Hiems woke early. Like every morning he took a deep breath and stretched his neck to the left and the right. It was quiet, as it usually was, but he lay still for a few minutes before shuffling sideways out from under his bed. He gave his room a cursory glance, satisfied to note that everything was how he left it the night before, and checked the door. The handle was still broken. Good. It didn't matter that he slept under a rickety bed in a room that looked more like a dusty storage space. What mattered was privacy, and there was nothing more private about a room that looked like it was unoccupied and worthless. Materialistic possessions invited investigation. Locks invited hidden secrets. Deny both of them and you save yourself a lot of hassle from someone looking for both.

It didn't matter this was how he slept in the Headquarters, either. Associates were often in and out at all hours, poking their noses into people's business and their fingers into whatever pies were available. Why take chances? This life requested one thing from you. Everything else it demanded. Business, regardless of which side of the law it was on, was still business.

Hiems walked into the corridor and headed towards one of the empty rooms he knew had a bathroom. His own razor and brush were tucked at the back of a small cupboard, nothing expensive or substantial, and it was only a minute or two before he'd lathered up and began to clear the stubble off his face. The years hadn't been kind, but they'd been enough. Enough to keep an edge over those that didn't bother. The small things made the difference. It was why he had similar razors and brushes in other empty rooms. To some, lost property. To him, a wide spread that ensured he'd never go without. He'd learned long ago that the convenience outweighed the cost.

As he shaved and went through his morning routine he let his mind go back to last night at the bar. A scrap of paper with a name and address. A task from the Left Hand Man. Business at the heart of it all. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. Just a milk run. Some greaseball that decided where certain profits should go instead of letting their betters do it for them. The worst sort of grifter. Hiems let the familiar excuses run through his head as a refresher. There'd been little he'd heard in his years. Excuses and reasons aside, what they really gave away was lack of imagination. Small-minded fish in a pond with sharks. He reined those thoughts back, after all, it was just a talk.

Cleaning the bathroom, replacing his tools and leaving everything as it was, Hiems went back to his broken-handled room and lifted the mattress. Last night's suit was laid out, semi-pressed and relatively clean. He dressed swiftly, taking the dented, upside-down hat from the floor nearby and lacing up his scuffed shoes. Not the sort of clothing you'd expect a made man to wear, but he liked that. With poker it was wise to keep your cards close to your chest to get the most out of someone who didn't know better. Hiems felt the same way about identity. If he waltzed through Detroit entitled, he couldn't play that card when he really needed to. Such plays got you extra seconds. Extra seconds mattered when the bullets flew.

He sighed. All things considered, perhaps he should make an effort. After all, this wasn't just about him now. He was basically a representative. A fairly new and misunderstood one at that. He didn't blame anyone for it. His own fault in more ways than one. Still, there were a couple of angles to this that needed to be addressed. You didn't corner someone for a nice chat without expecting to get invited back for supper. It was early enough to get everything sorted out, so off he set, leaving his door wide open.

***

Early enough for daylight, early enough to avoid the rabble. At this hour the only people about were those that needed to be. Detroit was no different, thankfully. The thugs and bravos were tucked up in bed with their hired company or headaches from drinking too much and that suited Hiems just fine. The mornings were always less distracting. He flicked a few folded bills at a bum, roused from the clinking of glass, and got a grumbled thanks in return.

His first stop was a simple, a nondescript laundrette. Being before the listed opening hours served only one purpose, annoying the cleaning woman on the other side of the glass. He didn't know her, but that was fine. It wasn't her he came to see. Hiems stood in the doorway for a few minutes, watching her work. She had looked back, gestured to the sign, and carried on dusting. He didn't knock. Knocking gave way to certain formalities he wasn't here to contend with, so he stood and watched. It took two more minutes for her to get disconcerted and vanish from sight. She returned with the owner, who, through unheard words and hand gestures told her it was okay, that the strange man standing outside was expected.

Another two minutes saw him admitted entrance and allowed him to hand over a small printed piece of paper. This in turn got him a finely pressed charcoal-grey suit, shined black shoes and a black fedora. It also got him uncertain glances from the cleaning lady, which wasn't part of the deal but something he was thankful for. It was too early for chit-chat. He changed out the back, giving over the scuffed, unkempt items and nodding when asked if they were to be left as they were. Hiems stopped the woman with a snap of the fingers and a eureka expression. He pointed towards the shoe soles with a questioning glance. The woman looked and was only too obliging to agree they'd need new soles soon. Hiems wondered if she'd charge him for that or take it out of the $10,000 stuffed inside at the toe. Didn't matter much. That was one thing out of the way.

