The Killer Within

By R.D. Tkachuk

Two men sit in a car, parked outside a bar on an east-side street. Joey Glass looks carefully at photos of his wife having sex with another man, flipping through slowly, torn by conflicting emotions: rage, passion, betrayal, but mostly the pain of disappointment. He steps into the bar for a strong drink and a simple answer in the ice at the bottom of a glass. But there are no simple answers, there is nothing but the ringing in his ears of unspoken voices making him the brunt of heartless jokes. Hell have to keep to his emotions to himself and wear a brave face the unwritten rules of macho decorum can allow his features to portray only one emotion; anger. With a expansive thumping of fists on the bar a threat is tossed to prove his anger; "If it wasnt for the shortage of good honest killers around here, Id have this guy whacked, right now! Two in the head!."

But he is in the presence of one particular fool as he says this. Its this man Pauli, otherwise known as Bullshit Pauli who overhears it, a man waiting for just this type of opportunity to gain respect. To him its a challenge to undertake, to prove to everyone, but especially himself, that he is capable of completing such a horrendous task. "Ill do it." he says to Joey and all present. Those three words start it, and his plan is conceived with unusual cunning and daring, and succeeds exactly as planned. The idle threat Joey put forth becomes reality within two weeks in the form of a body lying with a shattered skull on the sidewalk.

Its up to the police detective, Daryll Rhodes, to catch this man before he feels so good about himself he does it again. The tangle of characters involved include an old man of the street set up to take the fall, a mistreated wife who has plans of her own, a union leader seeking to use the troublesome Bullshit Pauli as an example to the rest of the union brotherhood, and the real killer Joey hires to stop Bullshit Pauli from telling the world of his victory.

Its the rise and fall of the man called Bullshit. Theres a pack of wolves snapping at his heels but his new-found narcissism wont allow their notice. His eyes in the mirror reflect what his heart feels, but he blinks it away, the life he had is over and hes not going back alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 22, 2002
• ISBN: 9781450003193

R.D. Tkachuk

R.D. Tkachuk was born in Edmonton, Canada, in 1956. He currently lives in West Vancouver. This is his first novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

A light rain shower painted the darkened streets and

sidewalks with a glossy sheen, reflecting traffic lights and storefronts. The neon of Freddy’s . . . Place flashed on and off with languor, on the building and in the pools of water along the curb. On the street, in a faded brown Cadillac, two men sat quietly. Behind the wheel was Joey Glass, examining a photograph of his wife having sex with another man.

You make copies of these?

Joey, come on, those are the only ones.

How do I know you didn’t make copies? A set for yourself, maybe for the net?

Come on, I’m a pro. I’d lose my business if I did shit like that. First thing they tell you about in dick school is about keeping your mouth shut tighter than a clam.

Joey said, Yeah, dick school; correspondence course all of three lessons. Bad enough you’ve seen my wife naked, last thing I need to hear about is what you learned through the mail.

He looked closer at each photo to make out details through half-closed blinds. He’d never seen a picture of his wife naked before, much less under . . . above . . . in front of . . . another man.

What’s this? How’d she do that? Now she’s a contortionist? And what dump is this anyway?

The New Yale Hotel.

The fucken Yale? That slum-hole? Surprising she didn’t bring home crabs.

The private detective stared back, without reply.

Joey Glass leaned back and considered his options for a long, quiet moment, then came to a distinct conclusion. He loved her and had to have her, and keep her, and this left him without an option. He stuffed the photos in the envelope and turned back to the detective,

So what do I owe you for this bad news? And how much more to keep your mouth shut about it?

Joey, I’m not telling a soul, I swear, and you know what I told you, the fee is two hundred a day plus expenses. That makes it eight seventy-five.

Joey pulled out his wallet and took out a stack of bills, counting out eight hundred and eighty.

That’s the closest I got. Take it and close the book on this shit.

You want a receipt?

No. What for, a tax deduction? Like there’s going to be that line on my tax return: ‘Cost of private dicks to spy on cheating wives.’

OK, don’t get sore, I gotta ask, you know.

Well, don’t. Now get the fuck outta here. You were supposed to bring me good news, not pictures like this.

I know, but don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one with my ankles in the air, I’m just the mailman.

Well then get out in the rain and shit and start delivering the mail or some goddamned thing. And quit thinking about my wife’s ankles, and everything else too. Get outta my car, I gotta think for a bit.

