Part 2

I was looking down the barrel of fate, daring it to pull its trigger and send me over the edge, at least that is how I pictured it in my mind. In reality I was leaning backwards in my chair with my feet up on the desk, shifting my weight so that I was teetering on the edge of falling backwards. Looking out the window I could see it was dark outside, but it was still blistering hot due to the humidity. I had one hand behind my head and the other down my unzipped fly. Next thing I new, I heard a piercing sound that alerted my senses. To the outside observer it might have looked like I lost in my game with the chair and that barrel had unloaded right in my face, sending my on my ass, but do not be deceived. I was hitting the deck in case of an attack. Looking silly is a small price to pay when you have made as many enemies as I have. I pulled my gun out, prepared to fill whatever snapped me out of my trance with white hot lead... I guess my mind was still somewhere else. But there was nothing, no sound other than the ringing of the telephone.

It was her. She says that her husband stayed in his study working late while she went to bed without him, and when he thought she was asleep he snuck out the side door. If I leave now, I can catch him. I grab my coat and make my way downstairs. I hail a cab and tell him where I want to go. When I spot the car just as she described it, and the nervous wreck at the wheel, I tell the driver to follow him without being seen. He tells me he’s just an honest guy just trying to make a quick buck you know, and he doesn’t want to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. I know he is lying. Like all cabbies, he was a bigger gossip than a housewife. His kind saw everything, drove hitmen to their targets, dealers to their costumers, and hookers to their corners. His **** was just his way of telling me that it was going to cost me extra.

The husband, who’s name I still don’t know, of the wife, who’s name I still don’t know, who hired me, parks his car on the street and walks in the front entrance of a bustling nightclub. I have the cabbie round the corner and drop me off. As I near the entrance I see there are two bouncers at the door, real tough guys in jeans and black short-sleeved shirts. I walk up and they ask me my name—to see if I’m “on the list,” and I give them an old alias. Shortening Richard to Dick, and chopping the C off Chandler and making it my middle initial, I arrive at Dick C. Handler or “Dick Handler” to my friends.

Pretty clever, too bad that name is not on the list.