Stuyvesant’s Point

Three-pieces and pinstriped two-pieces

sat in a boardroom overlooking the tip of

Stuyvesant’s Point babbling bank-babble,

 

derivative-speak and how to further bundle

bags of mortgages and ship them overseas.

Done for the day, they flew to Phoenix

 

lined up the blue-jeans, tank-tops, flip-

flops and badly scuffed Redwing steel-

toes against the row of drowning condos

 

and two bedroom, one bath bungalows

in the desert and unloaded, rapid-fire, mag-

azine-loaded Glocks, and automatic assault-rifles

 

— stuff they bought at a gun show in Glendale.

For good measure, they bayoneted the floating

bodies so they would sink in the brown clay water,

 

the blood making the water just a tad darker

but dark enough to hide the bodies. The next

morning, after a shower for all and shave for

 

the guys, the three-pieces and two-pieces met

again in the boardroom, drank coffee and

thought about their bonuses and how the

 

money would pay for the really simple,

unassuming, six-thousand square foot, six

bedroom, six full-bath with an outdoor shower

 

next to the lap pool cottages with a short

walk to the ocean and beach bar in the Cayman’s

and Bermuda, nice places to go, if and when,

 

things turned ugly — not to mention the weather.