner and get in the car with them. Or him or her. That meant taking the person on a one-way trip in the country. But shit happens, if that's the way it had to be. At least he could pick and choose.
    He watched an '86 Cadillac pull into the lot and park. Baby blue with an Ontario plate. Richie liked it right away. He watched the guy get out of the car, short and stocky, his hair slicked back, adjusting his coat, Jesus, getting ready to make his entrance. Richie waited. There he was, the hostess taking him to a table by the front windows. Shit, the guy looked like an Indian. Most likely got paid today. Got all dressed up in his suit and tie to come in here for the dinner.
    Richie liked the car and liked the guy more and more the way he sat there all alone ordering one drink after another, still drinking as he ate his dinner and the river and the trees outside