Pies

         Glen died on a Tuesday, and the clouds wept; cold, bitter drops hitting the sidewalk with a near audible sizzle.  The rain smashed  Harry in the face with such force that he wondered how he had any teeth left intact, any bones left unbroken.  He walked to the corner, his head bent, shoulders hunched while the light blinked.  Walk...Walk...Walk; a constant reminder.  Harry walked.  A horn blared as a taxi took a right, nearly clipping Harry, who didn't even bother to get offended.

         Two more blocks to go, he thought, dreading the inevitable end to his journey.  Maybe she would have left already, maybe she won't answer, maybe on the next corner the cab won't be so slow and he wouldn't have to deal with this.  Maybe followed maybe in his head, each one drawing him closer to his destination.  This wasn't how he wanted it to end...

         The day had started out sunny and clear, and much hotter than it should have been.  Storms were predicted for later, but that didn't matter.  They were nearly at their goal, almost ready to reap the benefits of a bold, well thought out and conceptually flawless plan.  They knew where they were headed and what the end of this day meant.  Lydia disagreed.

         “It won't work,” her words were much calmer than she seemed.  Pupils dilated, she brought a shaking cigarette to her mouth, turned the tip an angry orange and then exhaled.  “He'll know...see you coming.”  A tear nearly snuck through her facade and her voice cracked the end.  Otherwise her demeanor was no different than if she had been telling them the weather forecast and that they should take along a jacket.

         “It'll work,” was all Glen had said, pushing past her, pausing to kiss the top of her head as he trailed past.  Harry smiled appologetically as he followed.  It wasn't his decision; if Glen said it was time, it was time.

         Simon's idea was elegantly simple in its own way.  Street vendors were a dime a dozen and nearly invisible in their sameness.  They could stand on a corner for hours without arrousing suspicion, and if one particular vendor seemed to be doing a better business than others, if his lines stretched longer and at all hours and were filled with a more upscale and professional clientelle than the others, if his cart arrived loaded and left nearly empty everyday, then it merely meant that his food was better, or trendier, or maybe both.  The police saw, but at the same time, they didn't.  If one had taken the time to actually stand in the laboriousely long line, waiting for the food at the end, he would have been given a pie from the top of pile.  He would have eaten the non-descript meat pie and found it good, found it somewhat expensive for what it was, and not found himself likely to endure the long wait for another any time soon.  He would have shaken his head in wonder that so many young, professionally dressed people would stand in line so long for a treat so unfulfilling.  “Go figure, fads these days,” he'd say, laughing at the gullability of the Wall Street types with his friends.  “That pie was no better than the Banquet Turkey pie my lady buys at the store.”  And he'd be right.  The pie served from the top was always a regular store bought pot pie; sometimes Banquet, sometimes Swanson depending on which was on sale that week, and they had Beef, Turkey or Chicken in them.  What they never had, though, was the special ingredient that Simon's other pies had; those special pies, the ones that were never really cooked, whose outside shell was just for show, whose insides contained one ingredient and one ingredient only.

         That one ingredient was what drew Glen and Harry that day, was what had caused them to watch Simon's Pies for all those weeks, and had caused them, to stop one of the customers as he made his way quickly from the line, around the corner and ducked furtively down the nearest alley.  So focussed was he that he didn't notice Glen or Harry until they were nearly standing over him.
“Wha...whachoo want,” he asked as he stuffed parts of the pastry into his mouth, shovelling faster just in case the visitors wanted to take any.  His eyes darted and crumbs sprayed with his words, but he didn't seem particularly frightened.  In fact, if anything, he seemed to grow stronger and more confident as the pie disappeared, his earlier shakiness gone.  He stood up, brushed the extra crumbs off his suit and his lips coiled into a predatory smile.  Unfortunately for him, what makes a man a predator on Wall Street doesn't really translate into the alleys (even the relatively tame alleys of Manhattan), and Glen's quickly brandished knife cut surely through the man's newfound confidence.  The information he gave only confirmed what Glen had already guesed; Simon's Pies was a goldmine just begging to be robbed.

         Which led back to Tuesday.  Glen had said it would be easy, that Simon had gotten careless and lazy, that they wouldn't have any problems.  Harry had agreed.  Harry always agreed.

         It hadn't been easy, and now Glen was dead.  Harry walked on, and the rain continued to pound.  It pounded so hard that his head felt like it was splitting.  The rain, or maybe it was his tears, blistered his eyes.  He walked on, took the steps and knocked, hoping she wouldn't answer.  She did.

         “Is it done?” she asked, “Is he dead?”

         Harry nodded, unable to say the words.

         “And Simon?  Did he pay you?”

         “He did.”  Harry mumbled.

         Lydia smiled for the first time that day.  “I told you it would work.  Simon needed protection anyway, and you just proved how reliable you are.  We're on our way!”  She reached out and grabbed Harry, pulling him into her willing arms.