His next stop was not much further. Where there's a laundrette, there's a tailor nearby. Where there's a tailor, there's three more competing for the sale. Shame, really. If those saps knew how much money they'd make if they opened up a laundrette, they'd kick themselves. Not a man's line of work though. Granted, it wasn't that easy, especially with how the world worked, but it could be done. Too bad none of them had the balls to take the leap. That meant they liked it safe and comfortable. Which made them easily played.

At one store he did knock, quickly and loudly. Hiems saw the proprietor marking off some sort of checklist for the day. Probably doing his books and wondering if he could pay the bills this month. Hiems held up a moderately sized handful of notes when he looked up, and just like that his attention was captured. Pointing to a black briefcase, holding two fingers up and holding out the cash with his other hand, the owner would have been an idiot if he didn't immediately open up the shop, take the money for the briefcases and thank Hiems profusely for stopping at him and not a rival. He wasn't an idiot. Not today at least.

A case in each hand, Hiems briskly walked back to the Headquarters. It didn't take long. The different look was enough to get the first wave of commuters out of his way before they collided into him, and it wasn't time for the coppers to do their rounds just yet. They needed to fill up on coffee and filing reports and other useless activities that made them believe they kept the city safe. If only they knew. Well, they most likely did, but no one liked to take second place. There were so many unwritten rules and unspoken laws jumping around town, it was a miracle at how there wasn't a war on the streets every five minutes.

He walked through the Headquarters, found himself a set of car keys and then immediately exchanged the car keys for a different set. He weighed them in his hand for a while, thinking through several possibilities, then made his mind up and tucked them away. Time ticked onwards as he found the car, stored both briefcases on the back seat and locked it up. He checked his watch. The hustle and bustle would be started in earnest now. Diners would be getting that all-important shift change, beggars would find their voices and prostitutes would complain about how next time it'd cost more, especially for something like that again. It was busy enough to be just another guy doing a job. He went back upstairs, found a coffee machine and brewed a strong cupful.

He drank the coffee slowly, enjoying it. Breakfast would probably come first, and there were a few diners on the way. Waitresses were a lot cheerier in the morning, before the grind of 10 hour shifts in heels and abuse had worn them down. Coffee gone, he summoned one of the cleaning ladies over, and with a nearly written note on a napkin, he was led to a door that was not broken. The last thing Hiems had to deal with was probably the most complicated one of the lot, and he wondered if that Left Hand Man was trying to prove something with his choice of partner for something an able shoe-shine boy could do. He rapped on the door twice.

The door belonged to John Keats.

The alarm clock sent Keats scrambling for his gun when it went off. He'd never actually heard it before. Better to sleep in- and usually, sleep it off. Today was a little different, though. He slammed the alarm off as he sighed and placed his gun on the nightstand. 

"Take care of it tomorrow", Ewiv had said. One doesn't disobey the left hand man of a Don, especially when some idiot had stopped making payments to Don Hayes. Target must be trouble if Ewiv was sending two of them, unless there was something else going on. Or unless it was a test. Keats wasn't used to working with a partner. Maybe that was the test? 

Anyways, today was that tomorrow. For some people tomorrow means afternoon. Some people it means 10 PM. Keats had a strong suspicion that Hiems was a First Thing tomorrow kind of guy. So he forced himself awake, half grinning and half wincing as the cold water of the shower hit him. He knew Hiems a little bit; they'd crossed paths a couple times. They were also both newly Made Men, and Keats had no intention of failing this opportunity to prove himself. So he'd cut himself off early last night and turned down a particularly charming redhead at Jimmy's Pub. Better be worth it.

It would certainly be a challenge. Keats respected men and women who were able to move through the world barely making a ripple, but he also knew that he wasn't that type. Silence was fine, when you were alone and thinking about poetry or philosophy or something deeper, but when someone else was around Keats had rarely met a silence he didn't try to fill. Still, he respected Hiems. There was something about him. Shakespeare said that men of few words are the best men, which always made Keats question his own worth a little. Shakespeare would probably think Hiems was the greatest goddamn gent in history, thought Keats as he finished tying his tie. 

