Dutton paused under a slick lamppost to sacrifice another Lucky. The sidewalk wept. Black pavement offered him oily rainbows, but he'd seen them before. Up close.
Something was eating at him. Using his stomach for a trampoline.
Nobody around. A car honked, many blocks away.
Maybe it was the four ay-em tombstone look of the concrete. Buildings held their sleepers tight... like bedposts did.
Panic kicked him right in the jewels.
He turned, too fast. Of course - this was Eighth. One block over from where they'd grabbed him.
Since then he drank like a fish, mostly to forget. All those weeks.
The feathers.
Before that night, Dutton had still believed in the future. An overly quiet, hazy night. Like this. Ten months ago.
Nuts to the job, he decided. The risk was too great -
There.
The doorway...
He forgot how to run.
Big, thick fingers. Black as his fortune. Shiny. Oiled, just for him. He remembered, all right - every time he hit the hay.
They floated out like they were real glad to see him.
Thanks to the Luckies, he'd never vamoose in time. It was just like last year.
He knew. Like the last time, all over again.
Maxine would do what she knew best. The doll had a good head on her shoulders. She'd cover with the stiffs...
Sure as shootin', Maxine would never suss it out. She bought his story the last time. Dutton had too many jobs that took him too far afield.
Weeks. Of getting roughed up smoothly. Nobody suspecting a thing.
The gloves were on to him, alright. Moving in. Picking up speed.
One man would put it together - that something was up - but that schnook would be the one doing the chuckling. Just like before.
He backed away, like a dope, knowing it was too late. So late it was early. The gloves' party started in five. It pays to be prompt -
The pack of hands caught him like they were drowning. Starving.
Finger food.
Greasy rubber slapped over his mouth. The fingers dug under his molars, keeping his trap shut. His heels bounced on the sidewalk as they dragged him backward.
Not even a solid line there, from his shoes, to show he'd ever been anywhere.
And now, baby, he was nowhere. He wished they'd just kill him.
They didn't go for that. They had a blowtorch philosophy where life was concerned. Laugh like you mean it. And Dutton would. He was a regular Caruso when the feathers called the shots.
A doorframe ate him up. Smell of wood gone bad...
But not the door. Cripes.
And not the lock.
As the hands pulled at his overcoat, a side order of rope came to make his acquaintance. It all might have seemed odd, if it wasn't his second time.
He never told.
They laid him out anyway.
Even in the dark, he could see the oil. Shining on the fingers as they started in.
He could never tell anyone. Not even Maxine.
The howls jumped out of his throat like bullfrogs.
He was Dutton, and she knew him as... Dutton. To break down and tell her about the howling would mean he was something less.
Cool digits started a solo on his dogs.
Nobody but him would know. That was the game, alright. Last time. This time. He couldn't tell anybody. And now they were back in his sights.
Dutton belted out his best roar.
It was their little secret. Just between him and the crew. Rehired hands.
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