The Blue Note Lounge

"Another Twizzler? Shnooks, how long we been burnin' doobs together—since grade school? And ya still can't roll for shit? Spark it and let's get back inside—my hands are going numb.”

Mutsy and Shnooks hurried back into the Blue Note, shivering as they found their stools. On the mahogany, frozen fingers, too numb to grasp, pushed bits of tarnished copper and silver around—hunting for one last pull.

A deep baritone from directly behind spoke.

"Get my two friends here a double of Macallan. Each. Neat."

The bartender nodded toward the voice’s owner and complied; he’d recognized that tone of absolute confidence a thousand times before. Its owner—tall and thin in an expensive, fleece-lined leather waistcoat—settled into the stool beside them.

Mutsy and Shnooks froze. They watched the bartender reach for the top shelf, then nodded, scraping their change off the counter.

"Thanks, mister."

The Stranger didn’t turn. He sat perfectly upright, watching their reflections in the silvered grime. They would do.

"See those three in the glass?" The Stranger nodded toward the silvered grime of the mirror. "Back booth. Don’t look at 'em. They froze me out of a score earlier. My cut’s sitting in a house on 4th Street right now—twelve thousand in small bills. Along with a brown leather ledger.”

Twelve thousand. Mutsy’s eyes narrowed in the reflection. The Scotch hit his throat like a warm bribe.

"They followed me here to rub my nose in it," the Stranger rasped. "They know I can't move. If I leave this stool, they’ll bust me for sure."

He leaned in slightly, his reflection overlapping Mutsy's.

"You take the twelve thousand," he said. "Bring the ledger back to me. Keep the cash. All of it. A square deal for two men who look like they know how to handle a delicate situation."

Mutsy’s pupils caught the light. "Twelve? You’re giving us the whole twelve?"

"I'm a man of my word," the Stranger murmured, finally cutting his eyes toward them. A thin, cold smile touched his lips. "You two seem honest enough. Do we have an agreement?"

The Stranger leaned in, his reflection steady.

"It’s mine, so you aren't stealing—you’re retrieving. I stay here, they stay here. You’ve got all the time in the world."

"I understand," Mutsy said, his voice dropping an octave.

"I don't know," Shnooks whispered, staring at the bottles through the Scotch haze. "Sounds too easy."

"Suit yourself. Sometimes it just drops in your lap. Up to you."

Mutsy nudged Shnooks hard. "No, no—my friend is just a little wasted. You say it’s where?"

"Third house on the left. Brick, white trim. Score’s in the cabinet, upstairs bedroom. Keypad's on the frame. Nine-one-three gets you in.“

The Stranger reached for a cocktail napkin and scrawled the three digits down.

"Nine-one-three," he repeated. "You can’t miss it."

“We're interested, aren't we, Shnooks? You want the half or not?"

“Yeah. Let's go. Glad to help you out, mister.”

"Good night, gentlemen. Don't forget the napkin."

They finished the Macallan and wove toward the door, bumping shoulders with shadows that did not move. Once outside, they stumbled into the neon haze, heading for 4th Street.

The soggy napkin sat on the mahogany.

A drunken scream tore from the end of the bar. A girl in a thin dress, wrong for the weather, was shouting at her friends.

"I’m fine! I’m totally fine! You’re just trying to ruin it!"

She drained her glass, slammed it down, and stormed toward the exit. Her friends stayed put.

"Excellent," the Stranger whispered. He stood, buttoning his leather coat. A wide smile broke across his face. "Sometimes it just drops in your lap."

He watched her retreating reflection in the silvered grime. One second. Two. Five.

“Time to go.”

He stepped into the night after her. In the back booth, the three men didn’t look up. They just kept drinking.

On the porch, the wind bit at their necks.

"He said 319… I think.”

“You think, Shnooks—Geez! You think.”

"Or 913… I remember cuz they’re all primes.”

"How about remembering what matters, Shnooks? The sequence! God damn it.”

"It’s those three anyway… and one is always in the middle.”

“You had to forget the napkin.”

"Leave me alone, I’m thinking."

"You’re stoned. It’s freezing. Go ahead and pick one."

"If I’m wrong, it'll alarm."

"No shit!"

“Fuck it. Here goes."

Shnooks punched 3… 1… 9.