Keats had everything he needed: a dark suit with a green tie to match his eyes, his knife in its scabbard on his belt across his back, and his gun in a holster under his left shoulder. Dropping his hat on his head, Keats had just taken a seat when he heard someone knock on the door.

I knew you were a morning person, Hiems.

Keats opened the door open to reveal his partner for the task ahead; Hiems stood there, more impeccably dressed than Keats had seen from him in the past. Flashing a grin, Keats strode into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

"Good morning, Hiems."

Hiems nodded his greeting back as he appraised Keats swiftly. The suit was dark, pressed and tailored with the tell-tale bulge of a holster beneath. Shoes were clean, not polished to a shine, and the tie stopped him from looking like he was going to immediately start talking about real estate. Considering his prior interactions had been ones involving bottles of beer and brawling, he brushed up well enough. He also shut his door. Hiems wondered what the rules were in a place like this about bringing home company. Especially Keats' preferred type.

Couldn't disguise the tiredness though. This was not an early bird. Given his... favoured activities, it was no surprise. The shower had woken him up at least. Hiems checked his watch. 9:32. The roads should have cleared up a bit from the morning commuters by now, not that they had far to go. He'd treat Keats to breakfast. They had the time, for now. Besides, it'd give Keats a chance to practice any routines with that tie on any waitresses that took an interest. If anything worked out, he'd have the rest of the day to enjoy himself.

It was unlikely that their actual work was going to take much of the day. One guy trying to pull the wool over your eyes was easily set straight. He might have a couple of friends, though, so the pair might have to be extra charming. Hiems was confident Keats could be charming enough for the pair of them. That was the thing about the morning. In this line of work no one liked them. Last thing they'd suspect would be a shake-down, especially now. Those were usually saved for quiet afternoons or late-night alleyways. This was a done deal.

Standing at the side of the hall and fishing in a pocket, Hiems pulled out the car keys he'd selected and held them up for Keats to take. After all, Hiems was buying breakfast, wasn't he?

Keats reached for the keys that Hiems proffered and said a quick prayer of thanks that he didn't get hammered the night before. Orphans didn't really get the chance to drive, but he'd been able to get the hang of it since arriving in Detroit. He'd never be a getaway driver, but he was decent enough. Probably wouldn't have worked out as well if he was feeling like he normally did at this time of the morning, though. It seemed like a million years ago that Via had recruited him, but he'd been trying to make the most of the opportunity. Keats was good, and he knew it. But he'd also been watching. Will, Via, Ewiv- he'd been peppering them with questions, and occasionally just watching and learning. Hiems was a very different kind of man. But you could learn a lot by paying attention to people who were different than you. 

Keats had never had a father or an older brother, but he felt a similar need to measure up to his companion as he walked down the hallway. He was a confident man, but not with the steady, measured faith in oneself that came with age and experience. Thank God he didn't invite that redhead back to his room. For a moment, he envisioned this morning playing out with a terrible hangover, frantically getting dressed, hiding the redhead, and scrambling around- before banishing the thought and focusing on the present. 

Taking a deep breath, Keats dropped behind the wheel of the car as Hiems slid into the passenger seat. Starting the car and heading out onto the streets of Detroit, he asked the older man a question.

"So... I assume you'll want to head right over there? Wouldn't want to get breakfast first, I suppose?"

Hiems surprised Keats with both the affirmative look on his face and the gesture to his wallet, indicating he'd pay.

"Sounds like a good plan to me. Any particular place you're interested in?"

They drove in silence for a short while, until Hiems pointed out a diner and Keats swung the car into the parking lot, bringing it to the slightest bit of a lurching halt. Stepping out of the car and smoothing down his suit jacket, Keats held the door of the diner open for Heims.

Hiems checked the car door was shut securely and made his way towards the diner. Keats, up ahead, opened the door and he walked right through into the atmosphere of cutlery on plates, mumbled conversations and newspaper rustlers. It wasn't full to the brim, but it was busy enough to keep the dames bustling back and forth. Eyes forward, backs straight, smiles plastered on over the top of their make-up to secure those ever bountiful tips.

