Zatel had reluctantly followed his brother to his most favored midnight haunt: The Spindle . William’s girl, Nina, danced for dollars on the center stage at the top of every hour on Saturday night. And William, being the caring lover that he was, was always present for the peak hours of her routines to ensure that some jackass didn’t let his hard-on get the better of his judgment and decide to thrust his face into the buffet table.
Tommy hated The Spindle . The pretty girls, though always friendly, ignited an inner insecurity that fired his hatred for their existence. The way they looked at him, as if they really wanted him, and not the money in his wallet, made him want to vomit. No woman could ever want fat Tommy Zatel, he thought. Not like they wanted his handsome brother. So their expectant and lusty stares pummeled him into a silent, self-loathing rage. It was for this reason he rarely let his eyes drift above their necks. And he never tipped.
Security was of utmost importance, William argued when his brother voiced displeasure at the thought of visiting the strip joint. “You and I, we gotta stick together. That’s why we’re so damn good at what we do, Tommy. You don’t want to go splitting up a dynamic duo, now. That’s just plain dangerous. We ain’t the only hitters in town, and there’s more than a couple young shitheads that’d like to see us six feet underground.”
Two hours passed before the Zatel brothers emerged from the smoky, neon and black-light glow of the strip club. As it always was during the small hours of the morning in any Chicago suburb, the chilled air was quiet.
Tommy poured his brother into the car, where he fell asleep. Between the shots of Crown Royal and his two hour stint with Nina in the green-room, William had effectively exhausted his need to party. Tommy shook his head, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the trunk.
One at a time, drunks stumbled out of the establishment and to their vehicles, washing the parking lot in a haze of ruby taillights. The music stopped. The spike-haired disc jockey was likely popping lines in the back of the club with the weekend manager.
By the time Tommy’s Camel was near the filter, the parking lot was all but deserted of cars. He cast one last look around before approaching the driver door, only to be halted by the sound of breaking glass. His ears pricked up immediately, heart quickening to match. Instinctively, he put his back to the car, examining the surrounding wooded area, which gripped the parking lot and building in an alcove.
Alert sobriety was one of the upsides of not wasting money on seven dollar drinks at The Spindle . Tommy let his hand slip into the breast of his jacket to unbutton the catch on the holster. And then the culprit caught his eye. There, near the back side of the building, a spider web of broken glass was splayed across the asphalt. A busted bottle, he guessed. But where had it come from? Tommy took a step away from the car to peer at the shadowed rear of the faux-wood-sided structure.
If you had asked him his thought process on the matter, Tommy wouldn’t have been hard up to explain why it was he decided to investigate the broken bottle. The honest truth was that being cooped up inside the strip joint had gotten him agitated enough to want to hurt someone. Sometimes giving out a beating did all the wonders in the world to uplift the big man’s attitude. And the fact that he’d already ended a man’s life tonight changed nothing. It wasn’t the same as actually letting his hands break down a living body. Even if it was just a drunk. And then he saw the teetering figure of a balding, dirty man round the corner. The louse was undeniably tanked. Drunks were the best. Because they never quite remembered they were supposed to stay down.
Fortune had smiled upon Tommy, and he was never one to turn down a kind turn of chance in his favor. His knuckles grazed the grotesque necklace in his pocket and he
Tommy hated The Spindle . The pretty girls, though always friendly, ignited an inner insecurity that fired his hatred for their existence. The way they looked at him, as if they really wanted him, and not the money in his wallet, made him want to vomit. No woman could ever want fat Tommy Zatel, he thought. Not like they wanted his handsome brother. So their expectant and lusty stares pummeled him into a silent, self-loathing rage. It was for this reason he rarely let his eyes drift above their necks. And he never tipped.
Security was of utmost importance, William argued when his brother voiced displeasure at the thought of visiting the strip joint. “You and I, we gotta stick together. That’s why we’re so damn good at what we do, Tommy. You don’t want to go splitting up a dynamic duo, now. That’s just plain dangerous. We ain’t the only hitters in town, and there’s more than a couple young shitheads that’d like to see us six feet underground.”
Two hours passed before the Zatel brothers emerged from the smoky, neon and black-light glow of the strip club. As it always was during the small hours of the morning in any Chicago suburb, the chilled air was quiet.
Tommy poured his brother into the car, where he fell asleep. Between the shots of Crown Royal and his two hour stint with Nina in the green-room, William had effectively exhausted his need to party. Tommy shook his head, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the trunk.
One at a time, drunks stumbled out of the establishment and to their vehicles, washing the parking lot in a haze of ruby taillights. The music stopped. The spike-haired disc jockey was likely popping lines in the back of the club with the weekend manager.
By the time Tommy’s Camel was near the filter, the parking lot was all but deserted of cars. He cast one last look around before approaching the driver door, only to be halted by the sound of breaking glass. His ears pricked up immediately, heart quickening to match. Instinctively, he put his back to the car, examining the surrounding wooded area, which gripped the parking lot and building in an alcove.
Alert sobriety was one of the upsides of not wasting money on seven dollar drinks at The Spindle . Tommy let his hand slip into the breast of his jacket to unbutton the catch on the holster. And then the culprit caught his eye. There, near the back side of the building, a spider web of broken glass was splayed across the asphalt. A busted bottle, he guessed. But where had it come from? Tommy took a step away from the car to peer at the shadowed rear of the faux-wood-sided structure.
If you had asked him his thought process on the matter, Tommy wouldn’t have been hard up to explain why it was he decided to investigate the broken bottle. The honest truth was that being cooped up inside the strip joint had gotten him agitated enough to want to hurt someone. Sometimes giving out a beating did all the wonders in the world to uplift the big man’s attitude. And the fact that he’d already ended a man’s life tonight changed nothing. It wasn’t the same as actually letting his hands break down a living body. Even if it was just a drunk. And then he saw the teetering figure of a balding, dirty man round the corner. The louse was undeniably tanked. Drunks were the best. Because they never quite remembered they were supposed to stay down.
Fortune had smiled upon Tommy, and he was never one to turn down a kind turn of chance in his favor. His knuckles grazed the grotesque necklace in his pocket and he
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