“That was a long time ago. I don’t shoot people anymore.” The man with the dark-grey flat cap placed his beer glass down on their small corner table.
“Are you nuts? You shot Hanson last week!” The man with the scarred cheek and hand was trying to keep his voice down.
“Well, I’ve changed since then.” He observed two new faces entering the pub. They glanced around and quickly departed. American tourists off the beaten path, he figured. This isn’t the London experience they were seeking.
“You’re wearing the same clothes!” Scarman took another swig from his glass.
He rolled his eyes at the stupid dig. “They’ve been properly washed and they don’t represent who I am, anyway. I’m a different person.” The pub was dark, smelled of stale beer and urine, and several of the old, recessed ceiling lights were broken.
“You found religion?”
“Maybe.” The mid-afternoon patrons were sparse, but he preferred it now compared to the evening when the working lads took over. “Well, maybe not. But I don’t shoot people anymore.”
“Then why you still carrying?”
He watched the barman pour two more for the guys across the room. “Self-defense. This neighborhood has some dubious characters.” He wasn’t sure whether he tolerated the questions because Scarman was an old friend who saved his life once, or because sometimes, amid all his droning, he revealed some timely news.
“You fool. Hanson was Billy’s brother. You need to pull up your knickers and do Billy before he does you.”
He continued to monitor all movements in the pub, including how long anyone was in the bathroom. “Billy’s no problem to me.”
“Ain’t you listening? He told the whole damn pub on Saturday night he’s going to put you away!”
He smirked. “Think of his mom. How would she feel losing both her sons?” He knew, or was at least familiar with, all five of the other patrons, and didn’t care what they heard.
“You senile? They killed their mom when they robbed the bank and went to jail.”
The postman walked in, left some mail on the bar, and walked out without a word. “Oh, that’s right. Now I remember. Except they didn’t kill her. She committed suicide.”
Scarman underscored the point. “She’s gone because of her witless boys! Who tries to rob a bank with broomsticks?”
He kept himself from exposing a grin. “Well, at least that allowed them to get out early.”
Scarman paused. “Enough of all this crap. You need to do the deed.”
For the first time, he looked directly at Scarman. “The truth is, I shouldn’t have shot Hanson, even if it can’t be traced to me. I’m telling you, I’ve changed.”
Scarman wasn’t having any of it. “You? The same guy who once used a fish to beat a man to death?”
“That was different.” He glanced across the room, continuously looking for anything suspicious between the black, brick walls.
“A fish, for Christ’s sake!”
“Look, get over it. I’m a new man. But now that you’ve brought that up, I’m thinking about opening a fish shop.” What he meant was he needed a legitimate business front.
“What? You’re absolutely bonkers! Just shoot Billy, will ya? And then maybe you can sell fish to the other halfwits around here if you must.”
He pulled his hat down over his eyebrows while continuing to observe every movement in the pub and wondered what life would be like without the necessity for hyper-vigilance.
That weekend, William “Billy” Partridge was found dead at the bottom of the stairs outside his flat, apparently having fallen while carrying groceries. It appeared he slipped on a fish he dropped.
by George Alger
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