Diners were one of those places where everyone was for themselves. The waitresses wanted the money and recognition, the customers wanted feeding, the person in charge wanted a tightly run ship that turned a profit. It was amazing what you could get away with when you didn't disrupt the natural order of things. So Hiems nodded towards one of the women that gave him a be-with-you-in-one-moment-sir look, and walked right over to one of the empty booths. He was sure Keats would be a step behind him, distractions notwithstanding.

The booth was comfortable as far as wooden seats with foam padding went. Its real glamour came from that it faced both the entrance and sat two steps away from the kitchen doors. With Keats sat the other side, they had a close to 360 degree vision over the diner with both exits covered. Not that they were expecting trouble, but the lifelong lessons of never letting your guard down in your own territory still held true. Hiems unbuttoned his jacket and put his hat on the seat next to him.

It was barely a full minute before the waitress before found time to pay them a visit, apologies being rained down upon the two men like it was the worst thing that could have happened to them and she'd do anything to make up for it. She continued the stream of pleasantries while she poured the thick, black coffee into both cups, and it didn't seem like she'd be ending until noon. Hiems was certain some betties were born with the ability to forego breathing. A dismissive hand caught her attention, which surprised her into silence long enough to register the piece of notepad paper held out to her. She took it, read it slowly and translated it into her own shorthand quickly.

'That's two eggs over easy on toast with a side of bacon for you, sir, and for you?' she turned to Keats expectantly, getting over the unusual method of ordering and batting her lashes at the younger man, giving him a more natural attention.

Keats followed Hiems as he led the way into the diner, enjoying the humming conversations buzzing around them. Maybe Hiems would get a little more talkative here. Well, he could hope at least. A few of the waitresses were pretty, a few professionaly dressed young women caught his eye as well. Keats smiled at them and heard a quiet giggle in the group after he passed them by. One never knows when a new friend could come in handy. He also scanned the room for threats, although that evaluation didn't come as naturally to him as the former. He was learning, though. 

Hiems, unsurprisingly, picked a spot where one could observe almost everything happening around them. As Hiems took off his hat and unbuttoned his jacket Keats followed suit and slid into the booth across from him.

Keats had to smirk when the waitress came over. He considered himself a fairly talkative guy, but she put him to shame. Wonder what would happen if he locked her in a room with Hiems and she tried to chat him up? The unstoppable force vs. the immovable object. His money would be on Hiems.

Wow. Didn't even order his meal out loud. For a split second, Keats imagined Hiems with a beautiful tenor, cursed to ensnare the ears and souls of anyone who heard his voice. The thought was chased out of his mind as the waitress turned her attention to him.

"Good morning, miss. Two eggs, bacon, and toast sound fantastic for me as well. But could I get mine scrambled? I feel like mixing things up this morning. Life on the wild side."

He puncuated his order with a quick wink and a grin as she turned and headed off toward the kitchen.

Time for small talk. The delicate dance of two people waiting for their food. 

"So I don't suppose you'd tell me a little bit about yourself, Hiems? Or perhaps we'll save that for later, if you'd prefer not to discuss it. Any particular skills of yours that I'm unaware of- things that I should know if I'm working with you? Any special approaches we should consider today, other than knocking on the door and emphatically reminding this guy to pay what he owes, then reacting to the situation?"

The older man looked back at him and Keats could see the thoughts whizzing behind his eyes. 

After the chatty Cathy had moved on from their order Hiems glanced at Keats and rolled his eyes. He knew a comparison had either been made or was about to be. It happened often enough over the last two decades for him to pick up the situations where people did it. Much in the same way he suspected Keats had finely-tuned the ability to tell whether or not he was going home with company. It wasn't anything special, which made it a little predictable. Hiems liked predictable people almost as much as predicting them himself. The holster on Keats' left side made him a right-hand draw, for one thing.

Hiems glanced around the room while reaching into his jacket. No one reacted, which was good. Had anyone overheard Keats and saw a man reach into their jacket they might have wanted to get the word out. This really was bottom of the barrel as far as jobs went. He pulled out the full notepad and a short pen, writing down a few lines before rotating it around and sliding it over to his partner. It simply read:

Be nice. It's probably a genuine mistake. I doubt his schooling covered arithmetic all too well. Watch his hands.

