By Mike Knowles

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Once I use her up, I’ll put that 57 GRINDER Irish dog down in the street. ” My hand pulsated on the gun under the table. I thought about killing Paolo in the restaurant, killing him and leaving, but he would have insurance. As if reading my thoughts, he spoke. “I got people watching them now. ” Paolo had me and he knew it. My only connection to the city could still hurt me no matter how far I ran. I rubbed my jaw, forcing the muscles to relax and my teeth to stop grinding. ” I asked. ” “You can see for yourself,” he said, and reached into his pants.

It said I wasn’t afraid. It said I wasn’t even surprised. It said I knew something he didn’t. My grin said all of this in a fraction of a second. Pointy Shoes was good; he didn’t waste time looking confused. He instead reached behind his back under the stretchy fabric of his synthetic shirt. His reaction didn’t faze me; I was good too, better than this guy, even after two years of rusting. My right hand found the knife by my foot, and I lobbed it in the direction of Pointy Shoes. The throw was slow and sloppy not because I was rusty, but rather because I wanted Pointy Shoes to use both of his hands.

Even the Chinese place over there has pasta; it’s covered in their shit sauces, but it’s pasta. ” “Thank you, sir. ” It was as rude as Yousif could let himself be. Paolo left with a smile. I watched him go, noticing his shoulders were a bit less tense.

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