Whitey picked up his Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup, took a swig, and he, the skinhead
and his charge left the platform - the way Whitey and Meguilina came in. Whitey led them
to his vehicle: a white Chevy Tahoe. It was parked just around the corner. Whitey opened
the back door.
“Put the girl in the truck.”
The man obeyed. Why wouldn’t he after watching three of his boys be slaughtered by the man?
“Your jacket, please.”
Once again…compliance.
“Go on, cover her up.”
Whitey stood behind them, admiring his discovery. When Bill finished covering Meguilina,
Whitey motioned that he come to his side.
“Bill, do you collect art or antiques? I’m sorry, that was stupid of me. You’re probably too
much of a dimwit to know what really good art is. Anyway, I’m an artist and this will be a fine
piece to add to my…a really fine acquisition. She’ll give give me much pleasure.”
Whitey put his arm around Bill and said, “Thanks for your help. Oh, and that would be your
subclavian artery.”
“Bastard…” The skinhead sank to his knees. His own mourning would be his wake for there
would be nobody to claim his body when it would be discovered at first light. If he were lucky
there’d be a blurb in either the Globe or the Herald the next day.