Killing Floor

“You upset my son,” he said.
He looked at me. Something burning in his eyes. I shrugged.
“The kid upset me first,” I said.
“How?” Kliner asked. Sharply.
“He lived and breathed?” I said.

But that phrase has a very precise meaning. A lot of those stock sayings do. Like when people say they slept like a baby. Do they mean they slept well? Or do they mean they woke up every ten minutes, screaming?

The world all changed in a second. That’s how I felt.

“Nobody’s nobody,” he said. “We’ve all got a story. Tell me.”

Because the best stereo in the world is free. Inside your head. It sounds as good as you want it to. As loud as you want it to be.

been a lonely wanderer for six months. I’d learned something. Like Blanche in that old movie, a wanderer depends on the kindness of strangers. Not for anything specific or material. For morale.

took the cup. I was glad of it. I was thirsty and I love coffee. Give me the chance and I drink coffee like an alcoholic drinks vodka. I took a sip. Good coffee. I raised the cup like a toast.

Again I didn’t respond. Long experience had taught me that absolute silence is the best way. Say something, and it can be misheard. Misunderstood. Misinterpreted. It can get you convicted. It can get you killed.

Kliner was forcing Finlay practically out of the chair with the pressure of the automatic in his ear. Finlay’s lips were clamped. Kliner was sneering at me. I smiled at him. Kliner was a dead man. He was as dead as a man who has just jumped off a high building. He hadn’t hit the ground yet. But he’d jumped.

Baker and his arrest team were the business. Professional and efficient. The fingerprint woman had been decent. But this fat police chief was a waste of space.