laugh. Sammy gave him a look threatening enough to reduce him to giggles instead.
“I’ll tell you what let’s do,” Sammy said. “Let’s pretend you made a bet with that money. And you lost. I won’t even charge you the vig.”
Walter Withers shook his head. He looked so confused that even Sammy had to laugh this time.
“Walter?” Sammy asked. “Walter? Are you still with us?”
Withers looked at him seriously. “The game just isn’t played this way, Sammy. When I lose, I pay. But I didn’t lose.”
“Yeah, you did,” Sammy said. “You lost, Walter.”
Chick stood up and loomed over Withers.
Withers nodded slowly. Then he set the briefcase on the bar, opened it, and walked away.
Sammy and Chick stood up and leaned over the briefcase.
“Holy crow, Walter,” Chick said.
Sammy grabbed the money and started to count it.
Withers turned around, pulled his revolver from his jacket, and shot Chick in the back of the head. Sammy whirled just in time to the see Withers pull the trigger into his face.
Arthur ran in at the sound of the blasts, then stood frozen in the middle of the room. Withers took the bar towel, wiped the blood off the briefcase, carried it to the far end of the bar, and sat down.
“Am I too late for last call, Arthur?” he asked calmly.
“No,” Arthur answered, staring at the bodies slumped over the bar stools. He let himself behind the bar, shook a shot of Jameson’s in a glass, and slid it to Withers.
“The damnedest thing just happened, Arthur,” Walt said.
“What’s that, Walt?”
“Some guy just walked in here and shot Sammy Black and his goon.”
Withers swallowed his whiskey and smiled mildly. Then he put a thousand dollars on the bar and walked out.
Overtime was thinking about the night he died.
It gave him a lot of pleasure. Few other men, and no one he knew, could have jumped off the Newport Bridge into the swirling currents of Narragansett Bay and survived the impact, never mind swim to shore and then walk twenty miles before morning.
To be reborn as “Overtime.” He didn’t even know who had given him the nickname. It had to have been one of his clients, maybe an island dictator who had hired him to eliminate a political rival, or a security chief who needed plausible deniability. Probably it was one of the dons who needed an absolutely guaranteed clean hit.
Overtime prided himself on working clean. Nobody took pride in their work anymore. It was one of the reasons the country was going downhill so fast. People were content to do sloppy work and customers were prepared to accept it.
Overtime was the proud exception. He worked quickly and cleanly: one shot, just in, just out. Professional.
Not for him the showy hit in a restaurant, spraying bullets all over the place and leaving behind pools of blood and posthumous photo opportunities. Not for him the bomb in the car with its innocent bystanders. Overtime killed only what he got paid to kill. If the client wanted innocent bystanders, the client could pay for them. No group rates, no discounts. This philosophy had made him rich—cash in his pocket, and a bank account in Grand Cayman.
What he didn’t have was a woman.
Overtime was lying in his bed in an expensive hotel room in New Orleans and feeling the disquieting stirrings of lust. Not that he was going to indulge in a woman, although one phone call would have sent the cream of a very creamy crop up to his room. Comped, on the house, whatever he wanted—black, white, yellow, all of the above. Anything for Overtime.
But he never indulged in a woman when he was on the job. Women talked. Women could identify you.
Problem: sexual tension.
Analysis: said tension is a distraction.
Solution: auto-gratification.
Overtime pulled the plastic cover off a copy of Top Drawer magazine and flipped through the pages, looking for a sufficiently erotic photograph. Self-sufficiency was one of the foundational tenets of Overtime’s life, something he shared
“I’ll tell you what let’s do,” Sammy said. “Let’s pretend you made a bet with that money. And you lost. I won’t even charge you the vig.”
Walter Withers shook his head. He looked so confused that even Sammy had to laugh this time.
“Walter?” Sammy asked. “Walter? Are you still with us?”
Withers looked at him seriously. “The game just isn’t played this way, Sammy. When I lose, I pay. But I didn’t lose.”
“Yeah, you did,” Sammy said. “You lost, Walter.”
Chick stood up and loomed over Withers.
Withers nodded slowly. Then he set the briefcase on the bar, opened it, and walked away.
Sammy and Chick stood up and leaned over the briefcase.
“Holy crow, Walter,” Chick said.
Sammy grabbed the money and started to count it.
Withers turned around, pulled his revolver from his jacket, and shot Chick in the back of the head. Sammy whirled just in time to the see Withers pull the trigger into his face.
Arthur ran in at the sound of the blasts, then stood frozen in the middle of the room. Withers took the bar towel, wiped the blood off the briefcase, carried it to the far end of the bar, and sat down.
“Am I too late for last call, Arthur?” he asked calmly.
“No,” Arthur answered, staring at the bodies slumped over the bar stools. He let himself behind the bar, shook a shot of Jameson’s in a glass, and slid it to Withers.
“The damnedest thing just happened, Arthur,” Walt said.
“What’s that, Walt?”
“Some guy just walked in here and shot Sammy Black and his goon.”
Withers swallowed his whiskey and smiled mildly. Then he put a thousand dollars on the bar and walked out.
Overtime was thinking about the night he died.
It gave him a lot of pleasure. Few other men, and no one he knew, could have jumped off the Newport Bridge into the swirling currents of Narragansett Bay and survived the impact, never mind swim to shore and then walk twenty miles before morning.
To be reborn as “Overtime.” He didn’t even know who had given him the nickname. It had to have been one of his clients, maybe an island dictator who had hired him to eliminate a political rival, or a security chief who needed plausible deniability. Probably it was one of the dons who needed an absolutely guaranteed clean hit.
Overtime prided himself on working clean. Nobody took pride in their work anymore. It was one of the reasons the country was going downhill so fast. People were content to do sloppy work and customers were prepared to accept it.
Overtime was the proud exception. He worked quickly and cleanly: one shot, just in, just out. Professional.
Not for him the showy hit in a restaurant, spraying bullets all over the place and leaving behind pools of blood and posthumous photo opportunities. Not for him the bomb in the car with its innocent bystanders. Overtime killed only what he got paid to kill. If the client wanted innocent bystanders, the client could pay for them. No group rates, no discounts. This philosophy had made him rich—cash in his pocket, and a bank account in Grand Cayman.
What he didn’t have was a woman.
Overtime was lying in his bed in an expensive hotel room in New Orleans and feeling the disquieting stirrings of lust. Not that he was going to indulge in a woman, although one phone call would have sent the cream of a very creamy crop up to his room. Comped, on the house, whatever he wanted—black, white, yellow, all of the above. Anything for Overtime.
But he never indulged in a woman when he was on the job. Women talked. Women could identify you.
Problem: sexual tension.
Analysis: said tension is a distraction.
Solution: auto-gratification.
Overtime pulled the plastic cover off a copy of Top Drawer magazine and flipped through the pages, looking for a sufficiently erotic photograph. Self-sufficiency was one of the foundational tenets of Overtime’s life, something he shared
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