The streetlights overhead played havoc with the shadows as I drove the body of Jimmy Jabbers across the Brooklyn Bridge. His body sat like a sack of potatoes in the passenger seat, legs and arms limp as could be, what’s left of his head turned away from me, maybe staring out at the water one last time. His brains lay on his headrest, a pile of spaghetti sprinkled with bits of skull like shavings of parmesan. I’m glad this car ain’t mine.
He was like a brother to me, Jimmy was, but in our business you’ve gotta kill whoever the boss fingers. When old Jimbo’s number came up I thought, hey, it’s better he gets it from me than someone he don’t know. Better he gets it from his old pal Ricky than some schlub.
“You dumb son-of-a-bitch. What the hell were you thinking, screwing Lilly? You think you wouldn’t get caught?”
We hit a bump and his head shook “no” at me.
“Jesus. Usually you shoot your own mouth off, but I guess I beat you to the punch this time, huh, Jimmy? Ha!”
I think he would’ve laughed at that.