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The
lead slug tore through Rick Granite's mid-section, driving him
backward against the alley wall. His fedora flew off his head.
It rolled behind a string of garbage cans. A burning sensation
blossomed in his chest. His nerve endings shrieked from the pain. These smells were like perfume compared to the odors emitting from him. Sour sweat. Dutch courage. The coppery smell of blood. The scent of death. Hovering. Waiting. His breath came and went in great forceful gasps. He heard his assailant's wing tips. They clamored up the fire escape above. Rick raised his .45 automatic, but could not get a clear shot. The bastard vaulted onto the roof, and disappeared into the moon-washed night. The pistol seemed too big for his hand. It slipped to the pavement with a clatter. An old urine-stained newspaper blew across his bloody lap. He caught the headline before a breeze carelessly flung the lone sheet behind the garbage cans; good company for his hat. ALLIES LAND IN SICILY! CAPTURE PALERMO! He coughed and spat blood. Harsh, like vomiting pennies. Brody's Tavern sat across the street. Sizzling red neon. Rick scrutinized it as though the meaning of his life could be found in a cheap bar sign. He was drenched. His life was gushing out of him. Something crept up from behind the broken crates of fly-blown offal. A pair of golden eyes. Solemn. Wary. Rick saw the vague outline of the cat just before it stepped out of the shadows. Furry white, like a powder puff. It came mincing up to him, taking its time. Sounds were amplified. Light traffic on Broadway. In one of the apartments looming above him, he heard The Glenn Miller Band over The Armed Forces Radio. "Moonlight Cocktail". The cat crouched about five feet from his inert form. Rick watched as it cleaned itself. The graceful moves reminded him of Vera, a dancer at The White Horse Club. Vera once had moves like a cat. Too bad she hadn't landed like a cat when Doherty's mugs tossed her out the window of her fifteenth story apartment. Rick felt drained. Cold inside, like Vera. They used to know how to keep each other warm. Not anymore. He couldn’t feel his legs. Quick images flooded his mind. Rapid fire, like muzzle flashes. Big Wheel Kevin Doherty, walking into The White Horse Club with the very lovely Vera on his arm. Rick Granite--usually as hard as his last name--going soft after one look at her pale skin and coltish legs. Their eyes locking from across the room. Vera bats her eyelashes at him. Bang! He's as soft as a barrel of apple butter. A little rough house in the White Horse men's room; Doherty muscle Lucky O'Banion and Kyle Tracey stiff-arming him with a warning: hands off the boss's new doll. Cutting a rug with Vera on the sly at some dime-a-dance joint in Queens, her breasts finding their way into his eager hands. Later that evening. Too much champagne; Vera's not only very lovely but very willing too. Rick Granite waking up with a headache and the strangest feeling. He’s in love. Rick closed his eyes. His heartbeat thudded dully in his ears. “Love,” he whispered, mustering up as much contempt for the word as he could. It sounded phony. He felt the fool for trying to kid himself at such a late stage of the game. Two days ago, he’d gone to see Vera. Doherty’s thugs had gone to see her first.
Now they’d gotten him as well.
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