The Subtle Art of Brutality

“What’ll it cost to whip up a shift for him that started ten minutes ago?”

“Five hundred. Cash.” No hesitation. None.

I drop the bills on the counter. Derne, it goes on your tab.

The bartender walks off and picks up a phone. Dials, no answer. Hangs up. Does it again. And again. The fourth time he speaks to someone. Shouts. Hangs up. Walks back over to me.

“Give him a half hour or so. And no blood in the bar.”

“No problem,” I say. “One more beer.”

I’ll try to hold good to the no blood in the bar part. I’ll try.

31

Blimpie looks inbred.

Fat retard. Close enough description coming from a junkie. Blimpie comes shuffling through the door, and the bartender shoots me a weary glance. I snap my fingers. Blimpie looks my way, and I point at him. Point to the stool next to me. He hesitates. I will not snap again.

He slinks over as much as his rotund shuffle will allow. Stares at my neck, my collar. My jaw. Over my shoulder.

Not my eyes. Too submissive.

“Sit.”

He does.

“I want to see your brother. Now.”

“Why?”

“The dope they bought off that dame a while back, the one who knows Dobbins.”

“I don’t—?”

“It wasn’t her dope.”

“Wait? Dobbins sent you here? Looking for me?”

“You, Danny and Cherry.”

“Dobbins? Everybody knows that guy as the dude caught sucking dick in the shitter for blow.”

“So?”

“So you gonna listen to fags?”

“Yes. Where is Danny?”

“I don’t keep tabs.”

I lean in. This is pissing me off. “Blimpie, you better start keeping tabs. Danny isn’t here but you are. Get it?”

“I thought I had to work—”

He looks to the bartender and he flicks his eyes at me. Blimpie looks back and I fluff my jacket, showing him the firepower.

“I thought I had to work—”