1987 - October 2nd - 11:58 PM

You could hear the rainfall loud and clear, even if you could barely make it out in the darkness and behind the windows smeared with greasy fingerprints.

The pelting raindrops showed themselves only in the glow of the neon letters spelling out Moe’s BigBite in green and red, shining high above the nearly empty parking lot.

Outside, cars only occasionally rushed down the highway, most of them heading out of the city.

“…I'll have the RibCheese Double. With curly fries.”

“Would you like that as a combo, sir?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“And what drink would you like with that?”

“Zippy Sparkling.”

“I’m sorry, but we only have LemonUp.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his wet, slicked-back hair.

“...fine. Whatever.”

“That’ll be three fifty, please.”

“This crap keeps getting more expensive…,” he muttered as he pulled out a rolled-up bundle, licked his fingers, slid out a bill and laid it on the counter.

Then he took his tray to a free table and dropped onto the bench facing the entrance.

He grabbed a few fries, sucked on the straw, then lit a cigarette.

Minutes later, a car pulled up and parked right next to his.

A short man got out and hurried through the increasingly heavy rain toward the entrance.

He let his gaze wander through the fast food restaurant until he spotted Morris.

Wordlessly he nodded at him, while Morris simply lifted his fingers in greeting and went on chewing his fries.

A short time later the man sat down at the table with his own tray of food.

“Man… this stuff just keeps getting pricier. Three fifty for a combo…”

“Right!?” Morris mumbled with his mouth full.

“And you know what I don’t get, Paulie?” he went on, still chewing loud. “Three-fifty for a burger that tastes like it’s been sittin’ there since yesterday. But still… we keep comin’ back. Damned if I know why.”

Paulie just nodded, chewing a few more bites, then wiped the sauce and meat juice from his mouth with some paper napkins. 

Annoyed, he crumpled them and tossed the scraps onto the tray.

“And they never give you enough napkins! Jesus Christ. Always just two, even though they know after the first bite your mouth’s already a mess.”

He complained so loudly that the kid at the counter heard him and quickly brought a stack of napkins to their table.

Paulie nodded with approval.

“…At least you guys can learn.”

For a while the only sounds were chewing and the rain outside.

Then Paulie leaned back, lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, while staring straight at Morris.

“So. Let’s hear it.”

Morris shoved a few more fries into his mouth, chewed slow. “If my guy in Rangoon ain’t bullshittin’ me, it’s pure. Grade A. About two mil in there. The load’s marked as a stiff transport. Even with a real body. Flies right under the radar.”

“With a real body?” Paulie raised an eyebrow. “Who the hell are they gonna stuff in there?”

“How the fuck should I know! Some chink, I guess. Maybe they whack one, maybe they dig one up. Doesn’t matter.”

He took a sip of his LemonUp, set the cup down and went on, quieter now:

“Anyway, it’s four of us: you, me, Sonny Fontanello and Frankie Hill. Everybody knows their part, everybody gets the same cut. Half a mil each. No bullshit.”

Paulie dragged on his cigarette, his look skeptical. “Sonny Fontanello? Really? That guy’s a goddamn maniac if you ask me. After the thing he pulled last time, I don’t know if I ever wanna work with that bastard again.”

Morris raised his hands like he wanted no trouble, shrugged.

“Believe me, I’d rather not either. But his old man’s the Don. So it’s Sonny… or no deal.”

Paulie shrugged. “When?”

Morris glanced at the neon sign outside, the rain hammering beneath its glow.

“Mid-November. Twelfth to fourteenth. One of those days.”

He reached for his burger again, as if they’d been talking about the weather.

Paulie nodded slowly, deep lines forming on his brow. “And customs? We ain’t gonna get hassled?”

Morris leaned back, half-lidded eyes.

“Don’t worry. That’s handled. Details later. Question is: are you in?”

Paulie chuckled briefly, like the answer had always been obvious. “You bet.”

---

The door banged open and three young men pushed inside, rain dripping off busted sneakers and cheap track jackets. Their voices carried like they owned the place.

One kicked over a chair just to make noise, another started hollering at the cashier.

“Yo, hurry that shit up with them chicken wings, man!”

The third one spotted Morris and Paulie, grinning wide.

“Ayo, check this! Two old crackers sittin’ here like it’s bingo night. What’s good, gramps? Ain’t it past bedtime?”

Morris looked up, smiling without warmth.

“Funny, kid. I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

The kid laughed, slapped the table loud. 

Then his boys closed in, crowding the booth, one leaned over, dropped his fist hard enough to rattle the trays.

“Yo, hear this man? Old dude think he slick!"

Paulie chewed his last bite real slow, washed it down with a sip of soda, wiped his mouth and hands with the napkins, then fixed his stare on the loudmouth.

Paulie’s eyes were flat, cold as ice.

“You sure about this?”

The boy's grin slipped when their eyes met.

“…Say what?”

Paulie lowered his arms under the table, repeated himself.

“You sure, huh? That this is what you really want?”

A gust of wind rattled the windows, rain slapping harder against the glass.

But the boys didn’t catch the wink.

One flicked a rusty switchblade open, waving sloppy.

“Man, stop actin’ hard! We cut your ass open right here, on God!”

The other snatched Morris’s tray, dumped it on the floor, fries and soda splashing over the tiles.

Their leader puffed his chest, pulled his own blade.

“Alright, check it. Wallets on the table. Quick. Y’all play stupid, I take a hand. Simple math.”

Paulie sighed, glanced at Morris, deadpan.

“…Alright,” he said. “Here.”

He slid his wallet out slow, dropped it on the table like he didn’t care.

The leader grinned, leaned in and reached for the wallet.

Suddenly Paulie’s arm shot up and slammed a knife straight through his hand into the table.

A scream tore out of him.

“AAHHH! FUUUCK!"

His two sidekicks froze a second, then lunged forward with their knives.

“Yo, cut these old mothafuckers! Slice ’em up!”

Morris kicked one in the shin, sprang up and cracked him across the temple with the butt of his pistol. 

The guy staggered back, half out cold.

The other one rushed Paulie, knife out, but Paulie didn’t even blink.

He drew and fired once.

A single shot ripped his throat wide open. 

The knife clattered to the floor as he clawed at his neck, choking, blood pumping. 

Seconds later he collapsed on the floor.

The leader ripped his hand free from the blade, skin tearing, eyes wide with panic.

“YO, YO, PLEASE MAN! DON’T! I’M COOL, I’M COOL!”

But Paulie twisted his arm behind his back, shoved him over the counter, right into the kitchen.

He smashed the guy’s face into the stainless steel, then glanced at the fryer bubbling beside them. 

Then he grabbed him by the collar.

“Well? Still hungry, asshole?”

He shoved his face down into the boiling oil.

“AAHHHHHHH...”

The scream barely started before it drowned in hissing and the stench of burning flesh filled the room.

The cashier screamed, hands shaking on the phone, but Morris smacked him down hard, the receiver flying.

“We’re done here, Paulie. Let's go.”

The kid’s body sagged, head still sizzling in the fryer, no more movement, while the two of them turned and walked out into the rain.

Behind them the whole joint was frozen in silence.