The Feet of God
66 - PAYDAY
I was dazed but I knew I
needed to get out of the plane wreckage.
Although tightly wedged into the backseat, I unsnarled the rope seatbelt
and managed to pinch my way out. I
crawled onto rocks and glass, heart pounding, gulping for air. This first day on my new job was not working
out the way I’d hoped.
I heard Yeller Tom again, “Help me…mon ami…help me.”
I crawled back to the busted fuselage where Yeller Tom was lay’n hunched over
inside. He barely moved as he clutched the black briefcase tight in his hands.
“Come on,” I urged him and grabbed the back of his jacket, “let’s get the hell
outta here. This thing’s leaking gasoline
all over the place.”
Then I noticed the control stick had run him clean through. “Oh, good Lord. This isn’t good. You’re skewered.”
He glared at me with green eyes start’n to cloud over.
“Okay, okay,” I nervously rubbed my hands against my pants. “Let’s see if we can get you free.” I pulled and tugged and twisted that bloody
stick. Yeller Tom may have been
screaming in agony, but this was not a job for the faint of heart, and I was
undeterred. “You know,” I said, “this
would be a lot easier if you’d let go of that briefcase for a minute.”
He looked away, and bit down hard on his lower lip.
After one last wrenching jerk, the control stick pried loose and I yanked it
out. Finally unstuck, Yeller Tom pitched
from the side of the plane and tumbled downhill until coming to a stop on a
stony outcrop. I then dragged him by his legs
over stones and gravel to a stretch of boulders safely removed from the flaming
plane.
He was gasping for air but managed to rasp, “You are going to have to finish
the job.”
“I been meaning to talk to you about that.
I need to hand in my resignation.”
“Take this,” he held up the case at me.
“Inside is information about my connections. Use it to go find Colonel Stilton. He will be with The Fat Boy. You must kill them both. And grab the royal jelly…you must get the
royal jelly.”
Yeller Tom stopped as he gurgled and groaned, his head rolled around a
bit. But he seemed to rally when it
snapped right back and he looked at me straight with them olive green eyes.
“The Colonel and The Fat Boy are partners, kill les bâtards.”
I could hardly believe it. Here I was, a
recent survivor of a terrible plane crash, and a dying man’s last request is
for me to go out and kill some strangers.
But I wasn’t interested in murdering someone else for payback as much as
I was thinking about getting my own pay.
“Uh, my timing might not be so good and all, but when do I get paid?” I asked.
“It’s all in here. Just do it. Avenge my death. Avenge maman. You must.”
He shoved the leather case into my hands. “Hurry and get away from this place before
people start coming.”
Yeller Tom laid in an expanding pool of red.
He was doubled-up in pain, clenching his stomach, unable to stop the
gushing blood, frothing at the mouth.
After a lengthy moan in anguish, he fell silent. Then, moments later, he uttered the last word
of his life, “Maman.”
I scooted away from the body and decided to find out what was so important
inside this black briefcase. I noticed
it was a really high-end piece of work, too, made from quality rawhide with the
initials YT tooled between the brass catches.
I peeked in. Yeller Tom’s black
pistol was sitting on top of some papers, and the rest was pure cash.
I couldn’t believe my luck. I started
nervously counting the bundles of $20’s.
I had six stacks in a row, three rows deep and four layers, which is
eighteen times twenty, times four layers, plus the two bundles I’d already
accounted for, times…no, wait…carry the….
Well, there was a shitload of Jacksons suddenly deposited into my lap,
so it was turning out to be a pretty good payday after all.
Not that I was gonna be a hitman for the dough.
I already quit my job, and besides, my employer was a cat on his 10th life. I figured I’d take my pay for services
rendered, earned frequent flyer miles, survivor benefits, plus a very generous
severance package. I worked hard for
this money, dammit.
Wandering around with this much cash required some protection, so I took a look
at the big black gun. I wondered if this
beauty was loaded. Was the safety on?
I held it up with both hands and squinted like a TV detective, pretending I was
really aiming at something. Before I
knew what’d happened I’d shot off several rounds. It was an automatic. Bullets flew out everywhere and ricocheted
off the scattered rocks. I hit the
ground just as sparks from the bullets ignited the plane’s gas tank into a gigantic
ball of fire.
What was left of that crashed little blue biplane was incinerated beyond
recognition in the final explosion.
Parts flew all over the place again and metal chunks was fall’n all
around. One thud next to my head turned
out to be a birdcage with the smoldering remains of a pigeon at the bottom. So much for my plan to communicate Yeller
Tom’s untimely demise with whoever was at the other end. I suppose it was probably Madame. Should I contact Yeller Tom’s mother? Nah, I hate these kinds of
conversations.