Free The Evil That Men Do by Dave White

to find a different way to get my money, but I’m also going to consider you a pussy. Understand me, boyo? You’ll go out a pussy.”
    The belt buckle caught him in the back of the head this time, right behind the ear. Carter grunted in pain.
    “Your wife will pay me. She’ll pay to see you alive. And if not, she’ll pay to get your body back for the funeral.”
    “No. Not Susan.” Carter squeezed his eyes shut. “Keep her out of this. She has nothing to do with this.”
    The belt came quick this time. Three shots to the head. Carter tried to roll with the shots, but he couldn’t guess the direction they came from. He tried to force the pain out of his head. He thought of music. Guggenheim Grotto. “A Cold Truth.”
    He sang through clenched teeth. He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t plead. And he most definitely would not be a pussy.
    Hackett was in front of him again. Carter, refusing to look in his eyes, could tell from the direction of his voice.
    “That’s the thing, Franklin,” he said. “Susan has
everything
to do with this.”
     
     
    The closest police station in Clifton was in Styretown. Clifton had a hell of a lot of police stations.
    This wasn’t really a big police station, it was just an office where some cops sat. It was next to a bank and a Coconuts. Carlos thought that was gangsta. He could drop the gun off and then go D-block the latest Akon CD. That shit was hot.
    He pushed the glass door open and felt like he was entering a dentist’s office. His mom used to take him to Dr. Scott’s office, and it was just like this. A few metal chairs, a table, and shitty magazines scattered over it. Against the far wall was a thick glass window, behind which a cop shuffled papers.
    Carlos sat down and felt the barrel of the gun press into his hip. He’d kept it there for the past two days. He’d almost forgotten it was there. And now it was fucking uncomfortable.
    The cop behind the glass, a fat guy with a porno mustache and brown hair combed over, looked up at him. His hair was too long and it made him look like an asshole. He should get a shape-up. Which reminded Carlos — he had to go get a haircut himself soon.
    “Can I help you?” the cop asked.
    “Yeah.” He stood up and walked to the glass. “I found something down by the Passaic River. I didn’t want to leave it there or anything. Some kid could find that shit and hurt somebody.”
    “What is it?”
    “It was like half buried in the mud and sticking out, so I picked it up. I ain’t gonna use it or nothing. I just thought, yo, I should bring this shit to the cops.”
    The cop stopped shuffling his papers. “What is it?”
    Carlos reached under his jersey and pulled out the gun. He didn’t hold it like he was gonna shoot it or nothing. Held it from the barrel. He didn’t want the cop to wile out or nothing. So he held the gun at arm’s length like a bag of dog shit.
    Still, the cop’s eyes widened and his hand immediately went to his own holster.
    “Jesus Christ,” the cop said.
    At that moment, Carlos got pissed he was giving the thing back. He just scared a fuckin’ cop.
    Now,
that
was really gangsta.
     
     
    Iapicca showed up at the front of the hospital as Donne was being pushed through the doors in a wheelchair. The sunlight forced him to squint and aggravated the dull roar in his head. The doctor — a very perceptive asshole in a lab coat — prescribed Tylenol. Donne could have done that. He was going to have to bill his hospital stay to Franklin Carter. It sucked being without insurance.
    Iapicca sported a tie, a white-collared shirt, and sweat stains under his armpits. A line of sweat glistened on his forehead. He looked miserable.
    He must have noticed Donne eyeing him up, and he said, “Yeah, it’s fucking hot. I left my coat in the car. Let’s go.”
    Donne unfolded himself from the wheelchair, thanked the nurse who’d pushed him, and followed Iapicca into the parking lot.
    His car was an unmarked Chevy Caprice.