Checkout Trouble #17

It had been several days since Vito first had me make the call. That call led to another call, which finally got me in touch with Hammerhead. From there, I was sent to meet yet another guy to discuss the terms of our potential deal. It was a tangled web of connections and favors, each step bringing me closer to today—the day I was scheduled to meet Hammerhead himself.

At this particular moment, I stood in line at a bustling grocery store, trying my best to blend in with the mundane crowd. My cart was overflowing with products, a peculiar mix that I hoped wouldn't draw too much attention. I kept my baseball cap pulled low over my face, hoping it would obscure my features enough to avoid recognition.

The line moved slowly, and I took a deep breath, using the time to mentally rehearse my upcoming meeting. The stakes were high, and I couldn't afford to screw this up. The Pals had given me an edge, but without Hammerhead's help, taking on Manfredi and his gang seemed like a suicidal mission.

Finally, it was my turn. I pushed my cart up to the cashier, carefully unloading my purchases onto the conveyor belt. There was a lot of food—instant noodles, frozen pizzas, canned goods. I had opted for items that required minimal preparation, knowing I wouldn't have much time or energy to cook in the coming days.

In addition to the food, I had also thrown in a significant amount of feminine products. It was a small gesture to make up for the fact that I had let Elena make the journey back to the base alone.

However, as the cashier processed more and more of the items, her behavior became increasingly peculiar. She glanced at me with every item she scanned, her movements growing more hurried and erratic.

Dark circles under her eyes suggested sleepless nights, and she parted her lips as if to say something, only to refrain at the last moment. Her nervousness was palpable, and she fumbled with the groceries in her haste.

My gaze fell on her T-shirt, which had a strange slogan: "Serial Killers Are People Too." It struck me as odd, unsettling even, but I couldn't quite piece together what it all meant. Vito materialized beside me, chuckling in amusement.

"She probably thinks you're keeping a woman locked in your basement or something," Vito remarked, his tone laced with humor.

I glanced at him, still unsure of what was happening. Vito sighed, disappearing and reappearing beside the cashier, who remained oblivious to his presence as she continued scanning the items.

"This chick is clearly into serial killer documentaries," Vito pointed out, gesturing toward her shirt. "The dark circles mean she stayed up late last night, probably watching one. That's why she made the connection so quickly...."

He chuckled, shaking his head in exasperation. "Her nervousness, and the way she seems like she wants to say something, is probably because she doesn't know whether to call the police or ask for your number. Crazy chick."

The realization hit me like a freight train. My cart full of food—instant noodles, frozen pizzas, and canned goods—all screamed quick, easy meals, the kind of stuff you'd stock up on if you didn't have the time or inclination to cook properly.

The feminine products added another layer to the image she was constructing in her head. I was just a guy trying to make up for letting his lady friend make the journey back to the base alone, but to this cashier, I probably looked like a character straight out of one of her true crime documentaries.

Suppressing a sigh, I gave the cashier a tight-lipped smile as she bagged the last of my purchases. Her hands trembled slightly, and she kept her gaze averted.

"That'll be $124.56," she said, her voice wavering.

I handed her the cash, making a conscious effort to appear as non-threatening as possible. She counted it quickly, her fingers moving with nervous speed. As she handed me the receipt, our eyes met briefly. There was a mixture of fear and fascination in her gaze that made my skin crawl.

"Thank you," I muttered, grabbing the bags and squeezing out a smile. "But please give me a minute so I can check my shopping list one last time. We're going camping and my wife would kill me if I didn't get everything she asked for the trip..."

Taking out my phone, I browsed through the imaginary shopping list and glanced at the cashier. I could barely resist the urge to sigh in relief to see that she instantly lost interest, going back to the empathetic look one would expect from anyone working a job that requires direct interactions with customers.

Vito laughed loudly at her change in attitude. "That worked like a charm. Now you're just a boring, chatty customer, no need to report or take you to bed..."

"Looks like everything's in check. Thanks again." I said to the cashier, getting a bored roll of her eyes for my effort. Smiling, genuinely this time, I turned around, heading toward the exit.

...

The junkyard was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from a few flickering streetlights and the dim glow of the moon. I parked my car at the agreed-upon spot, the engine's hum dying down as I killed the ignition. The air was thick with the scent of rust and oil, and the silence was broken only by the distant sound of metal clanging against metal.

I clutched the duffel bag full of cash tightly, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and dread.

As I stepped out of the car, I spotted Hammerhead's distinctive silhouette near a cluster of wrecked vehicles. He stood with his arms crossed, a hulking figure in a pinstriped suit, looking every bit the 1920s mobster he fancied himself to be.

Behind him, several large crates were stacked neatly, the promise of firepower lurking within.

"Evening," Hammerhead called out, his voice carrying a thick Italian accent. "I trust ya brought the dough?"

I nodded, approaching cautiously. "Yeah, I've got it right here. Let's see the merchandise first."

He smirked, waving a hand towards the crates. "Right this way. I think you'll be pleased with the selection."

I followed him to the nearest crate, my eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of a double-cross. Hammerhead's men were scattered around, but they kept their distance, watching us with wary eyes. He pried open the crate, revealing a cache of submachine guns, assault rifles, and pistols. The sheer number of weapons was staggering—enough to arm at least thirty people.

"These beauties," Hammerhead said, lifting a submachine gun with a practiced hand, "are top of the line. Good ol' Ak47, the pinnacle of Russian engineering. I prefer something with a bit more class, but to each their own." he pointed to another crate, "we got AR-15s and Glocks. Everything ya need to start your own little war."

I inspected a few of the weapons, checking their weight and balance. They seemed genuine enough, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Hammerhead's reputation for double-crosses was well known, and I half-expected an ambush at any moment.

"So," I said, glancing around, "what's the catch? You planning on double-crossing me, or is this actually going to go smoothly for once?"

Hammerhead chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Ah, you wound me, pal. Business is business. You got the cash, I got the guns. Simple as that. But just so ya know, any funny business, and my boys'll turn this place into a shooting gallery. Capisce?"

I nodded, unzipping the duffel bag and revealing the stacks of cash inside. "Here's your money. Count it if you want."

He waved a hand dismissively. "I trust ya. Besides, I got better things to do than count money in the dark."

One of his men took the bag, hefting it with a grunt and nodding to Hammerhead. The deal was done, and to my surprise, everything had gone smoothly. Hammerhead gave me a final nod, his expression unreadable.

"Pleasure doing business with ya," he said, turning on his heel. "And remember, you ever need more hardware, you know who to call. I'll even throw in a sweet discount if ya plan on usin' 'em on Silvermane and his boys..."

I watched as he and his men disappeared into the shadows, the sound of their footsteps fading into the night. The crates of weapons were now mine, and I couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and lingering suspicion. Hammerhead had taken the cash and left without any tricks, but I knew better than to let my guard down completely.

As I loaded the crates into my car, I glanced around the junkyard one last time, half-expecting something to go wrong. But the night remained quiet, the only sounds the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

"I guess I was just being too paranoid..." I muttered, raising my fingers to my mouth and whistling loudly. Soon enough, the thud of large wings echoed in the area and Nitehawk landed before me while Chillet came running from outside the junkyard.

"More like you were just doubting me," Vito said with a chuckle as he sat over the gun crates.

I scoffed at him. "It's not like I ever had any solid reason to doubt your advice or anything, right?" I grumbled turning to Nitewing and Chillet. "Looks like there's nothing for you to do today after all..."

...

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