No One Walks Away
Paula’s Diner sat at the end of a gravel road, a rusting hulk of stainless steel. A holdover from an earlier time, and the perfect place for Ray to lay low. It sat on the opposite side of the road from the small airport where Ray had chartered a pilot to get him and Ira out of the country. Not ideal, but good enough. Especially given the circumstances.
Ray shifted uncomfortably in the booth in the corner. He kicked the duffle bag between his legs for the umpteenth time, just to make sure it was still there. He stared out the window into the night fog to pass the time. In between the faded lettering on the window, Ray watched the nearing headlights of a 1958 Cadillac Coupe Deville. Luther’s car. Despite all the running, he knew in the back of his mind that Luther would catch up with him. It was inevitable. He cracked his neck before scanning the restaurant. No other customers. No witnesses. Perfect for Luther. Not so much for him. The bell above the metal diner door chimed, marking Luther's entrance.
Towering at six foot four and weighing in just under three hundred pounds, Luther occupied the entire doorframe. He strolled towards Ray, wearing a black trench coat, and a shit eating grin so wide that you would think Paula’s served manure. He stroked his mustache and sat himself across from Ray in the booth.
“So, where is she?” he inquired jovially, barely glancing up as he reached into his trench coat.
Ray tensed up. This amused Luther, who could sense the reaction without even looking up. It was probably what he wanted. Pulling his scarred hands from the breast pocket, he produced a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo lighter. It was adorned with a cartoon of a nude woman proudly displaying her breasts. Always a class act.
Luther opened his shit eating grin to chomp down on a cigarette.
“Bathroom," Ray choked out.
With a light metallic clink, Luther flipped open his lighter and brought it up to his mouth. He took a puff, letting the smoke billow in the air between them.
“Shame,” he purred, “she has to die too, you know.”
Ray snarled at Luther. He risked too much to let it all fall apart now. For himself. For Ira. Luther noticed. He was incensed by Ray’s disrespect for the rules -no- the order of the world they lived in.
“Come on, kiddo. You should’ve known better.” Luther took the cigarette out of his mouth and waved it as he continued, “You had it made. The Diamond Job went off without a hitch. Then you went and fucked it all up. Killed some solid men. You thought you could double cross The Bull and get away with it? Shit, if he called me in earlier, instead of those amateurs you dealt with at the Crimson Club, you never would’ve made it outside the city limits.”
Ray was shaking. A mix of anger and fear. The adrenaline was pumping through him. This only amused Luther further.
“You have nothing to be mad about. You brought this on yourself. And her.” he nodded his head to behind him and to the left, towards the bathroom.
Luther went back into his breast pocket. Over his shoulder, Ray could see Ira just leaving the bathroom. The two locked eyes for a brief instant. She understood what was happening. Ray promised her that they would be safe. Safe from the bad men that he worked with. Like so many other promises that Ray made, it looked that one was broken.
Ray looked back at Luther, who was gripping his pistol firmly. Unlike The Bull’s other men Luther had an old soul’s taste in firearms. A Ruger 22/45 Lite pistol with an aluminum ventilated barrel and rubberized grip. An updated version of an old classic. It was Luther’s darling. Screwed onto the front was a long black suppressor, staring Ray down. The Ruger had a capacity of ten rounds, but Ray knew that Luther would only need two. His didn’t earn his reputation by missing, after all. Luther pulled back the cylindrical bolt. It made a cold and heavy clack that sank what was left of Ray’s heart.
Luther eased back in the booth, the Marlboro bobbing up and down in his mouth as he spoke.
“Kiddo, with shit like this,” he shook his head definitively, “no one walks away.”
Ray closed his eyes.
He heard a thud.
“Ray, we gotta get the fuck outta here!”
Opening his eyes, he saw Luther slouched over on the table, a steak knife buried in his back. Ira grabbed the Ruger off the table and tucked it in her jeans. Ray reached into the duffle bag, leaving a solitary diamond on the table. It sparkled in the pool of Luther's blood. A sufficient tip for a waitress who was in for quite the shock when she returned from her smoke break. Ray zipped the bag back up, and the two headed for the tarmac.
Ray took a hearty breath of the cold night air in through his nostrils. It felt like freedom. Like Italy. Or maybe France. Greece, even. Hell, they had a lifetime to decide where they would go. The jet’s stairs folded out onto the ground. Ray placed the bag down and grabbed Ira’s delicate hands. Her hair streamed in the wind. Ray imagined her in a more beautiful vista. The warm sun setting behind her. A drink in hand. Her beautiful blue eyes locked with his. As he reached down for the bag, Ray felt two sharp punches in his chest. The wind left his lungs. He looked up at Ira. Her beautiful blue eyes were now ice. Ray stumbled before falling on his back. Ira walked back to him with Luther’s pistol in her hand. Crouching to pick up the bag, she spoke in his ear.
“Sorry Ray, but a girl’s gotta look after herself. You’re just not gonna cut it for me.”
She paused, taking a moment to snuff out any last bit of guilt that was leaning on her conscience. Ray's eyes reached out to hers, scrambling for an answer. Ira looked back towards the plane. Turning back to him one last time, she said her goodbye:
“I'll send you a postcard. Be seeing you.”
She turned around towards the jet. The doors folded shut behind her. She didn’t turn back. The jet began to taxi. Lying in the growing pool of his own blood, Ray stared up into the night sky. He looked at the moon, which was quite beautiful. A small consolation. He tried to enjoy the soothing whistling of the night wind before it was drowned out by the roaring of the engines.
