A Boston Parking Spot

The briefcase is lighter than I expected, no more than a packed lunch would weigh. I should have gotten smaller bills, to increase the dramatic effect. Made it heavier, struggled to lift it, so that it would feel more real. I pulled my car into the meeting spot, a real back-alley location if there was ever one. Graffiti danced without music on the walls of the buildings beside me, and it was as quiet as a spider making its web, outside the unrelenting commotion of the city. I was completely alone, except for the soft purring of the car’s engine in front of me. I shut my own car off and stepped outside. The air was peppermint, chilled and crisp. The sky was bruised, beckoning the rains that were forecasted later. I pulled my coat collar up and moved towards the other vehicle.  

I was meeting with the realtor and looking forward to having this exchange be over. As I approached, the man stepped out of his vehicle. He was holding a small envelope, likely the paperwork deed to the parking space I was buying. There were no pleasantries, no small talk, just business to be done. I began to hand over the briefcase when I saw him reach into his coat. It was a quick movement, but I was faster. With venom in my veins I struck, firing two quick shots into the man’s body with my silenced pistol. He slumped over immediately and fell to the ground. The wind tried to pick up my envelope, but I snatched it from its greedy little hands. After dumping the body in the river, I checked the paperwork. Everything was in order. I drove to Lot 23 spot 46a and backed my vehicle in. I placed the newly minted ID card on my dashboard. Later I would drop off the briefcase to a rescue shelter. Such was the nature of business in the Back Bay.