Time to Cash Out
Written by T. Fox Dunham“Just cut that shit and tell me what happened.”
Zack dropped wads of tens and twenties on the table, and the loose bills trickled down, some of them landing on the cheesesteaks or the tinfoil wrapping. He collected the bills, wiped off the ketchup and cheese with the sleeve of his shirt, then stacked the money.
“I went bat-shit crazy. All that goddamn sweet sexy green. They were swimming in it at the card game. Shit, I just scooped it all up and stuffed it into my pockets.”
I grabbed a bottle of Advil from my bag, struggled with the broken lid and finally slammed its neck against the table’s edge, cracking the plastic. Zack flinched, ready to bolt. Pills spilled onto the floor, and I grabbed three and washed them down with a mouthful of Jack Daniels from a paper cup. I set the cup down among the plastic drums of Percocet, delivered to us from our pharmacist contact. We’d been dividing up the pills into small plastic sleeves for sale at Penn this week.
Zack sat huddled up on the fold-up chair, rocking and shaking his leg. I hadn’t seen our “intern” this freaked since we took him on his eighteenth birthday to Joe Minnow’s whorehouse to shoot his virginity between the eyes. He hurled twice that night then slipped out the back alley. I didn’t know about his fetish, not that I gave a shit if he wanted to wear women’s underwear under his shit.
“I don’t do funerals, dude,” Louie said then slurped up another hunk of cheesesteak. He swallowed and took a swig from the Jack Daniels, backwashing yellow saliva into the bottle. I punched him in the shoulder.
“Slob,” I said. “Have some consideration.” He ignored me.
“Funerals?” Zack said. “What the hell?”
“When Cannoli cashes out the house at dawn. He’ll come for your ass. I don’t do baptisms, christenings, weddings, or funerals. Just telling you now so you don’t get your panties in a twist.”
Zack flinched again at Louie’s torment and the barb about his fetish, and Louie curled up his right lip grinning, exposing two shattered teeth. He shoved another hunk of steak into his mouth. Cheese leaked down his chin, and I threw a wad of napkins, hitting him in the chest. He threw them back. “Cut the shit, Vincent,” he said.
“What if I put it back and told Frank it was an accident? He’d understand, right? I’m just a stupid kid. I freaked out. Won’t he reward me for my honesty?” I shook my head and took another swig of Jack. The kid still owned his innocence. He hadn’t browned like old bananas yet—something I missed in myself since I started selling Percocets to students at Penn. Louie spit out steak shreds, laughing in spasm.
“That’s why we keep your ass around,” he said. “Shits and giggles. You’re a freaking riot.”
“Fucking God, Lou. I’m going to shove your ball bearings up your ass.” In response, as if by reflex, Louie grabbed the metal marbles in his green hoodie’s pocket and rolled them in his palm. I nodded and raked him with a glance: Try it, you pussy.
“It’s a closed-night game,” I said. “Cannoli locks the apartment door at midnight. Players can leave, but no one can come back in. No phones either. It’s for security, so no one can case the game and signal a partner. Dominic’s ordered it so because of the all the junkies knocking over the games.”
“Our customers at work,” Louie said. “I’m so proud.”
“Shit,” Zack said.
“Old Boss Dom has declared death to anyone who even so much as pockets a dollar chip,” Louie said. “Mind if I hang out with you and watch? I love to see Dominic’s boys at work. One time they ripped out a guy’s stomach and fed it to him. They did it all careful so he wouldn’t bleed to death first.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said. Dominic ruled South Philly, the local boss, and his crew always talked big to intimidate, making themselves out to be real gangsters. Zack jumped from his chair, raced to the bathroom in the abandoned row house and didn’t make it. He dropped onto a soiled mattress in the den, the usual seat for junkies who normally frequented this establishment, and vomited beer and yellow bile.
“We could probably get some points if we did it ourselves.” Louie said, grinning.
“That’s fucking it,” I said. I rushed him and pushed him out of the chair. His back struck the wall and knocked out plaster chunks. He fisted the bearings and struck low on my sternum. The weight of the bearings enforced his punch, knocking the wind out of me. I stumbled back, and he grabbed my throat and threw me down then choked me. My throat burned from his grasp. I grabbed my Luger, snug and holstered in the waist of my black jeans, and pulled it out. He loosened his fingers but didn’t release me.
“Do we have to this every fucking night?” I rasped. He let me go and lowered his hand to help me up. I reached for it, and he pulled it away, letting me fall. “You’re still such a dumbass,” he said. “There is no honorable combat. No chivalry. You need to grow the fuck up too.” I picked myself up and drank from liquor. It cooled my throat. “No offense Zack,” he said. “Dom’s never going to buy that we weren’t in on it.”
