Stiffed by Rob Kitchin Read Free Book Online Page B

garage, passing us without saying a thing.  He hides the gun inside a large plant pot and sets off again.
    Whilst Jason is keeping Mrs Choi occupied, Paavo and myself move the bodies to the van. 
    The only thing Paavo says is: ‘We need to wrap these in plastic.’
    When I ask why, he replies: ‘The smell.’
    Damn .
    We head to Jason’s lair and help him carry six boxes to the van.  They’re full of magazines, books, war games toys, cables and assorted forms of other crap.
    ‘You’re a dead man, Tadhg,’ Jason hisses.  He’s changed clothes into red shorts, white sneakers with no socks, and a tent-sized black t-shirt with ‘Fat people are harder to kidnap,’ printed on the front.  I’m not sure whether he’s wearing it as a challenge, a threat or to drop a subliminal message.   
    ‘Relax, we’ll bring it back later.’
    ‘You sent my mother to my room!’
    ‘Did you want me to send her to the garage?’
    ‘Never send her to my room again.’
    The man needs to get a bit of perspective.

 
    3
     
    Any man can make mistakes, but only an idiot persists in his error —   Cicero
     
    The five of us are in Paavo’s van – Paavo behind the wheel, me in the middle, Jason on passenger side, Marino and Junior in the back.
    ‘Head up Telegraph Road and stop at John Philips ’,’ I instruct Paavo.  ‘We need to buy gas to burn the clothes and mattress.’
    John Philips ’ gas station is a local institution.  Gas station, grocery, diner and hardware store combined into one plot, braced by a large RiteAid store on one side and the Kill Fat Fitness Centre on the other.  It was built in a different era, when it was probably a good mile outside of town on the road north and surrounded by fields.  A low density mix of housing and strip malls crept out to meet it, skipped over its dated charm, and continued on its way, covering good quality soil with acres of tarmac and architecture that the next generation is unlikely to thanks us for.  Stretching off on either side of the road is leafy, low density suburban sprawl, one subdivision after another.
    ‘We can get breakfast as well ,’ Jason says, rubbing his ample stomach.  The man is ruled by his appetite, which is prodigious.
    ‘Takeout,’ I say.  Once Jason sits down we’ll be there an hour.
    ‘The works.  I’m starving.’
    ‘Once you’ve lost three hundred pounds you’ll be starving.  At the minute, you’re just peckish.  You’ve just had a donut.’
    ‘An appetizer.’
    ‘We eat,’ Paavo states firmly.
    ‘We can eat after we’ve got rid of … you know,’ I gesture my thumb over my shoulder.
    ‘We eat now,’ Paavo re-states. 
    ‘I really …’
    ‘Empty stomach, empty mind.’
    ‘Is that an army slogan?’ I ask, starting to lose my cool.  ‘Fuck the army, we need to get rid of those two back there.’
    ‘Army knows best.’
    The army knows best?  Only someone in the army should live his life by army slogan s.  Everyone else should have a free pass.
    ‘We get the gas, ’ I persist, ‘drive up to Old Malachy’s Mill, dump the bodies, torch everything else and then eat.  What if we’re caught with Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee?’
    ‘We go to jail,’ Paavo says calmly.
    ‘Exactly!’
    ‘With a full stomach.’
    I’ve somehow managed to end up friends with a pair of idiots more focused on their next meal than the next twenty years.  We pass one of Annabelle’s stores on our right.  Annabelle’s Delights .  Purple script on a pale pink surround, the window full of chocolate temptations.  It’s still closed thankfully, otherwise Jason would no doubt want to stop for a little pick-me-up.  Or a bucketful.  And I’d find it difficult to pass up one of her brownies and Paavo would almost certainly have a mocha and a rum and raisin slab.  Then we’d all be wired on a sugar rush breakfast.  Not a good idea.
    ‘Well, I’ll go while you eat,’ I offer.
    ‘You don’t drive, remember,’ Jason says.  ‘