Passing Through Part 4
While driving the stolen squad car, Tank points to a mossberg and barks, "Make yourself useful. Grab that." Ralphie can't squelch his excitement, "Woah," his eyes widen when he unfastens the shotgun after Tank had stepped on a foot switch to unlock the gun from its upright position. Ralphie, "I know how to fire it; my cuh-zin got one ah' deez bad boys." The 12 gauge clangs against the pole of a stop sign that Tank had ignored, though he had to slow the squad car while speeding through an intersection in order to snatch the gun from Ralphie and flip it out of the passenger side window nearly crashing the car in the process.
Ralphie sits up straight after ducking his head down, "Wha' did yah do that for?! There's people been shootin' at us, now we ca-int shoot back!" Tank, "Shut your pie hole." Before completely losing control of the vehicle, Tank stops, puts it in reverse, and speeds backward, accelerating around the slumped, dead body of the kid that's in the middle of the sunny road. That a-hole of a gun-toting teen, thinks Tank, who he knows Red murdered, Tank's familiar with the distinct sound Red's firearm makes. He didn't need to look back during the moment the teen bought the farm; it was unmistakably Red who gunned him down. Tires burn rubber. Tank negotiates a sharp right turn, driving the car backward, screeching its way into the narrow alley between the liquor store and donut shop. Tank is too tense to loosen his hands from the steering wheel. He itches to take a swipe at the perspiration; his forehead is sweating up a storm in slow motion. Red rapidly comes into focus, by way of the rear view mirror. Planted squarely in the middle of the narrow alley, Red is not budging from her stance. Her not aiming a firearm at them prompts Tank to wipe the moisture off of his brow anyway. The backward traveling car, just a few feet away from her, Tank slams his foot down to brake.
The police vehicle at a standstill, Red's pelvis is inches from its trunk. The only thing moving is a squirrel crossing telephone wires between the two buildings until Ralphie's consternation breaks the silence, "You ca-int run over the ladies!" Tank, "That's no lady, that's Red," it begins to dawn on Tank why the doughnut patron had said ladies instead of lady, singular; looking out the back window, it's become clear that Red is standing in front of a homeless woman who's sleeping on the ground as if Red were her guardian.
The sound of sirens, the police not too far off, Tank's itching again to gun the car backward, but contorts his lips, "Aaah!" slams fists on the dashboard, opens the squad car door, and races on foot away from the sirens. Ralphie says, "Hey," also exits the car, "we're gonna' be all right, big guy, the police are comin'!" Too far from earshot to hear, or care, Tank runs down to the other end of the alley, rounding the corner and is quickly out of sight. Ralphie faces Red. He plops down, sitting on top of the trunk of the squad car and unleashes a slow sigh, "Whadda' day, lady. I was sittin' down with a cup ah' coffee when - " Red snaps her red jacket open to flash a glimpse of the firearm she keeps in her inner pocket. Ralphie, "Uh," slides off the car. His feet hit the ground running to catch up with Tank. Ralphie, "Big Boy! Wait up, it's nowheres safe!" Sirens wail closer, "Ta-int - "
Mira, the alleyway drunk awoken by the ceaseless noise of police cars closing in, she's freightened. She feels a foreign lump on her skin that she had never felt before. Mira clasps her chest and discovers the lump is removable. She pulls it out of her bra cup - a healthy roll of $20 bills with the outer most bill toting an impression of having been kissed by a lady who wears bright red lipstick. Mira peers around and looks up at the once occupied window ledge, but she's the only one in the alley except for the abandoned squad car. Mira presses a finger against her lips in a gesturing motion to shush herself.
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