You can do the talking. If we get the money today, use a briefcase and deliver it to Ewiv. He gave the job to you.

What gat are you packing? Colt?

Before he got the chance to reply however, the plates of food arrived. Placed in front of the diners with a refill of the coffee, Hiems avoided the invitation of small talk by wasting no time in cutting into the thick bacon, forking it into his mouth and chewing. Scalding hot was the only way to enjoy the succulence of such a meat. He watched Keats tear into his with relish.

This Keats seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. Something that could only get better with experience, if he paid attention. Made sense why they'd give him the work. Not so much a test of aptitude but an opportunity to learn and grow within the family and his own capabilities. Hiems wasn't getting any younger. He'd had his fame back in the day, and he'd seen older men try to reclaim that lost vigour. It didn't work out so well for them. Better to make sure the next generations didn't screw themselves by repeating the same mistakes instead.

Particular skills? Special approaches? Both went to pieces when hell broke loose. Fortunately some glorified debt collecting wasn't liable to go beyond anything the pair of them could handle. Mushing some of the toast into the yolk, he added it to the forkful of bacon and took another mouthful. Even this low-life had to know the first visit was never anything serious. He'd probably be expecting it, ready with his silver-tongued lies. It'd be a fine display of diplomacy to see if Keats could go toe-to-toe with bottom-feeders without that grin of his getting punched. Sometimes violence was the only language they did understand.

He finished first, mopping up yolk with the last pieces of toast and draining the cup. It was filled again promptly, and he savoured it while waiting for Keats to finish. People came and went, the staff floating about the diner like bees with perfect curled hair collecting notes and coins and time went past slowly. Hiems watch read 10:17 when he checked it.

Keats watched Hiems closely during breakfast. A meticulous man. And the silence... previously, Keats had wondered about the cause behind the older man's lack of speech. At first he thought it could simply be the result of a personality that saw much, and spoke little. The notepad, though, had him thinking. Without being rude to his companion, Keats nevertheless had stories popping up from his subconscious that could explain the silence. Maybe it was just an overabundance of caution. Perhaps it was psychological- some traumatic event from his past that had rendered him mute. Or physical- Keats had read tales of men who'd had their tongues removed. Perhaps he was just born a mute. Not that it mattered for the task at hand, of course. But Keats had a habit of creating stories for people who crossed his path- Hiems just happened to be particularly interesting. All of these possibilities flew through the mind of Keats as his partner wrote on the notepad. Once it was turned back to him, the younger man focused on the business at hand.

As he read, Keats quietly commented so that only Hiems could hear him. At one point, another man walked by the table and Keats started reciting book titles, pretending he was reading them from the list until the stranger was out of earshot. Not something he'd normally do, but Hiems seemed like a cautious kind of guy.

"Being nice sounds like a good plan. Here's hoping it's a math error. It'd certainly make for an easy job."

Keats glanced up when he got to "you can do the talking"- a joke?

"I'll- uh, definitely handle the talking."

Keats wrote "Yes" next to "Colt" and added a "1911" before sliding the notepad back to Hiems. He was hardly a gun expert, but he'd been training and he at least understood the basics.

Keats tucked into breakfast with enthusiasm; he was rarely awake early enough to enjoy a true breakfast and wanted to make the most of the opportunity. After a short while, there was nothing left but some crumbs as Keats sipped his coffee. The silence had felt awkward at first, honestly, and he'd been tempted to fill the emptiness. Tell his life story. The orphanage. Via. His favorite drinks. Even what had happened with the post office and the diamond. Literally anything to fill the air between them. But he resisted the urge. After the initial acclimation, he actually started to enjoy the silence. Not having to bullshit anything. He'd have to consider this more, certainly. 

But not now. Shortly after Hiems checked his watch both men rose. Hiems peeled a few bills out of his wallet and left them on the table before following Keats out to the car. It was a short, silent drive as they made their way to the address Ewiv had given them. Keats glanced out the window as he turned off the car. They'd arrived. 

Clyde Johnson was either a two-bit moron or a bona fide genius. Hiems hadn't yet decided which fit the bill better. True, you had to have some nerves to try and fleece a little extra from an organisation, especially one such as this, but you also had to have the brains to know it wouldn't go by unnoticed. Either he had the skill, imagination and guts to play the game with people on a level higher than him or he'd made a dumb move and would be eager to make amends. It wasn't the only play, Hiems knew. This loser could be the fall guy for someone up the chain trying to take a bigger share. He could also be a snitch, setting up some goody-two-shoes lawman or a bent copper from another family.

