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None of that mattered now. He knew where he was, and where he was going. The city was etched in blacks and whites and grays; the shades seemed almost surreal. Rick reached Tommy’s Pool Hall, and walked past its big picture window. A mellow glow illuminated one of the center tables. Doherty and two of his boys playing stick. It was too easy. Turning the corner, Rick sized up the back door. Clear. Unguarded. Something didn’t smell right. He gingerly edged up to the back door. Placing his hand on the cold brass knob, he tried turning it. The door was unlocked. Every nerve ending screamed at him to get out of there, and fast. Quietly, Rick slipped inside. Pulling his .45, he worked his way around the crates and old billiard tables; it was some sort of store room. An office to his left was dark and desolate. To his right, a small hallway. Rick heard voices. Clacking balls. Short bursts of laughter. The whole place screamed set-up. Rick plunged ahead regardless. There was a feeling of inevitability about his actions that he didn’t like . He entered the hallway low and careful. The voices began to take shape and definition. “You can’t make that shot, Paddy!” “The fuck I can’t!” “D’joo hear that, Bobby?” Rick’s pulse quickened; his heart took a bounding leap to the back of his throat. He stifled a sneeze from the chalk dust. “Son of a bitch...” “Saints preserve us! The bastard made it!” Rick stood up and marched towards the row of pool tables. He got about halfway before hearing the bolt of a Tommy gun being pulled back somewhere behind him. He was covered. The three men at the table looked up. Kevin Doherty smiled. With a jerk of his pudgy thumb, he knocked his derby far back on his peeling scalp. “Mr. Granite! So good of you to pay us a visit. Has anyone told you that you’re walking around dead?” Doherty gave a curt nod to the trigger man behind Rick, and the guy cut loose with an explosive burst. Rick danced like a marionette with tangled strings. His arms and legs jolted awkwardly to the beat of machine gun fire and the jingle of spent shell casings. As round after round punched through him, spinning and jiggling him in an erupting crimson cloud, Rick Granite saw a malevolent twinkle in Doherty’s eyes. He slipped in a pool of his own blood, and was dead before he hit the floor. “Good work, lad,” Doherty called over the ringing silence. “Paddy...Bobby. Toss that sack o’shit into the river. Give me a call when it’s done.” -- -- -- Rick suddenly came to. The smell of fish--which clung to him with thick intensity--told him immediately where he was. The docks.
Rick pressed his scarred and pitted face against the cool warped
boards of the pier he was lying on.
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