A Killer’s Kiss

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They came for me in the nighttime, which is usually the way of it. They knocked so loudly the walls shook. Two men in ties and raincoats. I could see them through the peephole in my door. They weren’t wearing fedoras, but they might as well have been.

“It’s late,” I yelled without opening the wooden door. “And I don’t need any magazines.”

“We’re looking for Victor Carl.”

“Who’s looking?”

The shorter one leaned toward the door until a walleye filled the peephole. Then he pulled back and reached into his jacket. The badge glinted like a set of freshly sharpened teeth.

“I’m naked,” I said.

“Then put something on,” said the guy with the badge. “Our stomachs are strong, but not that strong.”

In the bedroom I slipped on a pair of jeans and a shirt. I knew who they were before the badge was flashed. I had seen the two of them prowling the corridors of the Criminal Justice Building, where I plied most of my trade these days, defending the riff and the raff. You can always tell the cops in the courthouse, they’re the ones laughing and rubbing their hands, talking about where they are going to eat lunch. While they waited in the hallway, I took the time to put on socks and a pair of heavy black shoes with steel tips. When dealing with the police, if you don’t protect your toes, they are sure to be stepped on.

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