But right now, there wasn't enough to go on. Worthless, wasting time on suppositions. If you spent more time trying to fit the pieces together to make your own picture, you miss what's really happening. It was just a milk run. For now.

Over the last few years apartments had sprung up next to regular housing, trying to cope with the influx of new immigrants and newer families. The closer to the amenities required for daily life the better. It put the price up, sure, but you got convenience out of the deal. Sometimes that was worth it. New businesses grew where the people settled and everything expanded from there. You couldn't go a block without some new shoe shine stand or paper seller cropping up and pestering you. When the sun went down they were replaced with different kinds of workers. For the particular clientèle Black Rock dealt with, having property smack bang in the middle of it was a smart move.

The house was well chosen. Close enough to the main streets that it was in a prime position for its shady business without being suspicious. No one had to go out of their way or looked lost, so no attention was drawn from the undesirables. The last thing you wanted was the police sniffing around when they eventually figure it out. It meant Clyde Johnson wasn't going to be your standard heavy, either. Most likely a pencil pusher roped into the game with the promises of money and the threats from refusal. At least the pair didn't have to worry about being riddled with holes just from knocking on the door. Inside could be another matter, but Keats had a Colt.

Hiems never liked them, but he could see why others did. It was a standard favourite and got the job done, sure, but if you enticed the holder with easily carried extra ammo they'd be a little more generous with squeezing the trigger. Hiems carried a revolver. An Enfield No. 2 he'd acquired from a man who had no use for pulling triggers any more. It'd served him well. The cylinder could hold six rounds, and if you needed more than 6 chances are more weren't going to make the difference. Hiems only carried four, the first two chambers were always empty.

He checked to make sure it was set right before he got out of the car, removing both briefcases from the back seat and handing one to Keats. Both were empty. For now. Shutting the door he turned towards the house, glancing over to check if Keats was ready. If he wasn't he was masking it well, but he should be fine. If he applied himself to business as well as he did with women, this'd be a breeze. Hiems wanted another coffee though.

Striding up to the door, he rapped on the face of it firmly. Three sharp knocks that spoke importance of the visit and impatience to being left outside. Hiems stepped back, a little to the side and slightly behind Keats. The curtains twitched, like he knew they would. A shuffling was heard behind the door, and the latch was fumbled with. It opened a crack, a small chain linking the door to the frame, and beady eyes glanced out.

Showtime.

As they approached the door, Keats let the smile drop from his face. It was replaced by a look of stony fortitude, implacable and serious. Hiems knocked on the door, then took a slight step to the side, leaving Keats in the point position looking through the small crack that had emerged in the door. Showtime.

"Open up."

The voice  that answered him was higher pitched- a woman's voice, it grated against Keats' ears and involuntarily caused him to narrow his eyes. "Who're youu guys? You're not regulaars." Her whining voice stretched out her vowels so long she almost broke them. Perhaps she thought she sounded like an elegant southern belle, but Keats instantly disliked her. He answered quickly.

"We're from downtown. We're here to talk."

"What are you heahh to talk about?"

Keats calmly replied in the tone of a man who was not used to being kept waiting and showed no doubt that his orders would be followed. Or, at least he hoped that's what he conveyed.

"Lady, we're not going to have a discussion on the fucking stairs. Open the door. Now."

Keats heard the latch and chain open and felt a momentary relief. Glad that had worked. There were a couple back up plans for getting the door open, but they didn't exactly fit along with Hiems' recommendation to "be nice". 

The door slowly opened to reveal a woman in mismatched attire. Keats was hardly in the social stratosphere, but he'd been at a few events with truly rich people and he could tell the difference between someone who was high society and someone who was trying to look like they were. This woman, dressed so formally at this hour of the morning, was obviously living in some sort of fantasy world. The dress, the pearls, the make up, the shoes, the other jewelry- some of it was definitely expensive, but she looked like a girl who broke into her mom's closet. It just didn't fit her. Keats and Hiems followed her into what she called "the parlor"- a lousy room with a few chairs and a couch. Keats and Hiems entered with their briefcases, taking a seat, and quietly declined the offer of a drink. The woman flounced off to get her husband, while Keats and Hiems shared a quick look. 

