brain slowly ticked over while he tried to grasp the memory. Finally it came to him: Marco Bucelli! Pleased with his clarity even through his hangover, Gary momentarily lost his train of thought. Focusing his foggy brain once more Gary spoke up, “Are yew Mar-Marco?” he slurred to the man who had spoken.
Startled by the voice, both men jumped. Suddenly Gary noticed the gun in the second man’s hand.
“What do you know about Marco?” asked one of the men, expertly aiming the handgun at Gary’s brow.
Gary had to think carefully before speaking, trying to remember where he had been when he heard the name. It had been a few days back and he’d been looking for loose change in the phone booths near West Street station when he’d heard the voice raised in anger.
“Listen to me copper, I said it was going to happen and it did. Next time you better trust me when I tell you. I’m Marco Bucelli for crying out loud, and you still don’t believe me when I tell you one of the shipments is coming in. Now where’s my damn money?”
Gary had left when Marco had shoved him onto the footpath and threatened to shoot him. That sort of thing happened more often than he liked and he knew when to move on. At least he’d found a five dollar bill at the entrance to the station. That explained the fact that he remembered the incident at all.
“Hey you stupid squirrel-faced bastard, I said, ‘How do you know Marco?’”
“He pushed me to the ground and said he’d kill me,” Gary pronounced tremulously.
“Ha! Now, why’d he do that to you Squirrel?”
“I don’t know. I was getting change from the booth beside him when he was talking on the phone; I think he spoke to a policeman. Then he got upset and pushed me over.”
Gary had expected the gunman to laugh at him again, but now he was standing still, contemplating the words.
“You’d better go tell your boss what’s happened.” The gunman waved his weapon at the other man. When the man ran off, the assassin turned the barrel towards Gary.
“I wonder, Squirrel, how much more information is floating around in that drunken sponge you call a brain. What else do you know?”
Gary quickly sobered, realizing his life might depend on the next words to leave his mouth. The click of the gun cocking sobered him even further.
“People don’t worry what they say around me, I’m just a bum. I hear all kinds of strange things that happen around the city every day, but I also know when not to talk about them,” blurted Gary, hoping he’d been coherent in his rush to protect his life.
The gunman silently pondered the drunken man cowering before him. “All right Squirrel, I’ll let you live for now and for as long as you prove useful to me. Any time you hear something interesting on the streets, make sure the news finds my ears first. You might just get a reward. For today’s effort, here’s ten dollars. Go get drunk.”
“Oh! Thank you sir. But how will I find you?” asked Gary.
“My name is Dante. Leave a message at Mason’s Lair with the bartender, Tony. Tell him you need to see me, but nothing more!”
“Yes sir, you can rely on me. What message should I leave?”
Dante thought for a moment, grinning nastily. “Tell him the Squirrel has been gathering some nuts. He’ll know what to do.”
The name had stuck and Squirrel discovered he had a talent for uncovering sources of information not previously known on the streets. He found it not dissimilar to the insider trading that had propelled him to the heights of Wall Street. Whether a spoken word in a bar or eavesdropping at a door, Squirrel quickly became known for providing a reliable source of news. At first this had made Dante seethe with anger, but he found the information Squirrel provided invaluable and found himself loathe to dispose of the informant.
Eventually, Squirrel’s talent drew the attention of the Dark Man. Squirrel had only heard street corner innuendo about the man and had never been
Startled by the voice, both men jumped. Suddenly Gary noticed the gun in the second man’s hand.
“What do you know about Marco?” asked one of the men, expertly aiming the handgun at Gary’s brow.
Gary had to think carefully before speaking, trying to remember where he had been when he heard the name. It had been a few days back and he’d been looking for loose change in the phone booths near West Street station when he’d heard the voice raised in anger.
“Listen to me copper, I said it was going to happen and it did. Next time you better trust me when I tell you. I’m Marco Bucelli for crying out loud, and you still don’t believe me when I tell you one of the shipments is coming in. Now where’s my damn money?”
Gary had left when Marco had shoved him onto the footpath and threatened to shoot him. That sort of thing happened more often than he liked and he knew when to move on. At least he’d found a five dollar bill at the entrance to the station. That explained the fact that he remembered the incident at all.
“Hey you stupid squirrel-faced bastard, I said, ‘How do you know Marco?’”
“He pushed me to the ground and said he’d kill me,” Gary pronounced tremulously.
“Ha! Now, why’d he do that to you Squirrel?”
“I don’t know. I was getting change from the booth beside him when he was talking on the phone; I think he spoke to a policeman. Then he got upset and pushed me over.”
Gary had expected the gunman to laugh at him again, but now he was standing still, contemplating the words.
“You’d better go tell your boss what’s happened.” The gunman waved his weapon at the other man. When the man ran off, the assassin turned the barrel towards Gary.
“I wonder, Squirrel, how much more information is floating around in that drunken sponge you call a brain. What else do you know?”
Gary quickly sobered, realizing his life might depend on the next words to leave his mouth. The click of the gun cocking sobered him even further.
“People don’t worry what they say around me, I’m just a bum. I hear all kinds of strange things that happen around the city every day, but I also know when not to talk about them,” blurted Gary, hoping he’d been coherent in his rush to protect his life.
The gunman silently pondered the drunken man cowering before him. “All right Squirrel, I’ll let you live for now and for as long as you prove useful to me. Any time you hear something interesting on the streets, make sure the news finds my ears first. You might just get a reward. For today’s effort, here’s ten dollars. Go get drunk.”
“Oh! Thank you sir. But how will I find you?” asked Gary.
“My name is Dante. Leave a message at Mason’s Lair with the bartender, Tony. Tell him you need to see me, but nothing more!”
“Yes sir, you can rely on me. What message should I leave?”
Dante thought for a moment, grinning nastily. “Tell him the Squirrel has been gathering some nuts. He’ll know what to do.”
The name had stuck and Squirrel discovered he had a talent for uncovering sources of information not previously known on the streets. He found it not dissimilar to the insider trading that had propelled him to the heights of Wall Street. Whether a spoken word in a bar or eavesdropping at a door, Squirrel quickly became known for providing a reliable source of news. At first this had made Dante seethe with anger, but he found the information Squirrel provided invaluable and found himself loathe to dispose of the informant.
Eventually, Squirrel’s talent drew the attention of the Dark Man. Squirrel had only heard street corner innuendo about the man and had never been
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