“Where you going looking like that?” Seymour asks, sitting at the kitchen table with a bag of peanuts and a beer. Dinner. Shells are scattered everywhere. The Post is open to the horse racing section.
Saturday night. Morris is clad in full black, his pants, T-shirt, shoes, and leather gloves. In his pocket is a ski mask.
Jetski had come up with the plan. “You fuck with a Bloody Eagle, you get the talons,” he kept telling Morris. He’d sketched out the precinct on a waxy Dunkin’ Donuts bag, the floors, stairwells, windows. He explained how they’d enter, how they’d proceed. “You’re in with me, right Bliss? Tell me you’re in,” Jetski kept asking.
The plan was simple. It was absurd; it actually might work. “I just don’t know,” Morris said. Being with Jetski is something to avoid, but breaking into the police precinct is a rare opportunity.
“I need you on this, Bliss. The Bloody Eagles, baby,” Jetski said, then, “I’ll pay you for your time.” He offered a hundred dollars.
Seymour works a peanut from between his teeth with a matchbook cover. “You go and paint your face white and you’d look like one of those French clowns,” he says. He scrutinizes his son. “What do you got going on?”
Morris gathered his keys, a flashlight. “Work, Daddy. A job,” Morris tells him, opening the front door. “I’m going to make some money.”
Chapter 15
The Trouble with Bliss Page 15