The detective left, leaving Joey to listen to the rain on the roof of the car as the windows fogged over. He sat motionless for a long while. When the condensation began to run down the inside of the windshield in fat drops he decided it was time for a strong drink. He got out and walked to the front door of Freddy’s Place without bothering to turn up his collar.

Once inside he went straight for a seat at the bar, which happened to be four chairs down from cornerstone regular Pauli Bortolo, and ordered a drink. He gulped it down, ordered another, then a third, and slipped into a dark depression.

Chapter Two

Freddy’s Place, a typical east side bar. Dark, dingy, infused

with the stench of stale smoke and cheap booze, threadbare carpets, tinny music, and decor two decades out of style. If you don’t like it, then stay out. They don’t go broke and don’t get better, but hang on year-by-year, making less and less money, perpetually behind on rent. Almost empty most of the time, half-full of working class men the rest of the time. A short laugh might be heard now and then, but more likely, quiet bitching with heads hanging low over drinks cradled by nicotine stained fingers. The type of bar where newcomers never get comfortable under the dull stupid stare of the regulars, the men who sit alone at the bar at least two chairs apart and smoke and drink like deranged robots in a noir horror movie.

Like any other east side bar, surviving until the proprietor has the stroke or heart attack he felt coming for years, or the retirement plan that includes a can of gasoline and a match is realized. No one’s surprised or sad when the day comes that they look up as they arrive to find plwood covering the front door, they just migrate to the next east side bar.

There’s fifty if there are ten and they can all be Freddy’s Place, all looking the same, as if there was some massive sale thirty years ago on tasteless bar furniture. With a jukebox and an out of order cigarette machine, a wood-look bar under rows of inverted glasses, the Freddy, or Willy, or Charlie, the wrinkled and graying owner and sole employee.

This was Freddy’s and it was a dive, pure and simple, but to Freddy it was his home, his livelihood, his cross to bear, and his regulars like his brothers. And here, on this rainy night was Joey, normally a table guy, sitting at the bar, looking like his dog just died.

Freddy watched Joey for a moment, then broke the silence with a simple question. This is where Freddy the bartender got Joey Glass to cross his own personal Rubicon.

Hey Joey, how’s the wife?

The question hit Joey like a punch in the solar plexus, his mind at that second ensconced in the images from the photographs. He turned his head as a realization infected his brain, then slammed his fist on the bar,

FUCK HIM. THAT LOUSY LITTLE PRICK!

He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth and squeezed his fingers tight, twisting the throat, throttling, forcing the life out of the bastard who spilled the news about his wife.

He must have told everyone even before me.

But in a second he felt eyes focusing on him and the illusion dissolved in his rage; he dropped the napkin he was strangling. Once again he slammed his fist on the bar.

They all know, they all fucken know.

He silently cursed as he understood what he had to do to stop the other men from talking behind his back.

Whadya mean Freddy, how’s my wife? How much did he tell you?

Who? Told me what? Just, how’s the wife, you know, she OK?

Why you asking? What’s she to you? Don’t dodge it Freddy, how much did he tell you?

Freddy stood back, raising his hands in surrender, She’s OK isn’t she, she’s OK and all? I’m just asking for something to say.

Yeah? Like I’m supposed to believe it’s a coincidence you ask a question like that, on this night? Goddamn that son of a bitch. He told you, didn’t he?

What are you talking about? Cool off, nobody’s been saying anything, other than Bullshit Pauli as usual.

So he knows about it too, meaning for sure the whole world knows. His head slumped down as he thought about this news. He took another long swallow of his drink, listening to his thoughts for a moment, but couldn’t stay quiet for long.

This whole stinken world is like one big sewer, where the shit doesn’t always run beneath the surface. The streets are nothing but streets of shit, can’t trust no one, can’t avoid facing the shit that’s life.

Freddy said, Hey Joey, you got a problem, that’s part of life. It’ll blow over, whatever it is.

But the rum had warped Joey’s thinking and loosened his tongue. He never heard Freddy,

I mean, what’s this world coming to? When a guy can bend over another man’s wife, in some sleazy flea-bag hotel, the cheap bastard, and think he don’t have to answer to a .45 for it?

Then a thought occurred to him, a thought he liked, so he announced it to the entire room, with conviction,

I’m going to have the bastard killed, that’s what I’ll do. You know, if there wasn’t such a shortage of good honest killers around here, I’d have this guy whacked right fucken now. Tonight, I mean.

