Jimmy

 Jimmy

By Magnus Sallagrimsson

This was work.

Fucking. Jimmy.

Rob wasn’t in this life, running a crew to do real work. Rob Foley was in this life so he could live large, get high, get laid, get a crib, get respect. He was a boss, not some jerk-off labourer. But here he was out in the bush getting sweaty, getting dirty, getting mosquito bites, all after running around scrounging like a skid, junkie fuck.

Fuckin’ work.

Fuckin’ Jimmy.

It was chilly in the early morning, and the camping lantern offered no warmth, but digging was hot work. The old quarry was five kilometers outside of town and led to a currently out of service forestry road. There were farms in the area, but nothing too close. The forest and underbrush closed in dense and tight, he figured it ought to be enough to conceal him. No one worked the quarry anymore and it was the place Rob and his friends had partied all through high school, and even after they’d all quit school two years ago. The cops knew the place, of course, but only came out here on weekends. This was Tuesday. The air was still, though, still enough to amplify every sound, which set Rob on edge for a while. Every clattering branch, every leaf that got crunched made him stop and check the area with his flashlight. He’d shine it into the dark, revealing only trees and undergrowth. It was always nothing, but it could be something, someone, and Rob didn’t think he had it in him to dig more than one hole. He kicked the corpse beside him and got back to digging.

Fuckin’ Wuss. 

No one would have heard the shot. No one out here would call the cops if they had. Country life. He didn’t think anyone could see the lamp either. No one saw them come out here. But if he didn’t finish soon, someone might see him leaving. He should have brought gloves; his hands were starting to feel raw.

Fuckin’ Work.

Work was for assholes, like his dad, like the dumb fucks he and his crew robbed. But here he was working. Rob worked out, sure (gotta look good), but he could feel the fire building in his arms. He’d really feel it tomorrow. Rob typically didn’t feel much. But Jimmy did.

Jimmy’d been unhappy, feeling guilty, feeling sorry, like he gave a shit about that asshole clerk. You listen to the man with the gun, you don’t stand up to him. Asshole earned a gun butt to the mouth. You don’t feel sorry for assholes who gotta learn that sorta lesson. Shithead was still alive, so wha’d Jimmy fuckin’ want? Jimmy wanted to tell his parents, that’s what.

Fuckin’ soft.

Fuckin’ stupid.

Rob spent a couple of days looking for neglected tool sheds. He needed to find places people wouldn’t notice where shit had gone missing from too soon. He found a few, but it was always like someone was looking, watching. He drove out around Rolley and Whonnock before he found this stoned out hillbilly homestead around Stave Falls. They had a crap ton of stuff lying around, everything he needed, and no way they’d notice anything was gone. And if they did, who’d care? He’d gone out after dark the first time, but realized they were all active at night, spent the day sleeping it off. That’s when he went. He stole a shovel, a ball-peen hammer, a half-rotten canvas tarp, and a hacksaw with a little bit of rust. It was probably good enough for the job.

He thought he’d thought this through, but if Rob had really though it through, he woulda had the other two here when he shot Jimmy. Good lesson for them to stay quiet, follow orders. Moron No. 1 could dig the hole, Moron No.2 could take the hands and feet, smash out Jimmy’s teeth. But Rob was afraid they would bitch out and run away. Then he’d have to shoot them, dig three holes. Or one big hole. 

He shoulda stole a bobcat. 

Better to do this job alone, let them figure it out when Jimmy didn’t show, they’d put it together, know he was all business, legit. Could put together a rep for himself, get respect, move up from robbing corner stores and take-out joints.

Fuckin’ A.

Rob lured Jimmy out here, telling him they needed to hash things out privately. He brought a bottle of Wiser’s and an ounce of hash as a peace offering. Jimmy bought it, but Jimmy was twitchy, jumpy, and constantly looking around the quarry. When Rob suggested they take it into the woods so no one would overhear them, Jimmy bought that, too. They got to the clearing and with his flashlight Jimmy saw the tarp laid out, the old gym bag, the shovel, the hacksaw, and lamp beside it. The look Jimmy shot him right before he shot Jimmy in the face… 

Fuckin’ Priceless.

Jimmy wriggled and shook for a bit before he finally kicked it. The shot took out most of his jaw and teeth. It was a mess, and Rob figured that’d be enough, so the hammer was just weight for the bag when he dumped it into the Fraser River. The hacksaw wasn’t so good on skin. Useless actually. The fine blade clogged up fast and he’d had to keep cleaning it, so he just gave up on taking the hands.

Fuckin’ gross.

He’d seen movies where people knocked out teeth and cut off the hands and feet. It looked easier. He shoulda brought a hatchet, a knife, or cutters to take the fingertips at least. He wondered how long it would take skin to decompose.

Fuckin’ movies.

Rob started to wrap the body in the canvas, then remembered to check the pockets. Keys, a wallet with fifty-eight dollars and change. He pocketed the money, and figured he’d lose the wallet in the Downtown Eastside far away from where the bag, or the rounds were going to be dumped. He kicked the corpse into the hole and got to work covering the body. It was quicker filling the hole than digging it – he never figured it would take so long to dig one. Rob had gotten, maybe, three feet down. He knew it was supposed to be deeper, but he figured three feet was deep enough, and his hands couldn’t take it anymore. Besides, it wasn’t like Jimmy had the fuckin’ plague.

Fuckin’ asshole.

He used Jimmy’s shirt to clean the saw. Once he finished digging, he would use the hacksaw to cut the shovel handle into three sections. He stuck the pieces into the old gym bag. It had a fussy zipper that fought back when he first tried to get set up. Next in went the hacksaw, the hammer, and the gun. He loved that .357 but it would be stupid to hang onto it. He had wiped everything quickly for prints and struggled with the zipper as he worked to close the bag. He set the rounds and the spent casings in separate sandwich baggies, then pocketed them. 

Once Rob finished packing it all up, he stood up and leaned forward onto his knees. He breathed slowly now, tiredly, he was going to go home get clean, get rid of all this stuff then sleep. It was fully light beyond the canopy of trees. Rob had focused on getting the job done so he could get out of there, so when he heard the gasp, turned, and saw a kid looking at him, looking at the hole he’d just filled, Rob felt his heart stop.

Fuckin’ shit…

The kid had that fresh-faced, wholesome look, the kind Rob had always liked to kick the crap out of back in school. He was around fourteen, fifteen, really not much younger than Rob, but Rob knew the kid couldn’t be allowed to get any older. The kid looked stunned at first, mouth open, eyes fixed on the mound of dirt, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at, then he registered the cold horror on Rob’s face turning to frigid resolve. The kid bolted, screaming he hadn’t seen a thing, that he would never tell anyone, then screaming for the cops, his voice was shrill. Rob dove for the bag, struggling to open it and get the gun out: he had to hurry, and he was going to have to dig another hole.

Fuckin’ Jimmy…

All Right Reserved Magnus Skallagrimsson