Ch. 2
The van turned and twisted its way through the streets of Manhattan, the driver heading east and south, checking his mirrors to be sure he wasn’t being followed. He crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn and drove over to Rutledge Street, a quiet block of two and three-story brownstones. Pulling up to one of the unpainted brick residences with neatly planted flower boxes and a freshly-painted black iron railing, the driver parallel parked into one of several available spaces on the street and put the van into park. He turned and looked into the back of the vehicle to see his cohort clipping the last of four dark brown bungee cords around the six-foot long shag carpet with an unconscious Sue Richards neatly rolled inside its core.
“Did you give her the shot?”
“Do I look like a moron to you? ‘Course I gave her the shot. You were running a yellow light on Delancey Street at the time. Like an idiot. Suppose a cop stopped us! Jeez, Willie, we talked about this.”
“I just wanted to get us here quick, Rick. I was nervous.”
“You coulda’ compromised the mission, jerkwad.”
“I didn’t. We’re here. Now let’s get this bitch inside and get paid.”
“Check around the block. Anybody out there looking nosey?”
“Just some blue-haired grandma walkin’ Fido. Man, what a plug ugly bitch she is.”
“The dog or the woman.”
“I wanna’ say both.”
“Does she look interested in the van?”
“Nah, she’s turned away, watching her beloved pooch take a dump. She’s bending down with a plastic bag in her hand. Let’s move now!”
Responding immediately, the tall man in tan turned the handle, opened the rear door and sprightly hopped out. He grabbed the rolled carpet in both arms and pulled it out almost it’s full length. Willie scurried out of his driver’s door, closed it with a quiet thump and immediately took hold of the opposite end of the carpet as soon as he rounded past the back of the van. The two men hoisted the rolled rug, Rick shut the rear doors with a reach of one free arm, then they carried the rug up the front stairs of the brownstone and inside the building in short order. Rick led the way and there was no fumbling of keys, no hesitation or awkwardness with the foyer door and no undue notice taken by the woman who was now being pulled down the street by the eagerly straining bulge-eyed Boston Terrier.
Inside the open expansive living area of the first floor, the men were greeted by an old gentleman in a black suit who slowly made his way across the fine inlaid wood floor. His bald head featured a ring of white hair that gave him the look of a kindly monk. Which was the very last thing the man might be. Especially since he pulled a pistol and shot Willie in the heart before he had time to finish his jaunty, “Hi Jonesy” greeting.
Added edit:
The shocked face on the thug in the stolen doorman's uniform went from surprise to grimace to blank in the space of seconds. The heavy carpet end he was carrying dropped from his hands and thumped hard on the floor. The heavy body followed it down, bouncing once against the beige backing of the rug before coming to rest over it. The blood seeped out of the chest into the stringy material, staining it with death. Rick cursed shortly as he dropped his end and then straightened up with a frown.
“How many times did he fuck up on the way back?” Jonesy, which wasn’t his name, asked as the muzzle smoke quietly drifted to the ceiling.
“Not more than twice.”
“That’s good for him.”
“Yes,” Rick answered, “but dead weight is dead weight.” He looked down at the bleeding corpse sprawled over the rolled carpet. The hired hand in the doorman’s uniform had served his purpose. Now Rick had to serve his and dispose of the body…with the others.