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geniuses forgot to look…my wallet.
     
    Nick, as he can do, turns cold-blooded on my ass.
     
    We’ll just take that when we’re through with ya.
     
    Not now?
     
    I took out the wallet and offered it to Nick and he just stared through me with eyes like goddamned burning lasers. Allowing for that with a shrug, I instead gave old Charles Bronson the very same offer. He took the bait. As he reached for the prize I waited for the exact moment his pupils switched from me to the wallet and in that instant chopped the back of my hand hard across his throat. He went to his knees choking and Nick came at me with a right that actually grazed my chin. It was a good punch, and if it had connected it would have been lights out Jacky, but my dodge and counter were first-class. He almost walked his gut into my fist for the first one. I let him have two more and when he made for the praying position I grabbed his head in both my hands and drove my knee square into his face. Charles Bronson was thinking about round two so I picked up the bottle of bourbon from the desk and smashed it over his big head. He was done, under floor arrest, but for safety I threw in a few boots, both head and gut, Nicky boy got the same dose and I even put the equal treatment on tough number one who was bleeding all over my carpet. All things considered, it was a damn shame about that bourbon. A damn shame.
     
    You’re dead Jack, you’re fucking dead.
     
    It was Nick. A tough guy till the bitter end.
     
    You say that Nicky boy, but I don’t think you really mean it.
     
    I stomped his head. Rocked him so that he finally shut the hell up. I picked the photos up from the floor and wiped the small amount of blood that had got on them carefully with Charles Bronson’s right pant leg. I then kicked him in the ass with about three-fifths of what I could have and went over to the same drawer they’d pulled the photos from on a pretty solid hunch.
     
    It was a boy-oh-boy sun through the clouds state of affairs.
     
    There were at least ten more photos in there, and a godsend bottle of rotgut whiskey. I was so happy I went over and kicked Charles Bronson square in his left kidney with everything I had. Then I uncapped the sweet promise and took a thorough swig. Then another. Then I kicked the motherfucker who started the whole thing one last time. He should of just given me the photos, could have avoided this entire shitfight, bet he was wishing to God he had. I made a parting speech.
     
    Lock up for me huh fellas. You’ll do that for me right. And if you think of burning the place down, or smashing it to shit, or whatever takes your fucking fancy, remember to wave to the camera on your way out, the same one that you should have waved to on your way in. Records off site and everything. In fact I might, yeah, I’m gonna go there right now and erase the part where I whipped all your sorry asses. That’s thinking right? Oh, and tell your boss that I’ll see him in a couple.
     
    Out the door. Phone ringing. My pocket. I know what he’s selling. Don’t want it. Don’t want any of it. Ever again. Throw it. Far as you can. Splash. Atta boy. Blow it a kiss. Done.
     
    Big breath of ocean clean air. Solid jolt. Light a cigar. ‘Nother jolt. Smoke. Laugh. Smoke. Jolt. Drive. And all in under two minutes.
     

CHAPTER 5
     
    That jazz I spun about the camera was complete bullshit. I didn’t know how the thing worked, where it recorded or what, the owner had installed it before I even rented the joint and fuck knew why or how, hell, I didn’t even know what day of the week it was. I took a commemorative drink to that, didn’t happen very often in a lifetime.
     
    I had maybe two hours before I met with Worbich. He was the sleazebag fuck looking for his runaway daughter. I’d set the meet back in the city and had to go to see this wacko because I badly needed the coin. An underground car park. Basement floor. Real gumshoe spot. I figured I best get back home