I holstered my piece back in my jeans but gripped the handle until my fingers tingled. He had a point. If we didn’t find a way to make this right, Zack would get the three of us clipped. Even if we dropped him in the river, it might not be enough to convince the boss.
“How much is there?” Louie asked. Zack cleaned his mouth with a napkin and his hand shook as he counted. The twenties quickly became tens than ones. He flipped through the last bills then dropped the stack. “I thought there was more.”
“Yeah?”
“Two hundred and fifty-three dollars.”
“I’m going to fucking dump your tranny ass in the river,” Louie yelled. “Dead over change!” He winged his face, and Zack’s nose burst with blood. I didn’t hold Louie back. If he hadn’t hit Zack, I would have. The kid had to wake up. He’d been a good partner when we unloaded some of our percs in William Penn High School, so I gave the kid a break and made him a junior partner. I did it from vanity. I liked having the little shit following me around, kissing my ass. It made me feel like a real player. I should have prepared him better.
“What were you doing at the game anyway?” I asked.
“Frankie Cannoli needed someone to make sandwiches and pour booze, ‘cause he couldn’t trust any of the other bums he usually asks. I’ve got a fresh face. I’d keep sixty percent of any tips. His gout acted up, and he asked me to cash out some German dude and gave me the key to the cashbox. I saw all that money and just lost it. It was like I was possessed and just took it.”
“Stop your fucking whining,” I said.
“What if I just turned myself over?” Zack stroked the loose bills on the table, and I reached to touch his shoulder. “Would they still come after you?” he asked. He’d meant it too. He’d sacrifice himself, and it touched a buried sentiment in me. Animals live on the street—wiseguys who’d fuck your mother to get an edge, cops looking for a bribe or junkies who’d stab you for your pocket change. It shook me to see a noble intention.
“We’ll figure this shit out,” I said. I pulled up his collar, covering a silk pink strap from his petite bra. A few years ago, he’d end up dead on the street for such a fetish, but even the criminal underworld had progressed into a more accepting society; anyway, we existed on the bottom rung—the shit on Dominic’s boots—the rejects, the freaks and lowlifes. We joined together to survive and guard each other. “Just poor timing, with all the card games getting robbed.”
“We could fake a robbery, throw the blame on a couple of junkies,” Zack said.
“They’d hunt us down, asshole,” Louie said. “Most of the house money is borrowed shit, and the vig is nearly half. He’d hunt down every last dollar.”
“Vig?” Zack asked.
“The interest,” I said. “First mob national bank. No credit rating required.”
“Fuck this,” Louie said. He grabbed the money from the table. “You assholes can stay here and die. I’m getting the hell out of dodge before dawn. Soon as he counts the house, they’ll come for our asses.”
I pulled out my piece. “Put it back.”
“Not that I won’t miss making shit-change from selling dope to rich college kids. I mean, it’s been the dream of a lifetime. But it’s time to cash out.”
I pulled the bolt on the Luger, lifting the arm and feeding the first bullet into the chamber. The mechanism flowed. “I go, and the cancer eats my mother. I’m all she’s got. So put it back, asshole.” I listened to my own words, and it hit me. “Shit. No one would care if the robbery failed.” I lowered my piece.
Louie shook his head, reading my thoughts. Our brains misfired along the same lines. “You’ll never make it out of there alive.”
“We go. We make a scene. Get everyone looking the other way. Then we plant the cash. A couple of junkies hitting the game. Not organized. We fuck up and run, and they count the box. No cash missing. They’ll come looking but not for long.”
I grabbed my leather jacket from the windowsill and picked up the drum of Percocet off the table. “I have a .22 back at my mother’s apartment, never used before, I took it off a dealer for payment. That should be enough for a fast raid. Where’s the game at again?”
“The Valley Forge complex on Ferry Road. #33. They had a guy covering the door, but he looked stoned when I left. They move around the game, so they don’t expect trouble.”
“I’m not getting my ass shot off,” Louie said. “You know what they do to junkies who rob their games.”
My stomach cramped thinking about the torture stories that circulated the street, mostly told for deterrence. “We can’t do this with two.” I said.
“You fucking ladies are on your own.” Louie pulled up the hood on his Eagles sweatshirt.
“You walk on us, don’t come back.” I said.
