One Afternoon continued... 3
Traffic is the cause of the humidity I am convinced as I trod along the sidewarlk. I do not own a car. My clients send a car for me or I walk. I don't fear street crime. I carry a Smith and Wesson .45 in my belt. I don't mind a good fight, the sound of discharging bullets is cathartic, but I'm not sad if the night comes-and-goes without a brawl. Even our most ignorant understand the gun. The weapon is more for practicality than principle. I feel the weight of my pistol as it rests in its holster at the small of my back as I stroll down this street. It feels alien even though I ooze a dark mood.
"What's goin' on, player?" asks a young male with a haunted look in his hollow eyes and a t-shirt that has not been washed since Ronald Reagan was President.
"I'm in a hurry." I grumble in return.
"Please! I only need twenty bucks to get my bus ticket home and out of this entire shit hole. Anything." He keeps putting himself in front of me when I attempt to slither around him.
"I don't carry cash, kid." I have heard this story before and wonder what chemical he's dependent on.
"C'mon. Anything!" I am feeling embarrassed as this guy grows louder and draws attention to us both. Of course this whole "Second Phase of Begging" is designed to shame the victim into forking over cash.
People are starting to look at me. I hate people looking at me!
I ease over into a side alley and pull out my wallet. Once in the shadows, I drop a ten dollar bill on the ground as if by mistake and then bury the blade of my knife in the base of his skull when he bends to grab it.
They die pretty quick and quietly that way. I wipe off the blade on the back of his t-shirt and pick up my ten dollars.
Straightening my jacket, I simply wait for a slow drag of pedestrians then saunter back out into the sunlight. No one knows the better and a drug deal gone wrong will be assumed the cause when the guy starts to stink. On second thought, since I live in this neighbourhood, maybe I'll call it in from a pay phone before the kid starts to "turn".
Now I'm feeling hungry. The diner across the street has a great clam chowder and peach cobbler. I salivate like Pavolv's dog as I think about it.
"The usual" will be brought to me immediately. The waitress is a roughly attractive woman who was probably a knock-out at one time but is now one drunk, abusive man away from giving up.
She has a thing for me I think. Maybe it's any man who appears sober and thereby perhaps a nonviolent possible first date. I just eat, keep my eyes glued to the paper, and tip very well. She deserves my ten dollars.
Yes sir, I think I'll go there before The Mad Hatters Gentlemen's Club. I usually don't frequent strip bars, but this particular place has a dancer, Ambrosia, who pays a good chunk 'a change for my cards. It's been a pretty good day. I'll just get a bite to eat and then head that way.
Tonight I'll meander back to the park and meet a man at my favorite bench. I've been given a complete first edition of Sir Arthur Conan doyle's Sherlock Holmes novels to kill him for selling heroine to children. The actual reason for his execution is due to some personal beef between this cat and one of my clients, Tommy the Hump. The fact that he sells drugs to kids is just a personal pet peeve.
But when it's all done I'll hit the sack. Maybe throw on Kind of Blue by Miles Davis until the night swallows me whole. I smile at the mere thought of it.