voice sounds like Straight Up Vic at Shore Securities’ back door, but I can’t twist far enough to confirm. Not yet anyway. The vertebrae in my neck have been welded into one piece of pain.
Psycho’s feet turn on the new voice. I have a very clear picture of his black rubb er fishing boots. “Who the hell are you?” he says to the guy I think is Vic.
“I’m the son-of-a-bitch who’s going to shoot your ass you don’t get off my property.”
It’s Mr. Vic alright. My prayers have been answered. I manage enough of a head twist to see his face. I also see his right hand holds a short-barreled revolver.
Boy am I glad I’m a good golfer.
NINETEEN
Twisted lines of blue smoke rise from Mr. Vic’s revolver. Can’t honestly say I recognize that puppy from way over here, but I remember now it’s a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38.
The boss’s shown the weapon to us more than once in my time, Mr. Vic firing off a blank or two in hopes of reviving what he considered a sleepy, non-productive sales staff. It definitely got our attention, put us all back on the money machine, although I’m a little less certain about any actual increase in sales. At least for an hour or two. I usually took the rest of the day off.
If that second clap of “thunder” was Straight Up playing deputy sheriff, I wonder if the boss is popping real bullets this go-round, Mr. Vic quickly improvising a plan to save Shore Securities time and money on Psycho’s pending lawsuit? How many times did Mr. Vic say he hates paying attorney fees?
“You and that half-pint squirt gun don’t scare me,” Psycho says.
Sam Attica is maybe the only man in the whole world I could believe when he says that. To bring down Psycho Sam, that .38 round would have to be perfectly placed.
Mr. Vic saying, “Than you’re even dumber than you sound, Samantha. How come you talk like a leprechaun? Was your daddy a fairy?”
I love my boss.
Psycho growls, a shrill gargle that rattles my chest, piercing, like an electronic fire alarm. I try to merge with the hot asphalt as Psycho Sam Attica takes off running toward Straight Up Vic Bonacelli.
Mr. Vic extends his arm, aiming the revolver at Psycho’s head. I judge my position relative to the angle of Mr. Vic’s potential shot, hoping to determine if any blood and/or brain matter will splash in my direction.
Hard to tell, but I duck anyway.
Mr. Vic saying, “I just called the police, told them Samson Attica was assaulting my employee, that my associate’s life is being threatened. That call puts the Branchtown law on my side, Samantha, even should I now decide to put a hole in your face.”
To illustrate the bullet’s potential target, Mr. Vic uses his left hand to touch the tip of his classically prominent Italian nose. He’s always showing people his profile, even total strangers, claiming family ties to one of the Caesars.
Thank God Notre Dame makes its athletes actually attend class. Psycho seems able to understand and believe what the boss is telling him. He stops his charge. The tensed muscles around his mouth and eyes begin to slacken. He even touches his nose.
A master salesman, Straight Up Vic understands the awesome power of suggestion. Mr. Vic waves his revolver. “Go on, get out of here.”
Psycho stops beside me. “Don’t think we’re done, puke. I owe you a very physical warning.”
His high-pitched voice stabs at the throbbing mass of pain that is my neck. “What the hell kind of warning was the one you just gave me?”
Seems like a reasonable question, obtuse grammar aside. I’m obviously headed straight back to the hospital emergency room where they ask for this kind of information on the insurance forms.
“That was no kind of warning, puke. I was just saying hello.”
What a world. What a world.
While I’m at the emergency registration desk this time, waiting for a doctor, perhaps I should inquire about a monthly pass.
TWENTY
A humming sound
Psycho’s feet turn on the new voice. I have a very clear picture of his black rubb er fishing boots. “Who the hell are you?” he says to the guy I think is Vic.
“I’m the son-of-a-bitch who’s going to shoot your ass you don’t get off my property.”
It’s Mr. Vic alright. My prayers have been answered. I manage enough of a head twist to see his face. I also see his right hand holds a short-barreled revolver.
Boy am I glad I’m a good golfer.
NINETEEN
Twisted lines of blue smoke rise from Mr. Vic’s revolver. Can’t honestly say I recognize that puppy from way over here, but I remember now it’s a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38.
The boss’s shown the weapon to us more than once in my time, Mr. Vic firing off a blank or two in hopes of reviving what he considered a sleepy, non-productive sales staff. It definitely got our attention, put us all back on the money machine, although I’m a little less certain about any actual increase in sales. At least for an hour or two. I usually took the rest of the day off.
If that second clap of “thunder” was Straight Up playing deputy sheriff, I wonder if the boss is popping real bullets this go-round, Mr. Vic quickly improvising a plan to save Shore Securities time and money on Psycho’s pending lawsuit? How many times did Mr. Vic say he hates paying attorney fees?
“You and that half-pint squirt gun don’t scare me,” Psycho says.
Sam Attica is maybe the only man in the whole world I could believe when he says that. To bring down Psycho Sam, that .38 round would have to be perfectly placed.
Mr. Vic saying, “Than you’re even dumber than you sound, Samantha. How come you talk like a leprechaun? Was your daddy a fairy?”
I love my boss.
Psycho growls, a shrill gargle that rattles my chest, piercing, like an electronic fire alarm. I try to merge with the hot asphalt as Psycho Sam Attica takes off running toward Straight Up Vic Bonacelli.
Mr. Vic extends his arm, aiming the revolver at Psycho’s head. I judge my position relative to the angle of Mr. Vic’s potential shot, hoping to determine if any blood and/or brain matter will splash in my direction.
Hard to tell, but I duck anyway.
Mr. Vic saying, “I just called the police, told them Samson Attica was assaulting my employee, that my associate’s life is being threatened. That call puts the Branchtown law on my side, Samantha, even should I now decide to put a hole in your face.”
To illustrate the bullet’s potential target, Mr. Vic uses his left hand to touch the tip of his classically prominent Italian nose. He’s always showing people his profile, even total strangers, claiming family ties to one of the Caesars.
Thank God Notre Dame makes its athletes actually attend class. Psycho seems able to understand and believe what the boss is telling him. He stops his charge. The tensed muscles around his mouth and eyes begin to slacken. He even touches his nose.
A master salesman, Straight Up Vic understands the awesome power of suggestion. Mr. Vic waves his revolver. “Go on, get out of here.”
Psycho stops beside me. “Don’t think we’re done, puke. I owe you a very physical warning.”
His high-pitched voice stabs at the throbbing mass of pain that is my neck. “What the hell kind of warning was the one you just gave me?”
Seems like a reasonable question, obtuse grammar aside. I’m obviously headed straight back to the hospital emergency room where they ask for this kind of information on the insurance forms.
“That was no kind of warning, puke. I was just saying hello.”
What a world. What a world.
While I’m at the emergency registration desk this time, waiting for a doctor, perhaps I should inquire about a monthly pass.
TWENTY
A humming sound
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