It ain't mine, he says.
Then why the hell do you have it?
It ain't registered to me.
A dead man owns it.
Can't be traced to me, he says.
Too many questions can get you in trouble.
But I'm not too bright.
And curiosity killed the bloodier.
Do you always carry it?
Every time we've gone on a job, he says.
Barney was smart.
He looked out for himself.
I could see that now, more than ever.
Whereas I, I would go blindly wherever told to go.
I just assumed people wouldn't hurt me.
I hurt people.
I am not cynical enough for the line of work that I'm in.
So where we going to go now, Barney?
Again he was quiet.
I don't know, he says.
Right now, we're just driving.
And you're talking too much.
You are too, Barney.
Honest to god.
I didn't even know he could laugh.
I guess that's what it was though.
It sounded broken, raspy.
Like leaves crunching under foot in autumn.
I guess I am, he says.
I start thinking again.
Our boss wasn't it.
He had a boss, who had a boss, who had a boss.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Soon someone would start looking for us.
And it wasn't the cops I was afraid of.
Cops I can deal with.
You can run from cops.
You can break away from cops.
But fellow bloodiers.
They ain't going to give up so easy.
And they ain't going to be so nice about bringing you in.
Or burying you, for that matter.
I bloodied for a living.
I knew what to expect.
They're coming for us already.
Maybe, he says.
That's why we're driving.
And why I'm not too focused on a destination other than here, he says.
I took that as a brilliant plan.
So we sit.
And the road takes us on.