The Pussfellows

By Rick Hartford

Chapter 2

The atmosphere in the room was suddenly electric. Humming.

Hank, standing in front of Lord Byron’s desk, realized that the hair on his neck was standing straight up. All his sensations: His clammy hands, the dim copper light, the rancid smell of rotting fish, were suddenly sharp, like running your thumb over the edge of a straight razor and watching, fascinated, as a trickle of blood drops to the floor. He turned and saw that there were four more Pussfellows in the room with them. It was suffocating. Lars, in the corner, was no longer smiling. His right hand was resting on his thigh, just below his hip, just under the handle of his pistol.

Hank saw something he hadn’t seen before in Lars’ eyes.

Fear.

Sydney visibly stiffened as Hank reached into his jacket pocket and drew out his chrome cigarette case. He lit a smoke and exhaled toward the ceiling.

“Put! That! Out!”

Sydney, who Hank had pegged for a harmless toady, was now pure menace. He flicked out an arm in a bullwhip snap, knocking the cigarette out of Hank’s lips. “Nobody smokes around Lord Byron!” Sydney roared.

Well Sydney, Hank thought as he gave him a thin smile. You’ve won the prize. I’m going to kill you first.

Hank looked up at Lord Byron as he took the photos off the desk and folded them and placed them in his side coat pocket. “And now, if you can excuse me, I have another appointment.”

He nodded to Lars, turned and squeezed his way through the massive bodies of the Pussfellows who blocked his exit. It was claustrophobic, like squirming through 1000 gallons of putrid Spam. But he made it into the cool night air. The door closed behind him. He was alone and looked up into the starry sky and then around to see if anybody was watching him. He did not want any witnesses seeing him wretch as he held himself up against the wall.

After he felt he could stand, Hank got out his flask and took a deep drink. He knew he needed to get something into his empty stomach. He knew a joint down by the river called “Steaks! Chops!” James had performed there. It was a dark and mellow place with somebody tickling the ivory’s as a woman with a smoky voice moaned softly about lost love and betrayal into the microphone. The music made Hank feel right at home. The bartender, Jersey Muldoon, slid a shot bourbon down the bar and another right behind that, one clinking into the other. Hank picked the first one up and tipped a salute.

“You wanna order?”

“Give me the Blue Plate Special,” Hank said.

“We have no blue plates.”

“The special then.”

“We have no specials.”

Hank pulled the envelope with the photos in It from his coat, He put them down and fanned them out for Muldoon to inspect. He lit a cigarette and exhaled, the two men exchanging looks through the cloud.

“Tell her I want to buy her a drink, will you?” Muldoon nodded and turned away while he cleaned the bar with a towel.

Hank walked slowly out into the night. He could see his breath under the streetlight. He looked down the street and saw three men the size of linebackers turn the corner, walking briskly toward him.

Hank turned and began trotting in the other direction. He looked back. They were now running.

They were coming on fast.