* * *
True to their word, and to his own surprise, Jeremy lived to see his apartment again, a feat that had never seemed like an accomplishment before. The agreed upon thousand dollars for what was intended to be a small heist had been doubled to two grand. Sometime later the next day, Jeremy reflected on that fact and realized he must have been rewarded with Jacob Holwright’s cut for the heist.
The hot-water from his shower beat down on his head and soothed his aching muscles. Every now and again, he flinched or shivered, brushing off his arms or thighs like a spider was crawling up them. Like he thought some of Jacob Holwright’s brain goo became sentient and was trying to crawl into his ear and take over his body like a cheesy, low-budget horror flick. Jeremy would’ve loved to have been in that movie. It would have had terrible special-effects and ugly fuck actors whose buck teeth looked like they somehow went cross-eyed, but at least he would have been paid. At least he wouldn’t have had to buy a hammer.
He slid into bed and the covers held him in a warm embrace, welcoming him to the soundest sleep he’d ever had. The money earned would be enough to cover a few months of rent, enough to land back on his feet. The lesson hadn’t been easy one to learn, and, in truth, he wasn’t exactly sure what the lesson even was. If you see Robert Spade, duck. But he knew a life of crime wasn’t for him. The hammer would not be bought in vain. With it, he’d build a life for himself. Either that, or he’d start his screenplay.