The heavy silence held, then broke as the latch clicked. No alarm.

"Well done, stoner. Fridge first."

"You sure nobody’s home?"

"He said nobody would be here.”

They moved deeper into the foyer, where the darkness took on a greater weight. A thickening in the gloom hardened into a vertical rib against the softer gray—the banister to the upstairs.

Halfway into the living room, Mutsy froze. He held up a hand, palm flat.

"Wait," he whispered.

"What? Keep moving, man."

"Listen."

They stood perfectly still. The cold they brought in from the street seemed to hang in the air, unmoving.

"I don't hear anything," Shnooks said, his voice barely a breath.

"Exactly. No fridge hum. No AC. No buzz from the clocks. This house is dead.” Mutsy looked back toward the door. “When you pushed the code... did it beep? Any LED glow?"

“No. Why, Mutsy?”

“Because that keypad is black. No light. No power.”

"The code," Shnooks breathed, his heart hammering. "I punched it… but the box was dark. It didn't beep."

"You’re telling me this now? We’re halfway to the bedroom and the door was just… open?”

A distinct sound cut the dark. Snoring—wet, rhythmic, and heavy.

"It’s over there," Mutsy whispered.

“Is it a dog? Fuck, it’s a dog... it’s a dog."

"What if he wakes up?"

"You mean when. Upstairs. Now."

"Shit, I got the munchies bad."

"Shut up and move."

Mutsy reached out, his fingers finding the cold banister by instinct. Then, a sneaker squeaked.

The snoring stopped. A heavy, muffled thud followed—the sound of a large body hitting the floor.

"Run," Mutsy hissed.

They scrambled. A desperate, tripping claw at the dark. Shnooks’ shoulder slammed the banister—the wood groaned. They reached the landing, lungs burning, braced for the roar or the snap of teeth.

Nothing.

They stood paralyzed. Mutsy leaned over the railing, staring into the black pit of the living room.

"Why isn't he barking?" he panted. "A dog that big... he should be tearing the place down.”

They stood and stared. The silence became a physical thing, unbreakable, but for the frantic thudding of their hearts.

Then, Mutsy saw it—a thin, ghostly finger of blue light bleeding from under the door at the end of the hall. It was a cold, rhythmic pulse, the electronic heartbeat of something that hadn't quite died with the power.

"In there," Mutsy hissed, his voice a dry rasp. "The master suite. If the score's anywhere, it's where the light is."

They crept toward the glow, their boots sinking into the deep, plush carpet. Mutsy nudged the door. It brushed across the heavy pile with a hush and swung open.

A large oaken cabinet sat against the far wall, a dark monolith that filled the space. Mutsy grabbed the two center doors and pulled. They swung apart with a heavy, oiled silence.

The cabinet didn't just hold the twelve thousand. It held stacks—thick, rubber-banded bricks of hundreds. And next to the cash, a lacquered tray piled high with a mountain of white powder.

Mutsy’s pupils bloomed until they were the size of doorknobs, reflecting the ghost-blue light of the room. He grabbed Shnooks’ shoulder like a vice.

"Shnooks! Oh, my God, brother! Look!”

Shnooks’ mouth dropped. He wet a trembling finger, dipped it into the fluffy frost, and smeared it hard along his gum line. The bitter tang hit him like an electric current. As his upper lip went dead and his pupils blew wide, Shnooks whispered.

“Mutsy... we didn't find a score. We found the Mint.”

They stood on either side of the silver tray. Without speaking, each peeled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from the top stack and rolled it into a tight, green tube. They leaned forward, eyes blown wide, taking deep, measured draws of the white powder.

The sting in their nostrils was sharp, followed by an icy, chemical tingle. Then came the rush—a sudden, electric heat that burned through the winter chill in their bones.

Shnooks straightened up, his heart hammering and the hundred-dollar tube still clutched in his hand. He twisted his neck with a sharp, skeletal crack and tilted his head back, eyes squeezed shut as he chased the bitter drip.

“Wow!” he rasped, his voice vibrating with a sudden, jagged energy. “Mother of God, Mutsy... that is some GREAT SHIT!”

Mutsy didn't just smile; he broke out laughing—a high, frantic sound that bounced off the oaken cabinet. The cold was gone. The dog was forgotten. They were kings in a blue-lit palace, and the world was finally paying its debts.

