“There’s this burger joint down 52nd Street…” Murray kept his eyes on the narrow road. Bill Murray was a heavy-set black man in his early-thirties who preferred to be called by his last name. When compared to the famous actor that shares his name, he responds: He’s a pickle, I’m the cucumber. 

The radio was playing a song by The Temptations, “I Want A Love I Can See.” Murray was softly humming along. They trailed behind a blue “Sweet Benedict’s Bakery” delivery van making its daily rounds. Red light. 

“Sure.” Paris was a young man in his late twenties. He had long hair, and pale skin. His eyes were as heavy as the frog in his throat. His phone was constantly beeping.

“Best burgers in town,” Murray said.

“Sure.” Paris replied with a shaky voice. Bzzz... his phone went. He put his phone away and tried not to look at it. Murray slowed down the car, and turned the radio down.

“What’s eatin’ you?”

“Nothing.” Bzzz...

“You don’t like burgers?” 

“No, no. I do. It’s fine.” Paris said.

“We can go somewhere else,” Murray offered. 

Paris fidgeted around in his seat. “No, no. It’s fine.  You get to choose where we eat afterward.” 

Red light. A cop car pulls up on their left. Murray glanced over and saw the two cops drinking a hot cup of Joe. The cop on the passenger's seat was scarfing down his scone. Murray made eye contact with the officer and smiled. He raised his cup of coffee to them in a greeting manner. The officers chuckled and raised their cups. Paris sunk into his seat. Green light.

“Luke Caligari,” Murray said.

 “What?” Paris said.

“Luke Caligari,” Murray repeated. “The cartoon I was talkin’ about earlier. I remembered it.”

“Luke Caligari?” Bzzz...

“Yeah. It’s this show about this genius with a bad leg, named Luke going up against this guy who’s always tryin’ to steal his inventions and ruin his life and shit. They’re like bitter enemies.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gali-fuckin-leo.” Murray smiled as the name rolled out his tongue. There’s a certain satisfaction to be had with saying Galileo, Murray thought. Perhaps, it’s the way the tongue shutters like a photograph with each syllable in a steady beat; or maybe because it’s a name rarely used or given anymore. Regardless, Murray loved saying it.

“That’s his name? Gali Fuckin Leo? His middle name is Fuckin?” Paris looked at Murray. His nerves were getting in the way of his common sense.

“What? No, it’s just Galileo.”

“Oh, I thought it was his middle name, or something.”

“What?” Murray chuckled. “No, man. C’mon. Shit. Haven’t you heard of ‘artistic flourish’? You can’t just say a name like that without some presentation. Muthafucka is the most badass cartoon villain ever made, man.”

“Why?” Bzzz... Paris ignored it.

“Galileo has a thing for Luke’s girl, right? And every episode, he’d try to get her to fall for him and shit. Real rapey vibes, know what I’m sayin’? So, in the last episode, he successfully mind controls Luke’s girl—uh, shit—can’t remember her name.” Murray snapped his fingers. He shook his head. “Well, anyway—muthafuckin’ Galileo wanted to marry Luke's bitch and screw time with his time machine, or some shit. Typical cartoon bullshit. So he gets his convoluted evil plans thwarted by my boy, Luke. Luke saves his girl and he fuckin’ wipes Galileo from existence.”

“What? How?” Paris asked.

“Yeah,” Murray nodded. “Luke traps Galileo in his own time machine and sends him off to Pompeii. Gali-fuckin-leo gets his ass mercked by the volcano. Crazy ass way to die.”

“That’s harsh.” Paris looked at his phone.

“Not harsh enough, in my opinion. If somebody tried to mind control my wife and shit, I woulda sent his ass to every major historical tragedy,” Murray laughed. “Gali-fuckin-leo. It’s a good show. Cartoons ain’t just for kids, y’know.”

“Sounds trippy,” Paris said. Bzzz... 

“It’s an acquired taste." Murray said with a slight dip in volume. He turned the radio up and slowly grooved his head to the lyrics.

I want a love I can feel. (Doo-Doo). That's the only kind of loving I think it's real. (Doo-Doo). Don't want to be quoted by something I heard now. (Doo-Doo) 'Cause baby action speaks louder than words. (Ah, louder than words).

“Is that your girlfriend texting you?” Murray said.

“What?” Paris nervously snapped.

“You’ve been getting texts all day, and you haven’t answered.”

“Oh, uh… yeah,” Paris stammered. “I mean, no. It’s complicated. Nothing serious, just figured I should avoid texting her. Considering…”

“You gotta relax. Just keep cool, man.” Murray hummed softly. "Why don't you call her back. Might ease your nerves."

“Are you sure it’s gonna work?” Paris interrupted. "This freeze-ray-thing?" In the back seat was a strange contraption— about the same size as a Tommy gun, but bulkier. There was a hefty nitrogen tank connected to it with a series of complex wires and tubes. A small glowing box was attached just below the tank; this was its power source. Paris didn’t know what the power source was. He figured it was radioactive because of the thick lead box and ominous hum it gave off. He didn’t know how Murray obtained this power source, or much about it—only that Murray himself built the thing. Murray nicknamed it, Smokey—after The Miracles' frontman Smokey Robinson. “You think it’ll work again?”

“A hundred and ten percent,” Murray smiled. “Did some tweaks to Smokey this morning. Froze objects down to 200 degrees below zero on the highway job. With the modifications from this morning, thanks to the new power source the Doc left me, Smokey should freeze objects down to 340 degrees below zero in three minutes; about twice as much as last time. Shatters diamonds, stops bullets in mid-air, instant frostbite, and a badass tool for any fool who wanna look cool pullin’ a heist.”

“You sound like an infomercial,” Paris shook his head.