He flinched at that then snarled his lip. “Fuck that. By tomorrow night, you’ll both be begging to die.”
oOo
I handed Zack the .22. He fumbled the gun and dropped the small piece on the cracked sidewalk. “You do that up there, and we’re not getting out,” I said, pointing up at the Valley Forge complex. Most of the lights dimmed in the several rows of windows. One glowed on the third floor, probably our target. The dry night ticked over three a.m., about the time when the players and manager would float on a liquor buzz. Most of them would have been cleaned out and scraped the bottoms of their bank accounts, usually betting rings or car keys. The new fish would already be up to their nipples in debt and facing a weekly vig they could hardly pay. These card games didn’t profit from gambling. They’d hook new fish, get them in debt and then offer loans to pay off the house. A good shy didn’t go for the quick buck. He’d get his hooks into them good, twenty, thirty large at least, a sum that would take a lifetime to pay off, then you collected the vig. They had no chance of ever paying it off.
He picked up the gun and pressed it to his chest. His cheek twitched from tightening his face to hide his panic, and he whipped his eyes to and fro, checking every passing car or rat in the alley, ready to run or shoot.
“Cool it.” I said.
“I’ve never done any shit like this before.” he said. He reached under his shirt and adjusted the bra. I’d yelled at him to leave it home so we’d have no distinguishing marks, but he told me he couldn’t. He needed the security. “So what’s the plan?”
“Plan? We kick in the door. You cover the table. I’ll force Frank to the cashbox. Then I’ll fuck up and toss the stolen wad into the mess. Next, we haul ass.”
“That’s it?” he asked, fingering the .22.
“You watch too many movies, kid,” I said. “We’re not knocking over a casino. Just whatever happens, don’t turn your back on the table. When we run out of there, keep them covered until you’re down the hall. Then we split up and lay low. Get out of Philly for a week until I contact you.”
He held out the .22 and turned the gun on its side like something out of a rap video. “Cut that shit,” I said. “Just brace your arm and keep the gun close but away from your face. I doubt we’ll even need to shoot. If we do, then it’s gone to shit. And don’t open your mouth. If Frank makes you, we’re all dead.”
“Christ,” he said. “I’m so fucking stupid.” He smacked his forehead with the piece, and I grabbed his arm. “Let’s get through the night, then I’ll kick your ass.”
He handed me a pair of heavy pantyhose then tugged another pair over his head. I’d stopped at an all-night Super Food to grab two pairs, risking being seen, but he already had some at his apartment. We changed at my apartment, exchanging any signature fashion for generic white shirts and blue jeans. My worn clothes hung baggy on Zack, but it helped conceal his body type. I pulled on the nylons, tugging the tight fabric over my face, then I pushed the stolen bills up my sleeve and secured it to my wrist with a rubber band.
“I can’t see shit,” he said. “I’m not used to wearing them on my head.”
I cut slits over his eyes with my keys. Then we stepped out from the shelter of the alley, and he smacked into the edge of a rusty dumpster, slicing up his left arm. “Goddamn it!”
“Get your shit together.” I said. He rubbed his arm then shook off the pain.
We emerged onto the avenue, exposed by sickly light from a streetlamp. Three greasy whores—skin hanging and overweight—giggled at us as we passed.
“Ladies. Look. We got us a show.” The leader of the pack buckled over in laughter.
“That’s a nice bra.” Zack said to the Korean whore. I smacked the back of his head, and he shut his mouth. We slipped into the building through a broken stairwell door. Crack needles crunched under my feet, and we climbed the dimly lit staircase. I gagged on stale cigarette smoke and the ammonia reek of urine. My hip drove the Luger barrel into my inner thigh, fingering the flesh the way Emily liked to do before going down on me. I focused my thoughts on the job ahead before I got hard and held my hand at my waist, ready to grip my Luger soon as we got through the door.
“Shit,” I said and stopped on the stairs. “Turn around.” I said and ripped off a piece of his shirt. I wrapped it around the Luger, hiding its unique and uncommon design. I only hoped they wouldn’t recognize the gun barrel, but then how many of these assholes were history experts?
We ascended the stairs and paused at the door to the third floor. He pointed out the direction of the apartment. “We go in hard and fast. Don’t talk. Yell. Don’t use your own voice. Only talk if you have to. And keep your mouth shut.”
“Are you freaking out?” he asked. The 22. shook in his hand.
“In and out easy,” I said, “like a Burger King drive-thru.” I lied. Vomit rushed up my throat, choking me.
I threw open the door and charged the dim hall. Foul cooking odors permeated the stale air, though the viscous stocking sealing my nose filtered much of the aroma. My hot breath smothered me, and I paced my breathing to keep calm.
I recognized the doorman at the apartment. Mike Shades sat on a stool and held a racing form in his lap. The tip of a silver flask poked out of the pocket of suit jacket, and I couldn’t tell if he slept behind his sunglasses. I rushed him, and he didn’t stir. Then, I shoved the barrel into his flabby jowl, and he jumped.
