Cold Blood Read Free

went this way: a small movement of the wrists and hands. No greater than the effort it takes to wave good-bye. Shoo away a wasp. Twist the gas cap off a car. Flip open a jackknife. A small, controlled movement. That’s all it would take to flatten someone. A quick jerk of his steering wheel to the right and they would be finished. Gone. All they ever were. All they ever hoped to be. All their high-and-mighty dreams. Crushed. Erased with the slightest movement of his hands. So breakable, the human body. Doesn’t take much to do a lot of damage. Cripple. Kill someone.
    Open. Chink . Close. Chink . She could be that someone. Open. Chink . He saw her weave a bit. She was drunk. He liked drunks. They made it easier. She dropped something. Shoes? She picked them up and kept walking. The dress was a perfect target. When his lights hit it, it glowed. A walking neon sign. HIT ME ! He passed her slowly, took a right down a side street. He wanted to circle the block and drive by her again. Do a little calculating. Close. Chink . Open. Chink . Give it more consideration. Pop another pill. They always made him smarter. Braver, too. He closed the knife for good, shoved it in his pants pocket. He flipped on the interior light and looked over at the passenger’s side. Shit. The top had come off the bottle. Pills all over the seat. He eyed the mess, hunting for the yellowish Adderall tablets. He picked out one and popped it in his mouth. Chewed. It tasted nasty, but chewing worked the amphetamines faster than swallowing whole. He grabbed his Cokecup and sucked on the straw. Watery dregs. How many was that tonight? Two? Three? Doesn’t matter, he thought. As long as he felt wired for action. Gotta fly high this weekend to make up for the week. The week had been a black hole. Most of his work weeks were black holes; his life disappeared into them. Vanished without a trace. He flicked off the dome light.
    He wouldn’t think about flattening someone in a car. Cars were weak. Couldn’t be trusted to handle even the smallest smack. His Ford truck could take it. It had taken it before. Trucks were his safe world. Didn’t matter if he was driving them or working on them. Trucks recognized his talent. Bent to his will and skill. His red F150 had an extended cab and eight-foot box covered by a sturdy topper. Brush guard across the front that protected the lights and grill. There’d be limited damage to the vehicle. Nothing he couldn’t fix himself. If she went up on the hood, she might take the windshield with her. Again, no big deal. He’d get the hell out of town quick. Fix it when he got home. The surface conditions were right. Hard, dry road. There’d be no tracks. He’d drive away. Check the papers in the morning for her name. She probably deserved it. He figured most people deserved to get run over for one thing or another. Maybe it was for something they did that morning. Maybe it was for something mean they did years ago. Could be they forgot what they did wrong; that didn’t make it right again. He wondered what she did. Decided he didn’t care.
    It would be a good night for Sweet Justice, coming as it did on the heels of a black hole week filled with mean people.
    â€œThe shop’s limited on floor space.”
    â€œWe’re vendor downsizing.”
    â€œDoes anyone wear dress shirts anymore?”
    â€œGot flannel? Don’t bother me if it ain’t flannel.”
    â€œRead the sign. No solicitors. Take your shitty shirts outta here.”
    They were shitty shirts, and he knew it. That’s what theside of his truck should read, he thought. GET YOUR SHITTY SHIRTS HERE . He pulled at the collar of his oxford. Stiff and new and scratchy. He hated wearing his own merchandise; all the salesmen had to pay for their own samples and it was a drain even at cost. He was too tall for most of the stuff and it never fit right, but he’d run out of clean clothes and didn’t