“Artistic flourish, my guy. Artistic flourish.” Murray stopped at the red light. He turned down the music. “Listen, after this job, you don’t have to worry ‘bout watchin’ your back anymore. I talked to Menmon.”

“What’d he say?” Paris asked nervously.

“To be honest, he wanted me to kill you,” Murray laughed. “I told him, no.”

“Thanks." The thought hit him like a truck. "But why?”

“I like you, bro. You’re a bit of a punk, but that’s cool. You ain’t meant for this life. Like my boy, Luke Caligari—you got a brain. You ain’t like the other muthafuckas at the garage. You use your head. I think you’re meant to do great things, just not in this field.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t mention it.” The light turned green. “Look, after this is done, you give half of your share to Menmon, you'll get enough to start a new life elsewhere, and—bang—got yourself a new life. Easy peasy. He won't come after you. He and I have an understanding.”

Paris looked out the window. “I’m not worried about him…”

“Then who?”

“Eh, nevermind.” Paris said. “Not important.”

***

Murray pulled over a block away from an old bank at the corner of 3rd street and Goeffrey Ave. He looked at his watch. It's 4pm.

“There it is Jezebel Savings Bank,” Murray said. He put his hands on the wheel and eyed the place carefully. He turns to Paris. “Alright, pop quiz. How much time do we have to pull this off?”

“About thirty minutes.” Paris rubbed his sweaty palms together and kept his eye on the bank. “We go in and we hit hard. The alarm will be tripped, and we’ll have about three minutes before the cops get here.”

“Maybe less. We’re still hot from last week’s highway job. They’ll be on high alert. We’ll need as much time as possible.” Murray added.

“Right. After the highway job, the heat will be on high alert. They’ll get SWAT cars on us this time. That’s where Smokey comes in. We’re gonna need an ice wall thick enough to stop an armored vehicle so that we have time to grab the cash.”

“Seven-hundred, fifty-thousand dollars, plus the ledger Menmon wanted from D'Ora's box. Don't forget that. That's priority,” Murray smiled. “Anyways, seven large split four ways—you, me, Menmon, and Lee. That’s what?”

“One-hundred, eighty-seven thousand dollars.” Paris calculated.

“See? Told you, you was smart.”

“Menmon also gets half my share.”

“So, that’s like, what? Seventy K, or something?”

“Ninety-three large, give or take?"

“See, not so bad. Should be enough to get you started somewhere.” Murray assured Paris. “Menmon and I had an understanding.”

“What are you gonna do with all that money? I bet Ellie has some ideas.”

Murray laughed. “Well, you’ve met my wife. She’d probably want to go on a trip somewhere. She’d been hinting that she’d like to go to France, y’know? Paris this, Paris that. A picture of the Eiffel Tower on the fridge. I don’t know. We’ve got time to figure it out. All that money opens up a lot of doors. All I know is, it’d be nice to take her someplace. Been a while since we’ve done anything together, you know? Paris may just be the thing to rekindle what we had. You feel me?”

“Well, she’s one of a kind,” Paris said. “You’re a lucky man.”

“Yeah, I think so, too.” Murray nodded. “How ‘bout you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should treat your girl, or something.”

“Nah, it’s complicated.” Paris shook his head.

“Why? Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. No.”

“How complicated? You got another girl or something? Baby? She got a baby?”

“No.” Paris smiled.

“She’s an addict?”

“No, nothing like that.” Paris said. He sighed. “There’s, uh, another guy.”

“She got a boyfriend?" Murray asked. Paris shook his head. "Married?”

Paris nodded.

“Damn,” Murray said. “You guys had sex?”

Paris looked at Murray, avoiding eye contact.

“Shit. That is complicated. What you gonna do?”

Franics shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know. If he finds out, I'm a dead man. There are worse things that Menmon breathing down my back.”

“Well, shit. Good luck with that man. This shit too personal. I don’t want to get involved. Just best of luck to you.” Murray gave a kind chuckle. Francis nodded and looked at his phone. “By the way, you’re holdin’ on to Smokey.”

“Me?” Francis asked.

“Yeah, make sure you shoot the windows and doors with it. It should buy us a lot of time.” Murray said. "You’ll be fine. It’s like using any other gun. It’s got some weight on it, so make sure you hold on tight. This thing packs a nasty wallop." 

Paris stared at the hunk of machine. "I trust you.” Murray added.

Paris sighed and nodded. “So, what’s the escape plan?”

“Hmm?”

“If we block the exits with ice, how do we get back to the car?” Paris asked.

“We don’t.”

Paris stared at Murray in disbelief. “The hell are you talkin' about?”

“Lee’s picking us up on the roof with the chopper," Murray said nonchalantly.

“Chopper? The fuck he get a chopper from?”

Murray smiled and grabbed Smokey. Murray turn it on and it began to whirr. Puffs of cold steam began to spurt in bursts from the barrel. The car began to cool. Murray smiled and handed the gun over to Francis. It’s slightly lighter than what Francis thought. He got used to the weight quickly, and he predicted that it would get a lot heavier once he started using it. 

“I don’t get it,” Francis said.

“Get what?” Murray replied.

“This. You got the brains to create something like this. So, why this life?”

Murray’s face froze into a solemn expression. “Things didn’t work out the way I planned. I admit, I could’ve been something. But that don’t matter now. That was a long time ago.” Murray looked at the time and he turned up the radio. He smiled and began to softly sing along to the new song on the radio...

Now I know he's the guy who put tears in my eyes. A thousand times or more. Oh, but ev'rytime he would apologize. I loved him more than before.

"What song is this?" Paris asked.

Murray pulled up his blue scarf to cover his face and looked at Paris. "Don't Mess with Bill."