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Found out he works here.  So here we are.  Where's Ted?"
    "I don't know."  Vic looked at his toes, unable to meet Frank's intense stare.  "But I did send him home sick."
    "He's not sick."  Bill scratched his cheek.  "And I said you're a terrible liar."
    "What do you want with him?"
    "Your friend Ted got himself into some trouble," Bill said.  "And now we've got to take care of it."
    "What?"
    "Ted found himself at the wrong place and wrong time a month ago when he was in Vegas.  Took us a while to track him down.  Now we've got to clean it up before it gets any messier than it needs to be."
    Vic's eyes shifted from Bill to Frank and back again.  "What kind of trouble?"
    "We're wasting time, Frank."
    Frank pulled his own .357 from his coat and pointed it at Jimmy's head.  "Where is he?"
    Vic could smell the distinct scent of urine coming from the other side of the bar.
    Frank cocked the hammer.  "Where?"
    "The back."  Vic's voice shuddered.  "He's in the back."
    "The back," Bill said.  "Should have known.  That's all these dives have are backs ."
    A low growl emanated from the back office.  Vic had never heard anything like it.  Meaner than a dog's growl.  Wet and full of saliva.  Rabid.
    "Guess time's up, Bill."  Frank stood up.  "Would have been nice to get him before the change."
    Bill grabbed his pistol from the bar.  "Let's go finish it."
    "What's back there with Ted?" Vic said.
    "That is Ted," Bill said.  "Was Ted.  You two stay out here."
    Both men walked to the back office.
    Vic leaned over the bar, terrified yet curious.  He tried to see what lay on the other side of the door but as the two strangers opened it and rushed through, Vic couldn't make out a damn thing.  He could hear it though.
    The growl turned into an ungodly roar.  Vic covered his ears but kept his eyes locked on the door, trying his best to glimpse Ted...or whatever Ted had become.  The roar lasted another second before the eruption of Frank and Bill's guns cut it off for good.
    Gun smoke and silence crept from the backroom.  Vic still leaned over the bar, eyes glued to the back.  Jimmy's whimpers fill the void.  Then plastic rustling from the back.  Zippers opening.  Closing.
    Frank said, "He's a heavy son of a bitch."
    A few minutes passed before Frank and Bill emerged from the office.  Each one carried the end of an oversized body bag, the middle sagging, barely an inch off the ground.
    As they walked by, Bill dropped a five dollar bill on the bar.  "For the bourbon."
    The two strangers walked through the front door with their bag into the pale light of the moon.  Then they turned and headed out of sight.
    Vic's eyes settled on Jimmy.  He still cried, hands clenched in a death grip around his glass.
    Vic reached down and felt his own pants.  Wet with piss.
    "Go home, Jimmy."  His voice soft, broken.
    Jimmy shook his head, tears gushing.
    Vic reached across the bar and clenched Jimmy's shoulder.  "Go home.  We're closed."
    Jimmy wiped his eyes.  "What just happened?  What did they do to Ted?"
    "I don't know and I don't want to know."
    Jimmy tried to drink from an empty glass.  "Give me another shot, Vic."
    "We're closed, Jimmy.  For good."
    "Just another shot, huh?"
    "We're closed, damn it."  Vic looked to the front again, half expecting Frank and Bill to change their minds and storm back in and finish off the witnesses but also relieved he'd survived whatever had just happened.  "I'm leaving, Jimmy.  Right now."
     

FACES
     
    You're nothing without a decent set of headshots.  Casting directors, agents, other aspiring actors tell you this as soon as you step off the bus in Hollywood.  Need to have a highlight reel, so to speak, which sells your talent.  But when you start out you don't have a movie-of-the-week or a television pilot or even a public service announcement to demonstrate said talent.
    What you have is your face and you need to land pictures of it on as many desks as possible.  A good