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“Get the fuck offa me!” he shouted, managing to twist his fingers into its rippling fur and yanking it off. The cat came reluctantly, with a grotesque tearing sound. Tracey threw the cat to the floor. He realized his back was bleeding. Pulling out his knife, squinting through a gummy veil of blood, Kyle Tracey searched for the cat. “Come here ya little cock knocker!” He spun dizzily, switchblade gleaming. His head was on fire. He staggered, struggling to keep from falling down. “Hey...” a voice called. Tracey froze. His head turned towards the direction of the room where the two bodies lay. “Who’s there?!” Tracey called, then collapsed backward when he saw a figure step out of the shadows. Rick Granite. His clothes were a bloody ruin, but Granite looked like he’d just gotten up after taking a short nap. A cat nap. “N-no...” “That’s right, Tracey. I’m back...” Rick leveled his blood-grimed .45 at him. “And I’m solid. Just like my name.” Blubbering, Tracey raised both hands in a warding-off gesture. His eye was a gaping raw hole. Rick fired three times. Kyle Tracey slumped against the toilet. A fitting end, when Rick thought about it. When the smoke cleared, he examined the stab wound which had pierced his lung. Spreading apart the shredded shirt he was wearing, he peered at the fresh baby-pink scar tissue which had miraculously formed there. Rick suddenly felt faint. The cat began to purr as Rick collapsed against the bathroom door. It jumped nimbly into his lap, nuzzling him. “I’m so tired...Vera.” PurrrPurrrPurrrr... “Just one more, Rick,” he heard Vera say. “One more, then we can be together forever.” Nodding wearily, Rick managed to stand. His body felt like one giant open sore. He wavered, but steadied himself against the door jamb until he felt capable of moving on. Like Mackley’s and the White Horse, Tommy’s Pool Hall was Doherty Mob property. Kevin Doherty firmly believed in the old adage of keeping his fingers in as many pies as possible. Most of the legitimately run businesses on the south side paid some sort of kickback to him. It was either pay up, or find yourself in the East River trying on a brand new pair of cement shoes. Rick remembered a joke he’d heard when he was running numbers across town: Want to meet Kevin Doherty’s enemies? Then go fishin’. The cat had curled up on the bathroom floor. Its eyes were squinted shut as though from some intense spasm of pain. Rick could definitely commiserate. Checking his .45, he found he had only two rounds left. He was going into the lion’s den... with only two rounds. Weaving through the shadowed maze of furniture, Rick left Lucky’s apartment. Outside, it had begun to rain. Hunching his shoulders, Rick stepped up his pace a bit. He was making lefts and rights with an almost predestined ease.
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