Death in the City by Kyle Giroux (read my book TXT) 📗

it in. “A buddy of mine owns this pastry shop across the PennPenny Bridge, down the river a ways. You should go there sometime. Get the croissant with the blackberry jam, it’s really something else.”

Death, seeing an opportunity to act a little more human, stood up and said, “Well, we ought to go now then.”

“No, no,” said Tim, raising his coffee to his mouth with one hand and indicating that Death should sit back down with the other. “I have business to take care of after this. But you have the rest of the day to yourself, right? You should head over there later on. It’s something else.”

As Death and Tim emptied their mugs, Tim drew a map on a spare napkin, explaining the route as he traced it. “And then you’ll want to take a left here, on National. Take the set of stairs down on the right after a few hundred feet then take a left at the end. Go straight through the intersection then follow the guard rail until you reach the public library. Go past that, then left, left, right, then you’ll get to the river. It’s right next to city hall, which has a big golden dome on top of it. You following this?” Despite essentially getting lost after ‘left on National,’ Death nodded his head and took the makeshift map. “You’ll know what I’m talking about. The golden dome is the beacon for the city. Whenever you’re lost just look towards the top of the buildings for it. Then you’ll reach the bridge. It’s a big white one that says ‘PennPenny’ on it, and it’s always packed with people. The pastry shop is right there when you get across.” Death nodded.

A waiter with a greased-up hairdo walked over to the table and handed a piece of paper to Tim. “Here’s the check,” he said in an Italian accent.

“Okay, thanks a—whoa, wait a second Marco.” Tim indicated for Marco to come closer. “It says here I owe eight seventy-five. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be eight sixty-seven.”

“No, it’s not,” said Marco flatly.

Clearly angered, Tim stood up to face Marco. But as the waiter threw his hands down to defend himself, he tapped Death on the shoulder by accident and fell to the ground with a thud. Tim looked down at Marco, then sat back in his seat. “That’s really great,” he said, turning to face a guilty-looking Death. “I really appreciate that. But, uh…would you mind, you know, toning down the whole killing my enemies thing? You might get us in trouble.”

“Yeah,” said Death. “I’m sorry.”

“Not to mention you can’t keep slipping out of paying for meals by taking out people who get on my bad side. One more time, then we really need to start splitting the check.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry about that,” said Death.

“Alright, Derek, I have to run and take care of something,” said Tim, swinging his jacket over his shoulder. “Have fun with that pastry shop. I’ll catch you later.”

“Alright, thanks,” said Death as Tim left some money on the table and walked away. Death took the map back out of his pocket and left the HaffCaff Café to be greeted by a hot sun that hung idly in the cobalt sky.

Death was vastly confused by the map and Tim’s directions. He walked along the heavily bustling streets under the hanging sun that shot heat through his suit and made him feel unbearably itchy and uncomfortable. He ran a hand through his hair so it stood up on end, and the heat dragged him down to a stumbling trudge. Finally he undid his shirt and pulled the knot of his tie around to the middle of his chest, using it to wipe sweat away from his chin and upper lip. Without his weather-proof black-hooded reaper cloak, he was positively miserable.

Death walked up and down streets arbitrarily, having no idea where he was going with one of the worst headaches he could imagine. As he held the bridge of his nose with his fingers to quell the burning sensation, the napkin map fell on the ground. When he bent down to get it, a man in a suit, not unlike Death’s own but far less disheveled at the moment, walked up to him. He was wearing several gold rings and dark black sunglasses that sat nicely on a perfectly tanned complexion. “Hey, buddy, why don’t you go get a job?” he said with a slight smirk but hostility in his voice.

“A job?” asked Death. “Do you really think I should?”

“Uh, yeah,” said the man. “Then you wouldn’t be so useless.” He spat in front of Death’s feet. Death spat back at him, thinking perhaps it was some sort of friendly gesture. The man, absolutely disgusted, threw his hands in the air and stormed off.

Death walked a few more blocks before the heat forced him to stop again. He leaned against a wall as a group of college guys walked up to him, carrying lacrosse sticks and wearing an assortment of white and blue jerseys. One of them emerged from the group, a huge, glazed over smile gracing his face, and pointed at Death. “Hey, you, how you doing today?” His facial features looked pinched and his short blonde hair was sticking up from sweat, and he was at least two feet shorter than Death.

“Well I’m alright,” said Death, looking at the student with only a slight smile and wishing he were not so in the mood for a conversation. “A little hot though. Hey, do you know where the river is?”

“The river?” said the student, looking back at his friends, who were nudging each other and giggling. “Yeah, it’s right past Loser Street.” One of his friends burst out laughing, but quickly shut up when he saw his comrades were not joining in. “Is this what you’re looking for?” He dug around in his pocket before pulling out a single dollar bill, which he held up above his head.

Death squinted until