They hit the pile of flaky powder again and again. Thoughts of the money came and went between lines. The ledger was completely forgotten.

The silence of the house was replaced by the frantic, wet sound of sniffing and the crinkle of wrapped bills being stuffed into their coats.

Shnooks grabbed another brick of hundreds, his movements jerky and overconfident. "To the coast, Mutsy. We're buying the whole damn coast."

They turned from the cabinet, pockets bulging and spirits soaring, ready to walk out as kings but then remembered the coke.

"The Stranger’s a chump," Mutsy hissed, his heart drumming. "We take it all. We disappear."

They wanted to take all of the coke, as well. But how? They looked for anything they could use; bags, jars, or even a discarded envelope, but the room offered nothing but expensive, empty space.

"Forget it," Mutsy hissed, his eyes darting. "Hold your pocket open."

Shnooks pulled his coat pocket wide, and Mutsy used the silver tray like a coal shovel, scooping the fluffy frost directly into the lining. Then they switched. They didn't care about the waste or the white dust coating their sleeves.

"The Stranger’s a chump," Mutsy said, his voice a jagged rasp. "We take it all. We disappear.”

"How much we got?" Shnooks panted, his heart drumming against the cash-stuffed lining of his coat.

"I don’t know," Mutsy hissed, his eyes darting.

"How much we leave?"

"Too much." Mutsy looked back at the oaken monolith, the cabinet still heavy with bricks they couldn't fit in their waistbands. "Ok, so we come back for it. No rush. We got lots of time. Besides, no one but the Stranger knows we're even here."

Mutsy wiped a streak of white frost from his upper lip. "We'll hit a 7-Eleven. Grab a box of heavy-duty trash bags. Or shopping bags—the big ones with the reinforced handles. We come back, sweep the rest of the Mint into 'em, and we’re gone for good."

Shnooks nodded, his movements jerky. Then he froze, staring into the dark hallway. "Hey. Mutsy, what ya think happened to the dog? The one downstairs. I haven’t heard a sound out of him."

They stood at the top of the stairs, hearts hammering against the "Mint" stuffed into their coats. The silence was broken by a muffled clack—the back kitchen door.

A voice drifted up, low and urgent. "Yeah, I just drove by. The power's out. I know, 'no contact,' but I got worried about the stash. Thought you should know. Are you close by? Good. Hurry.”

A sharp whistle followed. They heard the skitter of claws on the linoleum as the dog retreated toward the kitchen, followed by the heavy tread of boots heading back out. The door whined on its hinges and clicked shut.

"He's gone," Mutsy hissed, his coke-fueled brain screaming for the exit. "Move!"

They scrambled down, heavy with cash and leaking white powder like ghosts. They reached the kitchen, reaching for the door, when it swung open.

Mugsy was a wall of a man, and he didn't ask questions. He caught Shnooks with a straight right that exploded his nose in a spray of dark crimson, driving him back into Mutsy’s chest. Before they could breathe, the baseball bat came out of the shadows.

The first wet thud took Mutsy in the ribs. The second shattered Shnooks’ collarbone. They were a tangle of limbs, blood, and loose hundred-dollar bills on the linoleum.

The Stranger stepped from the hallway shadows, a ghost in a fleece-lined waistcoat. He looked down at the tangle of blood and broken boys with a bored, clinical detachment. A heavy duffel was slung over his shoulder—packed tight with the remaining bricks from the oaken cabinet.

"Sorry I was late," the Stranger murmured, his voice as smooth as the Macallan. "Got distracted."

“So you know these two?” asked Mugsy of the Stranger.

He answered by raising a silenced pistol and putting two rounds into Mugsy’s chest. The big man folded like an empty suit.

The Stranger wiped the grip of the gun, unscrewed the silencer, and pressed the cold metal into Mutsy’s limp, broken hand. He was too out of it to even acknowledge what had just happened. The Stranger pulled Mugsy’s cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911, and spoke with the calm of a man ordering a pizza.

“I think I heard someone downstairs in my kitchen. I don’t know. Yes, just now. 619, 4th Street. Please hurry.”

He looked at the two "boy-men" gasping on the floor, their "Mint" now soaked in blood. "Enjoy your share," he whispered, and vanished into the night.