He pointed his forefinger, his thumb flexing twice, Bam-Bam, two in the ear, blow his brains to next Monday. Then shoot that dick off.

He knew he had a make a big statement. Could there be any doubt he wasn’t mad as hell? That he wouldn’t someday make the guy answer for it? No, he had to do something. But if you happen to be five-five and 148 pounds of skin, bones, and girlie muscle, you had to talk big and claim powerful connections to guys that could do serious damage, so word gets back to wife-fucker and wife-fucker leaves town, if he knows what’s good for him.

Joey looked at Bullshit Pauli the drunk, for once finding a use for the habitual liar and storyteller filling up space at the end of the bar, visually prompting him to respond, hoping he would re-tell the threat often enough to ensure it got back to the guy.

He said to Pauli, Is there no justice? The kind that makes a guy respect another man’s property, which includes his wife, and if he doesn’t show respect he’s got to answer to the guy, or the guy’s associates, if you know what I mean.

Pauli was quiet, saying nothing.

Joey started feeling better, nodding, seeing this might be a quick solution, scare the guy out of town. He checked to make sure all listening understood the ‘associates’ and the ‘know what I mean’ part, and then examined his fingernails to give them a chance to be impressed.

At the end of the bar Bullshit Pauli was nodding, contemplative. After an atypical period of silence he spoke up, You’re right Joey, it’s a shitty world outside this place. Streets of shit because of a basic problem. There’s no sense of honor anymore. He looked around, as if in a town hall meeting. You know, all you guys know, these types of things are dragging the world into the mud.

Joey watched Pauli, fine with this ham-handed embellishment of his tirade, but now expecting him to move on to some other topic. He reached over and lifted a pickle jar from the lower bar, pulled one out and began to crunch on it, calming down, satisfied he’d said what he had to. The bar became quite, until Pauli spoke up again.

I’ll do it.

Joey heard, but ignored it. He crunched on the pickle, chewing with mouth agape, then put his cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. He sat back and emitted a smoke ring, then another, then slowly, another. He watched them dissolve in the stale airspace above his head then looked over at Pauli. You say something?

I said, I’ll do it.

Do what?

You know, kill the bastard.

You? You’re Bullshit Pauli. You’re going to kill someone?

Why not?

Ever kill a man before?

No, but that doesn’t matter, I could kill a man like killing a fly.

Joey reeled back, What the fuck. Hey everyone, listen to this. He turned in this chair to face the men at the tables. Mister Bullshit over here says killing a man is as easy as killing a fly. He turned his attention back to Pauli, What in hell are you talking about? Go take a crap buddy-boy, the shit is overflowing your lips again.

Pauli continued to stare as if he didn’t hear. He spoke clearly,

No Joey. No bullshit. You want someone to kill the man who’s screwing your wife, or your daughter, or your French fucken poodle for all I care, then you got your man right here. I’ll do it.

The bar became silent and those present, including the ones in the darkest corner booths were paying strict attention, all eyes riveted on Joey. An unseen bead of perspiration trickled down his bicep, and more were forming under the plastic hair taped to his head. With mechanical movements he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another then took a bite of pickle. He looked with scorn at Pauli and saw the same thing as he’d been looking at for years, a big dope sitting like a stump at the end of the bar, talking non-stop to whoever was nearby, if they were listening or not. If he could take back everything he’d said, he would’ve, but it was too late. With resignation he decided to call Pauli’s bluff to shut him up. He leaned forward, and spewing bits of pickle as he spoke, said straight at Pauli,

OK big man, you think you can do it, that’s a joke. But you’re the fucken joke here, we can all get a good laugh at this one. So now you’re a killer of flies and men. OK then Mr. Killer, what’s the fee? How much does a big fat killer like you get for this type of service?

Five Gs, that sounds about right.

Joey leaned back in his chair. That answer came way too fast. His blood pressure shot up and he could almost see the hole he was digging for himself as men’s voices in confidential whispers, from all sides and angles, assailed his ears. They were distracting and confusing him, all manner of ideas colliding in his head. For the second time in this miserable night he was left with no option. He dipped his head and cursed, FUCK! Then he looked up, understanding he had no choice, and addressed his problem.

OK bigmouth, you stupid fuck, I’ll give you five grand if you can clean up my domestic situation. Get over here and tell me your plan.

The crowd stilled, the whispers abated, the music somehow fading in the midst of Sinatra in mid croon as Pauli gathered his drink and cigarettes. He moved to the seat next to Joey and leaned over to set his corpulent face directly before him.

