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Like a pro gymnast sensing his equilibrium, Rick steadied himself into a crouch along the pole. His eyes narrowed into slits. He gazed into the strip of window afforded him by the drawn shade. The room was a void of darkness, yet he was surprised at how much he could see. An old bureau. A round table littered with playing cards, poker chips, and liquor bottles. Several chairs. A lamp without a shade. And in the corner, a bed with a vague hump beneath a tangle of sheets. Lucky O’Banion. Rick licked his lips. His tongue felt dry and coarse, like a strip of sandpaper. Vaguely, he could hear Lucky snoring. Rick grimaced with contempt. Vera’s silky voice purred inside his head. (There he is...just look at him! It hasn’t even been a full hour since he shot you...now the smug bastard’s out like a light!) “Don’t worry. His luck’s just run out.” Leaning forward, Rick tried the window. It slid upward too easily; the pane could have been slathered with lard. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and Irish whiskey hit him like a freight train. Rick stepped gingerly into the room. His eyes were glued to the bulky shape on the bed. After ensuring the window was shut, he drew his .45. Moving slowly, taking his time, Rick crept up to the bed. O’Banion’s ugly mug was pressed firmly against the pillow. His mouth was hanging open like a bulkhead door; a bright shock of strawberry hair was spiked upward in weird curlicues. PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr... Pointing the pistol’s muzzle a mere eighth of an inch away from Lucky’s yawning mouth, Rick placed his open hand, palm out, just above the barrel to deflect the splatter of blood and brains which would soon be decorating the wall and the bed. He was just about to squeeze the trigger when a better idea struck him. Rick brought his hand away. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ostrich feather. He stroked it lovingly for a moment, reveling in its exotic texture. Keeping Lucky covered, Rick began brushing it against the burly Irishman’s reddened nose. After several gagging snorts, O’Banion groggily came around. “Whazzat?” Lucky began, then immediately blinked in surprise upon seeing the gun. “Rise and shine, asshole,” Rick said, placing the feather back in his pocket. Lucky squinted, trying to match the voice with a face. Rick thought it was comical to watch. “Who’s there?” O’Banion demanded. Slowly, Rick leaned over and turned on the lamp by the bed. Lucky gasped in shock. His eyes widened in a mixture of sudden realization and absolute horror. “G-Granite?!” “That’s right. I know what you must be thinking... You couldn’t have missed me back in that alley. Well, guess what?” Rick unbuttoned his trench coat as he spoke. “You didn’t...” Spreading the coat open, Rick motioned towards the congealed scarlet stains on his shirt and trousers. “But how?” Lucky began, staring in frank amazement. “How could you be...” “Alive?” Rick finished for him. He shrugged. “I dunno, lughead. Maybe we oughtta swap names or something, ‘cause I’m the lucky one tonight.” Rick cocked the hammer of his .45.
Lucky jerked backward; his head kissed plaster.
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