Chapter 7
Vermeer pondered over his name; he was going to be Mr. Blue. Christ, what a name. Well, it could be worse, he thought. He could have been Mr. Pink or something like that.
He thought back to the scheme that Joe had cooked up. He hadn't been given a specific role yet; they were still getting the guys for the heist, so Joe didn't want to put labels on anyone yet. Vermeer wondered what he'd end up doing. He certainly wasn't going to be a getaway driver; if Joe wanted a driver, he could have picked any college dropout idiot for that. No, Joe wanted him to be personally involved. Oh well, Vermeer could already see the future retirement ahead of him. It was about time, too. Anyone who'd stormed the beaches of Saipan with the 27th Infantry Division deserved a break. He'd certainly waited for a long time for this moment. All his worries could be put away as he traveled off somewheres from Hawaii, where he couldn't be followed. He'd find something.
Thinking of Saipan made him suddenly remember the war: the times where he should have died from shrapnel or a sniper's bullet; the times where he hadn't hesitated in sharing his fucking underwear with Joe and the other guys in his company; the day he first heard the name Hiroshima.
Vermeer smiled to himself. For all the death and destruction, there had been some really great guys he'd met in that experience. He suddenly wished he knew where they'd all gone. He hadn't kept contact with any of them except Joe, and who knows what had happened to them.
Vermeer suddenly began thinking of his first wife. She had been beautiful, and smart, and ten years younger than him. She'd been part of the Japs' attack on Nanking and had barely escaped rape and murder. Not her sisters though; the fucking Japs had certainly made their last moments hell. Vermeer hated Japs.
Poor girl hadn't been so happy in the States, and even less happy with Vermeer's occupation in the crime syndicate. He'd always treated her nice, though, and she knew that without him, she'd never survive. Vermeer had sensed her disapproval and her misery, and though it had hurt him, he had tried to be kind to her. Of course, how could she ever be truly happy after Nanking?
Thinking of her made Vermeer feel like shit. He tried to move on to something else in his mind as he walked down the street. He wanted to get something to eat, it was around dinner time anyway. He looked from restaurant to restaurant, looking for a decent place.
He noticed one diner that looked appealing: big windows showed the inside of the place, so it was easy for Vermeer to check the place out for himself.
He noticed a young guy standing next to where an older black guy was seated. The two of them embraced and the young man sat down and began talking. Vermeer sniffed and moved on. It must have been a gay bar or something.
He decided to try the place from the other night. They'd made good steaks, and he hadn't had to pay too much.
Shouldering his coat, Vermeer trudged along down the street. A couple of college aged boys were leaning against the wall, but Vermeer felt no fear, just contempt. He was more of a man than all of those bastards combined, and even if age had worn him out, he still carried his gun, ready to use in a bad fix.
The youths looked like they wanted to fuck around and be jerks. Just another old guy to harass. Well, thought Vermeer with a grin, they'll learn a thing or two if they cross me.
One of them seemed to be stupider than the rest, "Hey grandpa what's in the bag?" he was referring to the old army bag that Vermeer had packed all his stuff into. He had decided it was time to move out of his apartment and stick to three-night trips at hotels. But this meant he had to carry his belongings around.
Vermeer turned to him in disgust, "What's in my bag? Some jerk-off, limp-wristed punk's balls that I ripped out with my own fucking hands."
The other goons whistled in anticipation, reminding Vermeer of the birds he'd seen as he'd run along many a defended shoreline against the enemy. Those birds had waited for the dead to be abandoned and then they gorged. Vermeer had made it his business then to shoot them for sport if he could.
The leader of the group paused in mock surprise, "Well look at that, fellahs! This old prune hasn't heard of the new toll booth!"
Vermeer knew he was supposed to ask, but he knew what the bastard was going to say, "A toll booth run by three mollycoddles demanding what? Milk money?"
The teens laughed as they began to step forward. Vermeer smiled.
Suddenly, one of the other teens made a move. He reached for Vermeer's bag, upon which his right hand was resting. The kid was fast, but Vermeer had seen him coming. He had nothing on a Jap.
The boy suddenly screamed in pain as Vermeer's knife slashed the upper part of his forearm. Vermeer had long known that this would turn violent and as he had approached the boys, he had made sure his old switchblade had been hidden beneath his sleeve.
Surprised by this sudden attack, the wounded youth backed away, clutching his arm. The other two tried to run off, but one of them got tripped up by Vermeer.
As the two boys deserted their friend, Vermeer placed his knife close to his captive's throat, "What's your name, kid?"
The boy swallowed, "Brett."
Vermeer chuckled, "That mouth of yours is gonna get you into a fuck hell of a lot of trouble. And when that trouble comes, it won't be as merciful as me." He pulled away from Brett's throat, spat on the ground beside him in derision, and nodded his head, "Looks like you boys dropped your suitcase."
Picking it up, he was astonished at it's class. Real good for a bunch of idiots like these. He wondered what was in it. Brett was staring in horror at Vermeer, and began pleading with him to give it back.
Vermeer felt even more disgusted at this loudmouth. He put the case on top of a nearby garbage can and walked away.
Once he'd turned a corner away from Brett and the case, Vermeer sighed deeply and bowed over to catch his breath. He was seriously getting too old for this. He had to quit soon. As soon as this next job was done, he could get out of it all.