You give me half the cash up front, the rest after I whack the guy. And a picture, I gotta have a picture so I get the right guy. And you better give me his address too, I’m gonna need that.

Joey said, Hey, slow down, you think it’s that easy? You walk up, say ‘bang bang you’re dead,’ and that’s it?

No, no, I guess I need some time too. Give me a few days, or maybe I need a week, for planning and stuff. But for sure I need half the cash for preparations. So, fork it over, or if you don’t got that much on you, come back tomorrow, I’ll meet you here. Show up with the money or don’t ever come back to Freddy’s.

Then Bullshit Pauli pulled away from the bar to do an unbelievable thing: he got up to leave before closing time. He took a few strides toward the door then looked back at Joey and said, See you tomorrow.

Joey blinked twice and shook his head as the front door closed.

What the fuck was that? He turned to Freddy, Did I just hear that? Or did a some evil fucken spirit possess the Bullshitter?

Freddy did his usual, he put his palms up and tilted his head, leaving Joey without an answer.

Christ Almighty what a day. Was all Joey could offer, unsure if he could slink back to his car before anything else went wrong.

Chapter three

When Bullshit Pauli stepped through the door and began

his walk to the bus he didn’t notice the rain falling on his uncovered head, his thoughts consumed by the recent events. He watched the joints in the sidewalk glide beneath him, his stride a lumbering gait sending his feet in opposing thirty degree angles, his shoulders rolling in semi-circles like a sailor on a pitching deck. He replayed the words that rattled around his head, the revelation that Joeys wife was a busy girl, Joeys rant about honor and the challenge, and most surprisingly, his own acceptance of one very big offer. He shook his head as each replaying of the words, in ever more rapid succession, ended with him saying, ‘I’ll do it.’

He looked up as he walked and noticed something different. This situation was a novelty, neither drunk nor craving a drink, a very new sensation. He made his way to the bus stop then stopped, a conclusion reached in his mind. Pride. He handled the situation well. He told Joey he would do it, told him to shut up, and stood up to him. ‘Great move, Pauli.’

He forgot how quickly he exited to ensure his was the last word. But, that aside, he was feeling very good about how he handled this strange situation.

Mr. Paulino Bortolo, a.k.a Bullshit Pauli, call him what you want, was an unusual person. For Freddy, a dream customer, always worth a certain percentage of the required monthly income. A big talker who built momentum as the night wore on. But one who would run out of his typical complaints: high taxes, corrupt politicians, union busting bastards, and assorted current topics, by about 9:00 p.m. Then the stories grew grander as the alcohol twisted these tales and opinions into bizarre permutations. Freddy, weary but obliging as always, even created a gauge for Pauli’s stories, the crap factor. Calculated by multiplying the number of drinks by the time of night. Nine drinks, eleven PM, crap factor ninety-nine—you could believe 1/99th of what Pauli said.

That was Pauli Bortolo, always talking, and doing so with little knowledge of what he was talking about. If during his lifetime he was diagnosed and conclusions drawn based on his behavior relative to the parts of his brain, these studies might have concluded that the speech center was abnormally developed. Not that he had a great vocabulary or sophisticated manner of speaking, but that his capacity for speech was hyperactive to the point that it caused an irresistible compulsion to talk. Making things even worse, this part of his brain was dominant to the same degree that his listening center was subordinate. He could listen well, to the sound of his own voice, lacking the patience to listen to anyone else.

But neither of these conditions shaped him as much as a third aspect, and perhaps it was from a deficiency in the part of his brain that processed information. Like the second, this would have been found to be underdeveloped, and it was these conditions that made him what he was—Bullshit Pauli. He talked too much, almost never listened, and drew fantastic conclusions on subjects of which he had very little information. After hearing a snippet of convoluted fact on a topic he would become an expert on it. What he didn’t know about it he’d create, and would sprinkle in statistics he’d invent to add credence to his theory. He would tell these stories, and as the night wore on they’d evolve, because he’d forget how he told the story a half-hour earlier. But the regulars of Freddy’s Place came to know him for this, and so christened him Bullshit Pauli. He tried to change it at first, swearing at anyone who used the epithet, but couldn’t because it fit like an undersized condom. His mind would wander while his mouth did play by play. Every word opening the filing cabinets of his brain, to cross reference the nightly acts of fiction, so each story could continue indefinitely. This became his trademark, his Pauli’s Own brand of verbal diarrhea. This is how he spent his nights, talking, and continuing to do so as long as anyone was listening—or appeared to be listening.

