Bust Your Windows

Paolo whistled as they strolled down the darkened sidewalk, baseball bat slung over his shoulder. “Take the kid,” Leslie had said, “He hasn’t committed any acts of reckless vandalism lately, think he’s starting to miss it.”

Fox frowned when they reached the driveway. “What if he’s got an alarm?”

“Nah,” Paolo said, giving the bat a few experimental swings before handing it over, “Those never work, no one bothers anymore. When was the last time you heard a car alarm and did anything about it?”

Fox raised an eyebrow. “Just how many cars have you helped Rudd total?”

“Oh, you know,” Paolo shrugged, “A few.”

“Okay, but what if he’s got a gang of hitmen standing guard behind that shrub there?”

Paolo smiled. “Then Derringer has told me you’re very adept with a tire chain, and I always come prepared.”

Fox rolled his eyes and cast one last suspicious glace towards the line of hedges against the front wall before turning his attention to the car. He looked at the smooth new glass of the windshield. He looked up, at the dark window on the second floor, the one on the left, with the curtains drawn. He looked down at the bat, lodged in the splintered glass of the windshield. He could hear Paolo let out a whoop as he scrambled on top of the car, stomping around, leaving dents in the roof. Fox wriggled the bat out and swung again, and again, until the dashboard was littered with gummy chunks of safety glass.

Paolo was laughing. “I bet you can’t knock off the mirrors in one swing,” he said, leaping down to the hood.

Fox, surprised to find himself grinning, rolled the kinks out of his shoulders. “If I do, you have to get rid of your man-cleavage shirt. I know you’re hiding it in the back of your sock drawer.” Before Paolo could do more than frown disapprovingly, Fox took a swing and made contact, watched the mirror fly off with a sickening crack.

“Oh, fine, you’ll miss the other one though,” Paolo said, and he did, tagged it on the first try and left it dangling sadly against the door with the second. Fox struck the passenger side window and watched the glass splinter.

Lights went on in the house across the street, and Fox could see some middle-aged woman peer out at them before scurrying out of sight. “Shit,” he said, giving the bat one last glorious swing into the back window where he left it as he and Paolo bolted down the block and around the corner to the car.

“That was close,” Paolo sighed as Fox eased the car down the street, nice and leisurely like there was nothing to hide. “No hitmen, though.”

“Just housewives,” Fox agreed.

Paolo rifled around for his shirt, abandoned in the backseat on the way over. “So, did it make you feel any better?”

“No, not really.”

“Ah,” and there was a grin on Paolo’s face, “You’re smiling, though.”

Fox flipped open the little vanity mirror on the visor. So he was. “Alright,” he admitted, “I guess it might’ve helped a little.”

Paolo patted Fox’s shoulder. “That’s enough for now,” he said.

Fox let out a little snort of laughter, stuck his head out the window and ruffled stray pieces of glass out of his hair. He let the wind run cold past his face, and remembered that there are only three kinds of people in this world.

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