Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant Page A

to hit the tabletop and his skeleton turns to rubber. He slides to the floor and curls into a fetal position with his bruised ego cradled in his hands.
    Pinch removes a twenty from his pocket and hands it to our waitress.
    â€œSorry for the disturbance,” he says.
    â€œNo worries,” says the young woman. “That one’s pinched my ass so many times, I’ve thought of doing the same thing. Twist and squeeze, huh?”
    Pinch winks at her and holds the door open as we exit.

    At Polka Dots, I order a chocolate-chip mint sundae with rainbow sprinkles and proceed to the vinyl booth where Pinch is already devouring a dark chocolate malt.
    â€œDo you know what he did wrong?” Pinch asks as he licks his plastic spoon.
    â€œPinstripe?” I ask to make sure we’re not talking about the pimply faced vendor behind the ice-cream counter.
    Pinch nods.
    â€œHe underestimated you,” I say.
    â€œWorse. He overestimated himself. He’s a big shot in whatever bullshit company employs him and he mistook that sliver of middle­-management power for strength. He thought that because he gets away with being an asshole at work that he can be an asshole everywhere. The Red Swan isn’t like that.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œKrasnyi Lebed will come across as a gentle old soul who likes playing chess and inviting members of the symphony to play at his cocktail parties. He will be charming right up until the moment he sinks an ice pick into your neck. Power didn’t make people fear him; fear made people give him power.”
    I swallow as the teenager delivers my ice cream. I notice that he’s done an excellent job on the sprinkles. Nothing worse than a stingy sprinkler.
    â€œIf Pinstripe had crossed Lebed’s path,” Pinch continues, “ruptured testicles would be the least of his worries. The Red Swan does not bear insult or disrespect. He would have found out where the man worked and chained the doors closed before torching the entire building. Life means nothing to such a man.”
    â€œThen what does?” I ask.
    â€œNothing. He has no weakness because he has no conscience.”
    â€œSo I can’t appeal to his better nature?” I ask.
    â€œHe has no better nature. He is what he is, and what that is isn’t pleasant.”
    â€œSo you won’t help me?” I ask.
    â€œI just have,” says Pinch.

Eight
    Eddie is sitting in his usual spot at the rear of Mario’s Deli when I enter. The door to the back room is slightly ajar and Eddie’s talking to someone just out of sight in the shadows of its interior.
    Before I reach the booth, the door closes.
    â€œWhat’s in there?” I ask.
    â€œA room,” Eddie answers.
    â€œYeah, but what kinda room? What goes on in there?”
    Eddie shrugs. “It’s just a room. You have too much imagination.”
    â€œCan’t be a journalist without curiosity,” I say.
    â€œCan’t be a runner without legs,” he replies.
    I recoil. “Jeez! Talk about ominous. It was just a question.”
    Eddie shrugs again. “See. Imagination. What did I say? You need legs to be a runner. A simple truth. But you, you take it another way. That’s why I don’t use imagination. People see a horse and they imagine it will run fast because it has a clever name. Is that logical? No. I get rich on imagination.”
    â€œSo does your friend behind the door have a name?” I ask.
    Eddie almost smiles, but it could be my imagination.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Dixie? Ready to make that big wager?”
    â€œI have a question.”
    â€œAm I guru now? Does this look like mountaintop cave?”
    â€œNot so much, but you’re the closest to one I’ve got.”
    â€œI pity you then. Must not have many friends.”
    â€œAlways room for one more.”
    â€œNot even your imagination is that vivid.”
    I smile. “You’re a