But, like everything else around him, that study on his brain was never done, the closest he ever came to a psychiatrist was the night he ran one over with his car after leaving Freddy’s Place.

And the nights would pass from one to another, collecting into weeks and months like pages flying off a calendar, and regardless of the lost years of getting drunk at Freddy’s one thing never changed: the booze would always take over and a new Pauli would come to life, a man of bravado and conquest. His sober life comprised one man and his drunken life another, one he hated the other he loved, and regardless what they called him he never once saw himself as Bullshit Pauli. He was Pauli the Man, or Big Pauli, or something better, but he couldn’t decide what.

Now he walked in the rain embracing a sense of victory, drifting from bus stop to bus stop, unable to stand still to wait. He came to a bridge over the inlet, where a man stood on the railing, preparing to jump. He walked closer and the man, balancing, looked back, forlorn, confused. Pauli walked on. You see a crying towel on my shoulder? Go ahead and jump, there’s a baby born every three seconds, you’ll be replaced before your sorry ass gets wet. If anything, he’d cross the street to help the guy with a push. But it was twenty feet out of his way: too far. He heard a splash but never broke stride, imagining the ripples spreading across the water was good enough.

Later, as he approached his house, he noticed the paint was flaking on the siding, algae of deep green and a still present egg smear from three Halloweens past discolored the stucco. When he walked in the door two startled faces turned up at him, his daughter Marina, laying on the carpet in front of the TV, and his wife Stella, sitting at the dining room table stitching away on a pettipoint of The Last Supper. The cat darted out of his way as he crossed the small living room, stepping over the legs of his daughter to sit down across from his wife. He looked around the house, noticing the couch, the drapes, the carpet, as if for the first time, the same worn-out furniture they’d owned for 21 years. Marina looked up from her vigil in front of the TV, then got up and went down the hall to her bedroom. He watched her go, then turned his attention to the fake fireplace and the wedding picture that sat on the mantle.

The euphoria derived from standing up to Joey was wearing thin, the house, his life, being sober, appearing worse by the minute. He looked back to Stella, a few minutes without a conflict was already too much. He was compelled to say something, it welled up inside, he could restrain it no longer, and out it came in his time-perfected adult whine.

Why do you keep that wedding picture? It makes me look stupid.

Stella never looked up from her work and said nothing, but placed her needle and thread on the table. He got up and walked over to the fireplace to look closely at the photo.

You want me to look stupid? Is that it? You think it’s funny, me looking like a clown? You leave it there so you can think, ‘look at the stupid Pauli, he looks like a clown.’

She still didn’t look up as she said, You don’t look stupid in that picture, Pauli. It’s our wedding picture. Other people have wedding pictures in their houses.

Not ones that make the husband look stupid, I’ll bet. I know you, Stella. You look for any chance to point out that I’m stupid and don’t give you stuff.

I don’t want you to give me stuff. I don’t want it because I don’t care. I gave up wanting stuff the day I said yes to marrying you. I want a home for our daughter, a nice home that provides for her, that’s all.

He shuffled on his feet, almost walking away. He wanted to get out, and then realized he’d made a statement by leaving Freddy’s and couldn’t go back there. The frustration built inside.

Yeah, like I forced you to marry me, like I twisted your arm. Like you gave up wanting stuff right from the start. Well, you’re part of it too. You’re the biggest part of the problem, you know. Like it’s all my fault. His voice started to rise. It’s always my fault, isn’t it? It’s always me. I’m the problem. It’s me and my drinking, or me not making enough money. It’s my fault, isn’t it Stella? Isn’t it? Well, what about it?

His anger blossomed. He stepped toward her. Answer me, goddammit. I’m the stupid one? I’m the stupid one and you can’t even say one goddamn word to answer me? This is my fault, right Stella? Right? Look at me when I’m talking to you.

He reached out and grabbed her hair. Look at me, Stella. This is what I hate. This is why you piss me off. You blame everything on me and I’m the stupid one and you never once have the nerve to tell me to my face. It’s my fault, isn’t it Stella? Isn’t it?

Still she wouldn’t answer, and this put him over the edge. His right hand formed into a fist.

I’M RIGHT. I’m stupid and I’m the fuck up? You’re wrong, you are. Look at me!

