"Open up the door, ma'am."
"Told you, ain't here."
"Your presence behind that door indicates otherwise, ma'am. So please, open up. Won't take much of your time."
"Beggin' to differ. What it does indicate is that I'm not here for the talkin' and got no time for it. Now get."
First there was a creak. She could make out their shadows moving like snakes beneath the door where the late afternoon light spread in flat white squares. Her pistol was level with the door handle; shoot their hand off them if she had to.
Next, a soft rattle. Then the door exploded in a shatter of splinters. The sound of it seeming to linger in her ears like reverb as the shock of the moment came in waves; cruel tides that lapped against her ceaselessly as the pain flared brightly. But it was the sound of the door cracking as metal tore through it that had her cringing. It didn't mellow out like the pain was. But she was drifting with the tides.
Bill Laughdnan and Henry Bickers stepped over her body and continued on their way to the safe as Madison Rye lay bleeding from her belly in shock on the floor of her office. The men worked quickly, expertly, their hands sure and steady without a shake. No nervous words, no checking on the woman. The shotgun shell lay fat on the ground by the busted door. The men were shadows to her still, faceless, from where she lay spread. She knew them only by their voices and the stink of grease and sweat and alcohol, a vile fragrance that permeated the area of the small room.
When the men were done, they stepped back over her body with a carelessness that said this was not their first time stepping over a prone woman. Bill smiled and commented on the way her hair spread around her on the floor like a dark sea and said it'd make such a fine painting; one could omit the red. "See, darlin', in art, you tell what you like. If I was a paintin' man, I'd paint you like you was just sleepin' in the sun. I'd never tell the story about the bullet though I am sorry to pain you so." He breathed in his satisfaction with a quick and vacant laughter and rubbed at his whiskers and tipped his hat to her and entered the hall. Henry hung back to toast a stolen bottle of Hennessy her way and toss a coin at her which landed on her chest.
Her eyes fluttered to a close, his face murky as vision fled and dusk ate up all the glare in the room.
"That's a tip, honey, for the toll. When you cross the bridge on your way out. The collector expects his coin."
Then the two tumbleweeds blew on out the door down the stairs. Blood continued to spread into floorboards. The air smelled like iron and tasted like rust. The clock above her desk ticked out the minutes as consciousness went.
The wind was still outside on the street.
"Told you, ain't here."
"Your presence behind that door indicates otherwise, ma'am. So please, open up. Won't take much of your time."
"Beggin' to differ. What it does indicate is that I'm not here for the talkin' and got no time for it. Now get."
First there was a creak. She could make out their shadows moving like snakes beneath the door where the late afternoon light spread in flat white squares. Her pistol was level with the door handle; shoot their hand off them if she had to.
Next, a soft rattle. Then the door exploded in a shatter of splinters. The sound of it seeming to linger in her ears like reverb as the shock of the moment came in waves; cruel tides that lapped against her ceaselessly as the pain flared brightly. But it was the sound of the door cracking as metal tore through it that had her cringing. It didn't mellow out like the pain was. But she was drifting with the tides.
Bill Laughdnan and Henry Bickers stepped over her body and continued on their way to the safe as Madison Rye lay bleeding from her belly in shock on the floor of her office. The men worked quickly, expertly, their hands sure and steady without a shake. No nervous words, no checking on the woman. The shotgun shell lay fat on the ground by the busted door. The men were shadows to her still, faceless, from where she lay spread. She knew them only by their voices and the stink of grease and sweat and alcohol, a vile fragrance that permeated the area of the small room.
When the men were done, they stepped back over her body with a carelessness that said this was not their first time stepping over a prone woman. Bill smiled and commented on the way her hair spread around her on the floor like a dark sea and said it'd make such a fine painting; one could omit the red. "See, darlin', in art, you tell what you like. If I was a paintin' man, I'd paint you like you was just sleepin' in the sun. I'd never tell the story about the bullet though I am sorry to pain you so." He breathed in his satisfaction with a quick and vacant laughter and rubbed at his whiskers and tipped his hat to her and entered the hall. Henry hung back to toast a stolen bottle of Hennessy her way and toss a coin at her which landed on her chest.
Her eyes fluttered to a close, his face murky as vision fled and dusk ate up all the glare in the room.
"That's a tip, honey, for the toll. When you cross the bridge on your way out. The collector expects his coin."
Then the two tumbleweeds blew on out the door down the stairs. Blood continued to spread into floorboards. The air smelled like iron and tasted like rust. The clock above her desk ticked out the minutes as consciousness went.
The wind was still outside on the street.