The Briefcase In Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

And why did only one of them have a punching bag hanging in it? - You are very quick-witted, you were told? I couldn't help it as I felt a blow to my chest. What was the point of this question, if he already understood this as soon as he came ?! Misha did not answer, but the smell of his desire became less sugary. Like many men, he did not like it when women stopped playing according to their scenario and “no” began to sound exactly like “no”. Finally, after finding the office, I took a quick look around. Some boxes were stacked in the corner. On the window lay a large black box with an open lid, inside of which was a disassembled rifle.

“We’re not here to rob you. In fact, quite the opposite.” I narrowed my eyes, confused and more than a little on edge. “Who the hell are you?” He ignored me, glancing at the guys behind him. “Bring me the briefcase.” One of the brutes nodded and stepped forward, dropping a thick black case on the coffee table with a heavy thud. He flicked the latches open with a practiced ease and turned the case around to face me. My breath caught. Money. Stacks upon stacks of it. Bundled tightly with crisp white bands, all green, all real. Hundreds maybe thousands of them. The air smelled suddenly richer. My knees went weak.

The guards behind him were still holding on to their guns. “Can I have a look?” I opened the suitcase a bit and closed it back.He nodded. “Auder doesn't work with women” , his tone conveying doubt. “I'm in charge now.” I showed him the name inscribed on the suitcase, and he nodded. “Where's the money?” I blurted, my skin itched with the refusal of spending much time there. The cold gun resting against my bare skin. He stretched his hands, and the guard handed him the briefcase. He zipped down the case and showed me. Stack of new notes, layered like files in a cabinet—neat, orderly, and tightly packed.

"Do you have a bag?" Roman pointed at his briefcase on his desk. Addy shoved his gun in his pocket and moved to the desk. Hurriedly, he poured out all that was in the briefcase. Pens, files and laptop fell careless on the floor. When it was empty, he made his way back to the vault where Roman was. He gave Roman the briefcase and ordered him to put all the money in it.

The briefcase is on the floor beside his feet. His amber eyes move over me slowly. Head to toe and back up again. I’m wearing a black bodysuit that covers essentially nothing important, heels that add four inches, and my hair down the way he likes it. “The briefcase,” I say. “Right.” He reaches down and sets it on the sofa beside him. He undoes the clasps with deliberate slowness while maintaining eye contact. Then he opens it. The money is stacked perfectly. Mint condition bills bound in neat bundles filling the case completely.

I hesitated, and that tiny pause made his eyes narrow. “Now,” he said. My fingers shook as I lowered the purse onto the glass desk. He motioned with the gun. “Open it.” I did. All that was in there was lip balm, a notepad,a fake résumé, a single metro card and a Chessie-O’s coupon. His jaw tightened. “Empty it.” I turned it upside down as everything clattered onto the glass in one big heap. He watched in silence, his gun still pointed at me. Then in one swift movement, he reached forward and swept through the contents with his free hand

“You would have to get rid of it, while I go see the cops. Anywhere, but far from this place. It doesn't matter if it's later discovered, but it mustn't be found on you.” He walked over to an oil painting of a nude girl, standing on a cliff, looking down at the sea, and swung the painting on its hinges aside. Behind it was a luxury wall safe. He keyed in his password and got the safe open. The top shelf was stacked full of wads of hundred-dollar bills. On the lower shelf was a pistol. He took out the gun and carefully drew out a wad of hard cash. He closed the safe, turned around to face Natasha, who was standing behind him.

She wore only a few pieces of expensive-looking jewelry and only had a little makeup that brightened her natural features. When she walked into the packhouse, she held a pink briefcase in one hand, and a pink-studded cellphone in her other hand. The three of us sat on the sofa in the parlor and Natalie sat in one of the reclining seats, but she kept the recliner down and her leg crossed over the other as she rummaged through her briefcase, uncovering a bunch of documents and placed them on the coffee table in front of us.

The top clasp of the briefcase had sprung open in the transition. He reminded himself that he only needed to buckle it on and be gone. A gentleman would do so. A good protégé would. But he wasn't quite one or the other in that instant. He was one who'd just watched his faith shattered by the person he'd left it with. He was lost. His own hands, as if of their own volition, reached forward and carefully lifted the lid. The briefcase was laid out tidily. A pile of contracts. A passport. A Montblanc pen. And one slender, silver, single picture frame face down, as if its inhabitant was too private to be exposed even in a vacant space.

Trudging into the apartment, he leads the way to a kitchen joined to a dining room, which leads to a hallway and a tiny living room. Walking over to the dining room, he sets the briefcase on the table. The bags he sets on the floor. Sitting down, he opens the briefcase. I don't bother sitting down. Stacks of fifty dollar bills line the inside. The brown strap I recognize from when I had to actually break into a back and steal a certain trinket just so that my target would come to talk to me. I killed him when he did. Conceited freak.