The car wreck was all in a night's work. The jokers involved, however, were not. When the Boss sends the Messenger, it's over – he's calling you in from the field and you're getting benched... on an ocean floor somewhere. That's what it means for anyone else, at least. All it means for me is that this is going to be a long night. This was confirmed the moment I limped through the door of this rat-hole and asked for a drink. They didn't have my preferred tonic, so I now find myself climbing up these splintered stairs with a cheap scotch in hand.
“Knock twice,” they warned. “Or you'll be dead before you finish turning the nob.”
I do as they say and am permitted entrance by a scratchy, high-pitch voice from the other side. What I expect when I open the door, I'm not sure, but it isn't this. A scrawny, balding man in a jumpsuit lays sprawled on a couch with an AK-47 lying beside him like a sleeping lapdog. He's on what is probably his third pack of cigarettes today. He waves me in and I close the door. I still don't believe my eyes. Is he Loaded Tony?
“Are you Loaded Tony?”
“Yep,” he coughs with a smile as he puts out a soggy cigarette and lights a fresh one. “That's what they call me. And you've got a limp. Have a seat.”
He gestures to a wooden armchair opposite his plush couch, and I sit.
“Thanks. I got hit by a taxi on my way here. Anyway, I hear you got that name for... several reasons.”
“Haha, yeah,” he concurs. “What can I do for you?”
The crack of billiards, clinking of beer bottles, and the laughter of drunk friends can be heard under our feet through the thin floorboards. A game of Solitaire lays across the coffee table between us, accompanied by sporadic lines of cocaine and a half-empty bottle of liquor. He slides one of the Solitaire cards toward me as a coaster for my drink and I accept.
“I need guns.”
“Okay,” he says casually as he leans back into the sofa cushions. “You've come to the right place. You got credentials?”
This is where things will get tricky. I finish off my Scotch before I answer. It'll spill otherwise in a minute, and we can't have that. I paid good money for it.
“My name is Tommy.”
Yeah, this is going to get ugly. Tony's jaw drops and his cigarette falls to his lap. He frantically brushes it off and then lays his bony hand on the sleeping metal beside him.
“Tommy the Slob? You're supposed to be with the Boss tonight. He sent the Messenger and his Shadow Twins to pick you up.”
I can't help but smirk.
“They had an accident. I'm sure he'll understand. Now, how about those guns?”
He tightens his grip on the 47, and I remain calm as if I don't even notice. He's not the smoothest operator, and I'm going to assume he's not the fastest either. But what's taking him so long? A man of his size and social stature, he's probably trying to think of a good quip to deliver before blasting me away. I study his twitching eyes to anticipate his timing and action. And... there it is. He's got it.
“Yeah... guns... Like this one?!”
That was just pathetic. He jumps to his feet, atop the couch, and opens fire in my direction. Maybe he's had more to drink than I thought, because he's completely missing me. Of course, it doesn't help his case that I'm already over the table and smashing the liquor bottle across the side of his head. If it hasn't knocked him out, it sure as hell burned his eyes. He ceases to shoot, but tries to swing the rifle in a blind fury. Good luck. I snatch it from his hands and jab him in the stomach with its stock. He spits up blood and collapses from his high place on the sofa, landing face-first on the coffee table and breaking through the weak floorboards.
As it turns out, he keeps his artillery under the couch cushions. So I've helped myself, and I'm already down the stairs and out the door when a good old fashion bar fight breaks out between some pool sharks. I don't have to look back to gather that Loaded Tony crashed their party. No pun intended.
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