16th Day - A boring job

Reading time: 4 min

Photo by Sammy Williams on Unsplash

Michelangelo sucked on his cigarette, wiping sweat from his forehead with the jacket sleeve. He glanced at his watch, then freed himself from the tie, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Hey,” Patrizio said. “Put it back on.”

“It’s hot.”

“It doesn’t matter. The boss said…”

“The boss said, the boss said; I don’t care.”

“You’ll get in trouble.”

“Only if you say something, buddy, but then you’d get in trouble.” Michelangelo touched the machinegun with his elbow, then chuckled, balancing the cigarette between his lips. “I’m bored, and I’m hot. Can you please let me be?”

“You youngsters have no respect. That’s the job. It pays the bills.”

“I prefer being judged by my accomplishments, not by my clothes.”

“All right, do whatever you want.” Patrizio sat down and lit a cigarette himself, puffing the smoke towards the sky.

“Aren’t you bored? Or hot?” asked Michelangelo.

“That’s the job.”

“Don’t you ever dream of doing something else?”

“I don’t see myself being a baker, or an accountant.”

“Even your fantasies are boring.”

“I can’t think of anything more exciting than what we do.”

“Really? I’m sorry for you then, dude.”

“What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s not challenging anymore.”

“Here we go.”

“Seriously dude, it’s not. It was at the beginning, I must admit, but after a while it becomes very repetitive, doesn’t it? Get in the shop, smash the counter, shoot the not-paying son of a bitch. I wish you hadn’t told me the police are ours. At least I would have had the adrenaline of the chase, although fake.”

“Brilliant idea kiddo. Kill a corrupt cop and you’ll end up on the wrong side of the Hudson.”

“New Jersey?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Michelangelo chuckled. “I’m joking, come on. Even joking is forbidden now?”

“You never know,” Patrizio said. “You kids are crazy. Not even two years on the field and you’re already bored. I’ve been doing this for two decades. I’ve built a name for myself, a reputation.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, Pat.”

“Careful of what you say, boy. I’m still your uncle. I can still kick your ass.”

A black Chrysler turned a corner and parked across the street, in front of the building where Michelangelo and Patrizio were waiting.

“Is it them?” Michelangelo asked.

Patrizio looked down and nodded, then grabbed the machinegun resting against one of the hundreds of tv parabolas on the roof.

“Shit,” he said. “A pigeon crapped on the trigger.”

“That’s the job,” Michelangelo mocked him.

“Ah, ah,” Pat replied, rubbing the trigger with a tissue. “Come here, I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, you do, uncle; yes, you do.”

They both got in position, unobstructed view of the Chrysler and the goldsmith shop in front of it. A bodyguard opened the car door and a fat man in a striped suit struggled out.

The firing started.

Bullets poured from the roof to the street, butchering the pavement. The shop window exploded in a million fragments, while the car became a beehive of bullet holes. The bodyguard’s head cracked like a tomato, while the man in the striped suit was hit on his back and deflated on the ground like a balloon with a ridiculously small puncture.

People scattered around. An old lady got caught in the shooting and died on the goldsmith threshold. A boy riding a bicycle cried, holding his bleeding leg.

“And you call this boring,” Patrizio said.

“Yes, Pat. It’s always the same.”

“If it’s that tedious, then you collect the ring from that motherfucker’s dead finger.”

“All right, all right, no need to use that language.”

Before Michelangelo could open the door and walk down the stairs, Patrizio stopped him.

“Mikey,” he said.

“Yes?”

“What would you rather do? What’s more exciting than this?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Travelling. Eating strange food. I don’t know, I’d like to have some mystery in my life, guessing what my life will be a year from now.”

“You must be insane. Why would you leave Manhattan? Everything you need is right here, on this island. Your mother is the best cook in the world, and you want to put in your mouth some weird shit? Mystery, you say. Ask the guy we just murdered what mystery looks like and how he likes it. God, Mikey, I’ll never understand you kids.”

“I know Pat, I know.”