Two desperate men, five beers, and a debt that can only be paid in blood.
The Neon Funeral
The neon sign for Louie’s flickered, casting a rhythmic, sickly violet bruise across the table. Jimmy Buffo stared into the amber depths of his fifth beer, his reflection distorted and drowning.
“Nick,” he croaked, the sound scraping against the silence of the nearly empty bar. “We’re going nowhere.”
Nick Steadly didn’t look up. He was busy tracing the condensation rings on the wood, a map of all the mistakes they’d made since the heist went sideways in Jersey. “Nowhere’s better than the places we’ve been, Jim.”
“Is it?” Jimmy leaned in, the scent of cheap hops and desperation thick between them. “The Greeks are closing in. I saw a black sedan outside my sister’s place this morning. They don’t want the money back anymore. They want the interest. And interest, in our business, is measured in pints of blood.”
Nick finally raised his eyes. They were cold, hollowed out by a decade of doing things that kept him awake at night. He reached into his trench coat, his hand resting on a heavy, metallic lump that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago.
“I made a call,” Nick whispered. “One way out. But it only fits one of us.”
Outside, tires screeched on the wet pavement. A car door slammed—heavy, deliberate. The violet light of the neon sign gave one final, dying pop, plunging their booth into a thick, suffocating darkness.
“Nick?” Jimmy’s voice trembled. “What did you do?”
The front door of the bar creaked open. A silhouette stood framed against the streetlamps, holding a violin case that definitely didn’t contain an instrument.
Nick stood up, his chair scraping like a scream against the floorboards. He looked at Jimmy, then at the shadow in the doorway, and tightened his grip on the cold steel in his pocket.
What happens when the lights come back on? Does Nick sacrifice his partner to save himself, or is that heavy lump in his pocket meant for the man in the doorway? You decide the final act.
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