When she refused he swung upward with his right hand and hit her. Her head jolted against the blow, then she went into a defensive position. He swung again, striking the backs of her hands. After another uppercut he stopped. His left hand, still gripping the hair on the back of her head, pushed her down until she was on the floor.

He stood over her, looking down. It’s you’re fault, he said, then turned away, took five steps to the front door, and left the house.

She heard the door slam and waited a moment before lifting herself off the floor. Marina came running into her mother’s arms.

It’s not so bad Marina, nothing broken, maybe a black eye. They went to the bathroom to apply the cold compress her face had grown accustomed to.

Chapter Four

Detective Daryll ‘Dusty’ Rhodes, homicide division, fell

asleep on the sofa early that night, and this is where he awoke with a start, recalling the nasty recurrent dream. A woman dressed in a wedding gown, the strange woman of this dream, stood over an open grave where lay an open coffin. She stood there, looking down at him looking up at her, then he was looking down at himself, except who was he? With every version the nightmare grew bizarre, each compelling a cold sweat. He got to his feet shivering against the chill and made his way to his bed—who was he?—peeling off his clothes as he went. He slid between the sheets, hoping the dream was done for the night.

A strong easterly wind blew the clouds and rain from the sky, away from the city and the coast, into the valley over the course of the night. The sun shone on the cherry blossoms and tulips, and the droplets of water clinging to the petals. The city came to life as the sun climbed over the mountains, the volume of traffic built as the shadows shortened in the yellow light. Pauli tossed in his bed and looked at the clock: 5:55. He swung his arm over, shut down the alarm, and fell asleep for another twelve minutes.

Stella was already well into her morning routine: make his breakfast, his lunch, pack it, get him fed and out the door before waking Marina. By 6:52 she was closing the door behind him, breathing a sigh of relief.

He made his way to the bus stop, lunch bucket in hand, small bottle in pocket, for the ride down Fraser Street, to transfer to the Powell Street bus that would take him on a seventeen-minute ride to the docks. Seventeen minutes alone to think about the night before and the confrontation with Joey in the light of day. It felt good to think about it, real good. The job he was going to, the house he’d left, was nothing compared to this news. This was the chance he’d been waiting for and the thought of it warmed him with its promise.

The day passed, occupied by what he referred to as the usual shit. Dodge this work, hide over here, dodge work, ration the bottle over the day, dodge some more work, do some actual work, get the time card, punch out, catch the bus. A routine he could do in his sleep.

By 7:10 that evening he was on his way to Freddy’s, early, but too anxious to wait, all the way thinking the ball was already rolling. The risk of losing face was negligible, he had no credibility as it was and could say he changed his mind. On the other hand, he could go through with it and become a hero, with the cash as an added incentive. With these thoughts monopolizing his mind he entered Freddy’s, to wait for Joey, determined to not back down.

Twenty minutes later, from his regular seat he looked around, same crowd as the night before, as if they never left, with low whispers being exchanged, and for a second thought about changing his mind. He stayed quiet, dropped his head between his shoulders, and studied the ice in the bottom of the glass. Freddy, another, he said, ten minutes ahead of his regular pace.

The evening wore on, nine, ten, ten-thirty. The crowd was losing interest, drifting off. Then, at almost eleven, the man who loved to add the moniker Cadillac before his name breezed in, wearing a black leather overcoat, a white shirt, silver ace-of-spades cufflinks, and a bright red satin tie. Classy for Freddy’s, fodder for mockery at any other bar ten minutes west. He looked at the tables, then swaggered over to the bar, letting his coat billow out behind, to sidle up to the chair next to Pauli. He never looked over, Pauli never looked back, even as Joey ordered a drink. Ten minutes passed then he set down his drink, turned sideways in his seat and started talking, almost hissing at the side of Pauli’s head.

So, Pauli, or is it Bowlofshit Pauli, which have I got here?

Pauli.

OK, you want respect, you want me to say Mr. Pauli Sir, like you’re not Bullshit Pauli? Is that it?

Pauli looked back, Bullshit Pauli was a name some asshole made up. I’m not Bullshit Pauli so hear this, Cadillac Joey, let’s get down to business already. I’m not scared of you or your line of shit. You told everyone here you wanted someone to blow away the guy fucking your wife, I said I’d do it. Didn’t I, Joey? Well here I am again, saying I’ll do it.

Joey was quiet, taken off guard.

You got no balls, Joey? Is this guy fucking your wife cause you can’t do it? He grew larger in his chair, as