2 Works in Clubs Deuce/Spades Slick
You allow a wide grin to seep onto your face. It’s a nasty grin, the kind you can see yourself pulling out in your fantasies about being a badass crime boss or gangster or some dumb shit like that. It’s the kind of smile that would be the last thing a toady sees before you decide to introduce him to a pair of cement shoes. Yeah. That’d be pretty sweet.
As it is, what you mostly see from day to day is a lot of paperwork. And paperwork does not respond well to being nastily grinned at.
“Your plans never work on their own. I always have to fix things you mess up, Slick!” He could feel his forehead heating up. There was no way this would end well for anyone. That didn't bother him as much as maybe it should have. He had some steam to work off too.
“Guys, Deuce isn't back here.” Boxcars was quiet, still likely suffering from the gunshots, but there was a subdued sort of panic in his voice. A strain that Droog didn't like.
If the way Slick went slack meant anything, their leader didn't like the tone or the news either.
Within a few seconds they started up again, took a sharp U-turn on the street, and headed back to The Felt's hideout.
Slick, for once, was silent. It wouldn't last, but it was a welcome relief from the incessant words he'd been spewing.