“Open,” I growled, channeling Louie—my partner’s rough voice and barbarity. If he refused to be here in person, I’d steal his spirit. Mike stirred. “What the fuck?” he asked. I pushed his sunglasses up his nose with the gun barrel. I didn’t give him a chance to wake entirely, and he fumbled for the keys tethered to his belt, got up and unlocked the door. “Don’t clip me, man,” he said. “I get chickenshit for this gig.” I patted his greasy hair then clubbed him in the head with my gun. He dropped and went back to sleep.
“Shit.” Zack said.
“I said shut your mouth.”
I eased the door. A mixed miasma of cigar smoke and rotting pot vapors leaked through my mask, and several lamps burned high-watt bulbs, stinging my eyes after they’d adjusted to the night and dim light of the halls of hidden sin in the Valley Forge project.
Five bloated guys—easy marks in dirty business suits—guarded their cards and frowned at their dwindling chip piles. Frank sat at the head of the table, dealing cards, and massaging his bare and gnarled foot, which he had up on a stool. I spotted a tin cashbox under his chair. No one had noticed the robbery yet. I grabbed Zack’s arm and pointed at the table, aiming his .22. Then, I kicked over the refreshment, dumping the cold cuts, chips and beer. Ice scattered on the rug.
I waited for Frank to look up, hoping he’d get it and I wouldn’t have to speak too much. “Eyes down.” I growled, and the players watched the table.
“You know who you’re hitting, fuck-o?” Frank said. “They’re going to find pieces of you all over Philly.” I waved the gun. He paused, giving me time to consider and gazed at the floor under the card table.
“I need my juice, man,” I said, cracking my voice. I took a chance and put on a bit of theater. “Fucking junkie,” he muttered. I walked right up to him and held the gun at his head. He sighed, rolled off the chair and reached for the tin box. I checked on Zack. The kid still covered the table, but he shook so hard I worried he’d collapse. I had to do this fast.
He grabbed the cashbox, opened it then tossed it on the table. I edged close to the table, making a cardinal mistake: I’d let him call the shots, maneuver me. I reached my arm to the table to grab the box. It would be easy to fumble it and drop the money in the pile. I kept my eyes fixed on Frank and blindly searched the table, sticking my fingers in foamy beer glasses and sticky pastries. I still couldn’t find the damn thing, and for a moment, I glanced at the table to get my bearings. Frank soared like a hawk, knocking me into a chair and pulling free a shotgun that had been taped under the table.
“Son-of-a—”
He pumped the single-barreled shotgun and fired. I tumbled down, knocking over the chair, and the shell flew over my head and blew up a clock hanging on the wall. Plastic shards, bits of hands and plaster rained down the apartment. He pumped again.
“What do I do?” Zack yelled. I rolled over on the carpet, and Frank shot the floor, killing it dead. Splinters split my hand, and the wound dripped blood down my arm. I fired back, missing his shoulder and hitting a light fixture. The fabric wrapping my gun ignited and burned along the edges. It was fucking amateur night again at the Philly Mob. Louie would have been laughing his ass off. If I survived this, I’d shoot him in his peanut head. I jumped up and fired again, missing his shoulder. Several of the card players dove, knocking over the table. Chips, cards and cash from the box flew into the room.
Zack held out the .22 as far as he could from his body like he was holding a grenade. His arm trembled, and the barrel of his piece moved between Frank and me. Frank pumped his shotgun again, calling our bluff. Zack shook and dropped the .22.
“God damn it!” I said and dove. Another shell flew low over my shoulder and hit one of the players—a Japanese businessman. His chest exploded, and he dropped. Blood sprayed over the pile of money and chips, and I used the distraction, dropping the money from under my sleeve into the pile. I didn’t signal Zack and hauled ass out of the apartment, hoping he’d get the hint. Zack followed, and we fled the apartment into the hall. Then I heard the dramatic click of the shotgun pumping. Frank had a clear shot at my back, and I closed my eyes and shut my mouth. I pushed down the urge to scream. I’d go out with dignity, not like some pussy begging for his life. I had nothing in life but my final moment. A shot fired behind me, but it didn’t possess the concussion of a shotgun—and I wasn’t floating in darkness. I turned and spotted Louie wearing a ski mask, standing behind me. Frank dropped the shotgun, held the bleeding wound in his shoulder and swore profanities.
“Fucking amateur,” Louie said.
Story Tags
crime fiction dark storytelling dark themes disturbing fiction gritty fiction noir fiction psychological suspense suspense thriller twisted narrative violent impulsesDate Modified: 11-22-2025
