The Gentle Killer

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We had hacked up the Cleveland purse, the short end of it, and a week later, after bailing out the convertible and paying the back alimony to Myrna, the leech, and catching up on my rent and adding a few necessary numbers to the wardrobe, I was down to a slim fifty bucks; the next bout for the Tailor was set up for three weeks ahead, and there was my other bum, Joe Zamatchi, eating off me while his busted hand knitted.

As a direct consequence, I was giving the Beach the jaunty ‘hello’ and making like I had an in on the sweepstakes which is standard procedure when you feel the wolf fangs, but usually fools nobody at all, at all. Every time I thought of the fifty bucks it seemed smaller and it seemed like every time I turned around there was fat Barney Gowdy clinging to my lapels and breathing in my face, indirectly advising me of what he had had for lunch. Even though the salami was in top shape, I was chewing it like sawdust and smiling in pain and wondering when I’d have to listen to Barney Gowdy when, like rubbing the lamp, he slid into the opposite side of the booth and said: “Danny boy, I’m weary of your evasive tactics and it is high time we consulted each other on a proposition which I want to make you out of the goodness of my heart.”

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