He watched the jet fly overhead and closed his eyes.
Ray shifted uncomfortably in the booth in the corner. He kicked the duffle bag between his legs for the umpteenth time, just to make sure it was still there. He stared out the window into the night fog to pass the time. In between the faded lettering on the window, Ray watched the nearing headlights of a 1958 Cadillac Coupe Deville. Luther’s car. Despite all the running, he knew in the back of his mind that Luther would catch up with him. It was inevitable. He cracked his neck before scanning the restaurant. No other customers. No witnesses. Perfect for Luther. Not so much for him. The bell above the metal diner door chimed, marking Luther's entrance.
Towering at six foot four and weighing in just under three hundred pounds, Luther occupied the entire doorframe. He strolled towards Ray, wearing a black trench coat, and a shit eating grin so wide that you would think Paula’s served manure. He stroked his mustache and sat himself across from Ray in the booth.
“So, where is she?” he inquired jovially, barely glancing up as he reached into his trench coat.
Ray tensed up. This amused Luther, who could sense the reaction without even looking up. It was probably what he wanted. Pulling his scarred hands from the breast pocket, he produced a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo lighter. It was adorned with a cartoon of a nude woman proudly displaying her breasts. Always a class act.
Luther opened his shit eating grin to chomp down on a cigarette.
“Bathroom," Ray choked out.
With a light metallic clink, Luther flipped open his lighter and brought it up to his mouth. He took a puff, letting the smoke billow in the air between them.
“Shame,” he purred, “she has to die too, you know.”
Ray snarled at Luther. He risked too much to let it all fall apart now. For himself. For Ira. Luther noticed. He was incensed by Ray’s disrespect for the rules -no- the order of the world they lived in.
“Come on, kiddo. You should’ve known better.” Luther took the cigarette out of his mouth and waved it as he continued, “You had it made. The Diamond Job went off without a hitch. Then you went and fucked it all up. Killed some solid men. You thought you could double cross The Bull and get away with it? Shit, if he called me in earlier, instead of those amateurs you dealt with at the Crimson Club, you never would’ve made it outside the city limits.”
Ray was shaking. A mix of anger and fear. The adrenaline was pumping through him. This only amused Luther further.
“You have nothing to be mad about. You brought this on yourself. And her.” he nodded his head to behind him and to the left, towards the bathroom.
Luther went back into his breast pocket. Over his shoulder, Ray could see Ira just leaving the bathroom. The two locked eyes for a brief instant. She understood what was happening. Ray promised her that they would be safe. Safe from the bad men that he worked with. Like so many other promises that Ray made, it looked that one was broken.
Ray looked back at Luther, who was gripping his pistol firmly. Unlike The Bull’s other men Luther had an old soul’s taste in firearms. A Ruger 22/45 Lite pistol with an aluminum ventilated barrel and rubberized grip. An updated version of an old classic. It was Luther’s darling. Screwed onto the front was a long black suppressor, staring Ray down. The Ruger had a capacity of ten rounds, but Ray knew that Luther would only need two. His didn’t earn his reputation by missing, after all. Luther pulled back the cylindrical bolt. It made a cold and heavy clack that sank what was left of Ray’s heart.
Luther eased back in the booth, the Marlboro bobbing up and down in his mouth as he spoke.
“Kiddo, with shit like this,” he shook his head definitively, “no one walks away.”
Ray closed his eyes.
He heard a thud.
“Ray, we gotta get the fuck outta here!”
Opening his eyes, he saw Luther slouched over on the table, a steak knife buried in his back. Ira grabbed the Ruger off the table and tucked it in her jeans. Ray reached into the duffle bag, leaving a solitary diamond on the table. It sparkled in the pool of Luther's blood. A sufficient tip for a waitress who was in for quite the shock when she returned from her smoke break. Ray zipped the bag back up, and the two headed for the tarmac.
Ray took a hearty breath of the cold night air in through his nostrils. It felt like freedom. Like Italy. Or maybe France. Greece, even. Hell, they had a lifetime to decide where they would go. The jet’s stairs folded out onto the ground. Ray placed the bag down and grabbed Ira’s delicate hands. Her hair streamed in the wind. Ray imagined her in a more beautiful vista. The warm sun setting behind her. A drink in hand. Her beautiful blue eyes locked with his. As he reached down for the bag, Ray felt two sharp punches in his chest. The wind left his lungs. He looked up at Ira. Her beautiful blue eyes were now ice. Ray stumbled before falling on his back. Ira walked back to him with Luther’s pistol in her hand. Crouching to pick up the bag, she spoke in his ear.
“Sorry Ray, but a girl’s gotta look after herself. You’re just not gonna cut it for me.”
She paused, taking a moment to snuff out any last bit of guilt that was leaning on her conscience. Ray's eyes reached out to hers, scrambling for an answer. Ira looked back towards the plane. Turning back to him one last time, she said her goodbye:
“I'll send you a postcard. Be seeing you.”
She turned around towards the jet. The doors folded shut behind her. She didn’t turn back. The jet began to taxi. Lying in the growing pool of his own blood, Ray stared up into the night sky. He looked at the moon, which was quite beautiful. A small consolation. He tried to enjoy the soothing whistling of the night wind before it was drowned out by the roaring of the engines.
He watched the jet fly overhead and closed his eyes.