The Hitman: Dirty Rotters Read Online Free Page B

justice. It had no effect on me. It wasn’t my
business. And around here you didn’t make any friends by calling
the police for anything you witnessed. Best to turn the other way.
Best to keep your mouth shut. Best to wake up the next
day.
    It was hectic, twenty-four seven. It
was full of crime and unsolved murders. It was dreary and dirty
with an emotional filth that didn’t wash off.
    I found an escape by attending church
each Saturday with Little B. I had told her about the dream I had
where I died. She saw it as more than a dream. She told me it was a
sign. My mother didn’t talk religion at all. I couldn’t shut Little
B up about it. Not that I had tried. After burying my mother, I was
ready to accept some sort of spiritual way of living.
    “ Rotter.” Little B cursed
from the door behind me. “Dirty Rotters. All of them.”
    She had witnessed what I had. Being
that she had lived there for about seventy years, she had witnessed
far more than I cared to dream.
    “ Good morning, grandma.” It
was two o’clock in the afternoon. She just awoke.
    “ Hah!” She yelled, as if
the day was anything but. It was June and already sweltering. It
was ninety out with no wind. Suffocating. Trees and grass were
brown and dying. I had mistaken gunfire for car tires exploding due
to the melting road.
    “ Want some tea, grandma?” I
didn’t call her Little B to her face. Ever. Her real name was
Beach. I never called her that either. Sometimes I had to talk
loud. I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea of what I was
saying.
    I turned to face her, staring at her
behind the screen in the door. She looked like she just woke. Her
short grey hair was standing on ends off the left side of her head.
The right side was matted flat against her pale skin, already
sweaty. She wore the same nightgown now for the past three years.
It was an off-yellow color, with a faded red flower pattern. At one
point in the Jurassic Period when she had purchased it, I’m sure it
had been vibrant.
    “ A day like this and you
would think all those Rotters would be at home in front of their
stolen rotating fans.” She pointed straight across the street to
where about five people my age were lounging. She didn’t have an
indoor voice. Some were looking back at us. “Like them right there.
Don’t they have a back yard for crying out loud?”
    I was sitting on the porch step. I did
it every day. Never once considered sitting in the back yard. “I
tossed out your hamburger. It looked like carpet.”
    She laughed. “I was saving it for the
squirrels. Hoping to kill some of them off!” She walked out of
sight.
    I stopped feeding the squirrels. I
gave a friendly wave to the folks across the street and stood. I
turned to head up the steps when I saw him. Angelo Garboni. The
only Italian around. He was already looking at me, walking the
sidewalk two houses down, heading my way like a side-show Santa
Claus, with his head turning quickly this way then that, eyes
moving sporadically, searching. His left hand clenched tight the
black garbage bag dragging behind him that everyone knew held
nothing but empty pop cans.
    As I walked out to meet him, I felt
the sweat beads race down my back. The center of my T-shirt was
wet. My plaid shorts looked a lot more comfortable than Angelo’s
black sweat pants and shirt. Same outfit every time I saw him. My
sandals were open-toed. His black boots had the thick laces
dangling untied. His sweats were tucked down into his boots. I
fought against the thought of how bad he must have been sweating.
Just looking at him made me want to go take a shower.
    I met him with a handshake and a smile
in front of Little B’s at the sidewalk. His hand was sticky from
the pop cans. His face was shiny with sweat. I could smell the bag,
the thick scent of old pop. The smell I got when I walked into
Meijer. But he was smiling, lopsided and genuine.
    Angelo stuck out like a sixth finger.
I think he suffered from brain damage. His head was