The League of Berries and Laurels - Chapter 5 (Pt. III)
Continued from:
“This here I got to commemorate the stomping of a snitch.” There indeed is a tattoo of a pigeon and a broken stool beneath a boot. There indeed do the pigeons eyes, out of their socket, dangled on their stems. “We stomped him good,” he says, his mouth’s lack of teeth outrageous, and no note of outrage passes on the hardened associate.
“How wonderful?” Francis says. “Now how about we hit the road?” They do so, lugubriously, affected deeply by the drink, bound for Winnetka, and after that parts unknown. As they enter the sedan, already being in their whiskey, the envelope Francis provided them is placed in the middle of the backseat, and then this is covered over by the duffle bag Francis throws in before him.
No church bell tolls the hour along the desolate drag that carries them toward the shooting lights of the toll road. Francis in the back seat continues to watch out the rear window as Rosemont grows, and then recedes behind them, becoming wooded on one side when, at last, he sees the changing lights of the authorities a distant mote. Not else but this vehicle is likely to be their target. Not long after their departure, however, in the midst of the forest preserve, back into whose recesses cars are parked in reverse and other questionable activity is afoot, they are pulled over by flashing lights approaching swiftly from the west. The bikers look. The bikers then zip their winter clothing to the hilt, check a few compartments and nod to one another as the driver’s side window descends. A hush falls over the near to silent night, with the only sound allowed to prevail the murmur beneath the bridge.
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