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“Hey, c’mon Granite,” he babbled. “Let’s talk this over, huh? What is it that you want? Anything... Just name it.” Rick pointed the pistol at Lucky’s stupid-looking face. Point blank. “I want Vera back, you worthless piece of shit.” A loud knock rattled the door. Rick almost pulled the trigger. A throaty mumble followed the knock. “Hey, Lucky. You in there?” Rick knew the owner of that gruff voice. It was Kyle Tracey. Lucky’s other half and Doherty’s favorite strong-arm. A knife expert. Pushing the .45’s muzzle just above Lucky’s left eyebrow, Rick whispered, “Don’t do anything stupid, or I’ll give that poor excuse of a brain of yours some ventilation. Got it?” Lucky nodded that he did indeed get it. “Come on, Lucky!” Tracey shouted, pounding on the door. He sounded extremely impatient. “Kick loose and open up, will ya?!” “Is that door locked?” Rick asked, motioning with a curt nod. Lucky shook his head. “Good. Tell him to come in. Tell him anything more, I start ventilating.” “C-c’mon in.” The door rattled open, squealing on its hinges. Kyle Tracey’s massive bulk seemed to squeeze through the frame. For a moment Rick thought the issue was in doubt. It was like watching some strange optical illusion. The building seemed to shudder with relief once Tracey had slipped inside. Kyle Tracey was a towering mass of solid muscle. There were no curves to his body; he was squared off like an iron strongbox. He came in rambling. Upset. Rick had the feeling it was all a put up job. “Doherty wants to see us at the pool hall...” Tracey stopped dead in his tracks. A look of surprise appeared on his broad face, but it wasn’t as big as Rick would have liked. “Welcome to the party, sucker,” Rick said, keeping the pistol trained on Lucky. Tracey’s gaze immediately turned to steel. He gave Lucky a quick fish eye. Rick also got the feeling that old Lucky didn’t mind having the gat pressed against his head, like it was suddenly the least of his problems. Tracey fixed his flinty eyes on Rick once more. “You got balls comin’ here, Granite. I didn’t think a two-bit, cream puff gambler like you would get your hands dirty.” “I enjoy playing against the odds,” Rick heard himself say. “That so?” Tracey shot back. “Well, lemme clue you in, hotshot. This is one game you ain’t gonna win.” Lucky’s eyes darted nervously back and forth between them, almost as though he were observing an interesting tennis match. Rick was thrown by Tracey’s enormous size and unflinching gaze. Nudging Lucky with the .45’s barrel for emphasis, he replied, “Neither will he.” Tracey shrugged. It was a cold gesture, completely without remorse. Rick began to question whether he really was in control. “Lucky’s through, either way. Shit, look at him. Even he knows it. You might as well be covering a corpse, Granite.” Rick didn’t know what to believe anymore. He noticed Tracey wasn’t going to give him the time to figure it out. Slowly, deliberately, Tracey reached beneath the lapel of his pea coat. Rick stood frozen. Undecided. “Don’t move!” he shouted. Tracey cracked a smile as he continued digging. “Take it easy, hotshot. Just gettin’ me smokes.”
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