Killer's Wedge

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The muted sounds of October, greeted the punch line of Meyer Meyer's joke on that Friday afternoon.

"He really knows how to tell them," Bert Kung said.

"That's the one thing I can't do. Tell a story."

"There are many things you can't do," Meyer answered, his blue eyes twinkling, "but we'll excuse the slight inaccuracy. Storytelling, Bert, is an art acquired with age. A young snot like you could never hope to tell a good story. It takes years and years of experience."

"Go to hell, you old fart," Kung said.

"Right away he gets aggressive, you notice that, Cotton? He's very sensitive about his age."

Cotton Hawes sipped at his coffee and grinned.

He was a tall man, six feet two and weighing in at a hundred and ninety pounds. He had blue eyes and a square jaw with a cleft chin. His hair was a brilliant red, lighted now by the lazy October sunshine which played with particular intensity on the streak of white hair over his left temple.

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