Killer by Dave Zeltserman

fucker. Large ruddy face, barrel-chested, and a good sixty pounds heavier and a half-foot taller than I am. The two of us are in a dive in Charlestown, a walk-down bar off of Washington Street. It’s Saturday night and the place is packed with local toughs, sailors on leave, and chicks looking to drink free and maybe hook up for the night. I’m hoping Slagg doesn’t pick any of these girls up, but with the way he’s flashing his roll there’s a good chance of it, especially given how shitfaced he is. There are some tough broads in the crowd, and I’m sure a few of them have already given some thought to trying to take that roll off him. It would be unfortunate if that happens. This is my first official hit for DiGrassi and I’m hoping it goes down easy. If Slagg leaves with one of these girls I’ll have to take both of them out.
    Slagg doesn’t know me, and the few times he’s glanced in my direction it’s been with alcohol-glazed eyes that weren’t paying much attention to anything. Word is that he ripped off a high-stakes poker game in Southie last Wednesday, walking away with twenty grand. Now he’s celebrating. I followed him into this dive three hours ago, almost took him out during one of his trips to the bathroom to return the Irish whiskey he’s been pouring down his throat, but I was told to take care of him outside the bar, so I’m waiting for him to leave.
    DiGrassi didn’t tell me the reason for taking Slagg out, nor was I going to ask him, but it wasn’t too hard to figure out. I’d heard one of Lombard’s boys was in the poker game that got ripped off, that the next day Lombard sent one of his men to let Slagg know there was a contract on his head but for half the money taken from the game – ten grand – he could fix the contract and see that it went away. Slagg, the dumb fuck, had to tell the guy to go fuck himself.
    Slagg is one boisterous son of a bitch. He’s slamming down shot after shot, all the while his voice booming through the bar as he argues Red Sox, Celtics and Bruins with anyone who’ll listen to him. Now it’s how without Bobby Orr the Bruins would still have won the Stanley Cup. Christ, the guy keeps proving over and over again that he’s too dumb to live.
    His voice dies away. He wipes a thick hand across his mouth, his eyes intent on a blonde dye-job standing near him, and she’s eyeing him back. I’m sure she noticed his roll earlier.
    He approaches her. His neck bends so his mouth is against her ear. She’s buying what he’s selling her, and I’m thinking how I’m going to be leaving two bodies later, but then Slagg goes too far. Whatever he tells her, it leaves her eyes like hard stones and her mouth showing hurt. He tries to physically move her from her barstool, but then a group of sailors standing nearby come to her rescue. It’s four against one and I’m waiting for the first punch to be thrown, but Slagg’s too fucking drunk and loses his train of thought and ends up stumbling away. He stops for a moment, then continues until he’s heading up the stairs and out of the bar. I leave through a back door, moving fast to catch up with him.
    He makes things easy for me, the dumb fuck. After walking half a block, he turns down an alley. Sure enough he’s swaying a bit on his feet while he takes a leak in the alleyway. Watching him, it’s like he’s on a boat that’s listing badly from side to side.
    I have a .38 snub nose, but I see no reason to use it. Instead I take out a nine-inch stiletto blade and I have it in and out of his back before he ever realizes I’m behind him. He totters for a moment, then falls to his knees and pitches forwards, his face smacking against the brick wall before landing in the puddle he made. I know he’s dead, I know I pierced his heart. I bend over anyway to check, and while I’m checking I also take the roll out of his pocket. Sixty-three hundred bucks. A nice bonus for the night, although I’m going to have to cough a