The laundry room of the hospital was dark and humid. I wanted to seem cool and calm because I was ready to scream and run as fast and as far away from these two murderers as I possibly could.
"The other night was just the beginning for you," chimed Friday.
I tried to take some deep breaths. The smell of bleach in the empty room and my own fear was making me choke. "What do you mean? I helped you out. I thought I was free and clear."
Gannon pushed me against a dryer. The glass door was still hot from the days use and it burned my back.
"Look, Mikey," he said, pulling out his revolver and sticking it in my face. "We own you. Did you forget what we found on you?"
"That you planted on me-- is that what you mean?"
Gannon holstered his gun and lightly slapped my face. "Don't lie like that. Just be thankful you're not in jail where everyone would be riding you, pretty boy."
"You took half the money and the drugs, didn't you?" I asked. They stared me down, their silence answering my own question.
"We can't make a profit. Isn't that the American way? I've worked twenty-five years as a cop. Everyday we patrol this city and see eighteen year olds driving around in cars that cost what we made in three years of putting our lives on the line. We decided to take the streets back."
"You've got a funny way of showing it. What do you do with the drugs?"
"We sold them. People still have their vices."
He patted me on the chest as if to say 'Right?'
His hand froze. His face turned red. "You son of a..."
He ripped open my shirt and saw the small microphone taped to my chest.
Just as he was about to pull out his pistol, the doors kicked open and the cops came in, guns drawn, to arrest Friday and Gannon.
I was free.