A man in his early forties soon walked tentatively into the room. He was balding, wore glasses, and the plainness of his clothing was a stark contrast to his wife. His hands were clasped behind his back as he entered the room, which caused Keats to casually slide his hand toward his gun. Hiems, of course, already had his half in his grip, although he'd managed to do so inconspicuously. But the man soon started gesturing with his hands as he quickly rattled out a nervous, stuttering speech to the two men on the couch. 

"I... I knew you would come. I knew he would send something. Someone, I mean. I... my name is Clyde Johnson. I have worked for Mister- Don Hayes for many years now. I have always been a reliable man... a punctual, responsible source of income. I've never had a problem moving product ... and Don Hayes has always gotten his money. There have just been some...  complications in my life- in my personal life recently, and I assure you I'll be able to handle the situation...  and more than make up the difference. I certainly don't want any trouble. It's just that my wife- and well, my brother in law- these new expenses...  I certainly don't want to blame anyone and... I am very sorry... and I promise I'll make this right with Don Hayes. "

His speech finished, Keats noticed the wife reenter the room, unhappy. Keats was about to address Mr. Johnson when he heard a man enter the front door, then the room. A large man, physically intimidating. He was dressed in a new, expensive suit that evoked the ill-fitting costume of the woman who let them in. In a booming voice, the bold newcomer addressed the room after drawing himself up to his full height- he must be at least 6'4-6'5 and built like a truck. 

"God damn it, Clyde! Did I hear you apologizing to these clowns? How many times do I hafta to tell ya? You gotta take what's yours- and we're owed a lot more than that raw deal you were living under before. You two can tell ya boss- we're not getting ramrodded anymore. Consider the deal renegotiated."

The morning excursions ran through Hiems' mind. It was early enough that few people were about. None of the people here were any of those. The diner was closer, but everyone there was more interested in gossip, newspapers and shovelling food down their throats. The height of the newcomer and the attire for all three people would have been a give away from the get go. But their surprise guest arrived a minute or two after they did, so there were eyes on the building. Making sure what trade was taking place so reliable Clyde couldn't short his new bosses. He suspected the Don had never felt the need to have Clyde watched prior, due to his reliable service no doubt, but anyone muscling in couldn't take that chance. With Clyde passing on the knowledge that he was due a visit, all it would take was the hot-footing over here and their problem would be taken care of. Or so they hoped.

Poor Clyde. You had to have a certain stomach for this life. A spine helped, too, on occasion. Being under a name like Don Hayes gave you some protection, but a name only worked if you either feared or respected it. Once these nobodies realised they could put the squeeze on, Clyde flopped belly up with no fuss. Hiems entered a little moral debate over Clyde. Sure, it was his fault and he did short the boss, but he was owed some protection at least. Was he? He could have dug his heels in for once in his life and said no. Cowardice never got a problem solved, but the problem here was the money. Having a chat about money owed did not equate to jumping in head first to protect an asset so low on the totem pole it wasn't worth bending over to see.

The day was turning out to be an inconvenience. Fortunately, Hiems had two briefcases.

With that, he gave the hulking brute of a man the once over. Shrugged apologetically to the company in the room and lightly tapped the side of Keats leg with the back of his hand. He rose, adjusting his hat and picked up his briefcase. An understanding nod to the giant in the doorway got a smirk and barely a side-step in return and Hiems looked at Keats, pointing to the doorway. It was time to leave. He only hoped that the ambitious lad didn't fancy his chances like with the fight in the bar a while back, unless he wanted to impress the mismatched broad in front of her husband, that is. She might be his type, after all.

Keats placed his briefcase on the ground and crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes as he looked up at the larger man across the room. Keats knew the type, and Hiems probably knew it better than him. Lots of people thought they were big shots as soon as they got a gun and a few dollars- didn't appreciate the way things actually worked around here. Hiems was clearly heading out the door. Wouldn't that mean they failed? Keats wasn't sure if he could take this guy in a fist fight, but he had his gun and his knife. And maybe he could talk him, solve the issue without violence? Try to persuade this guy to play ball, maybe even recruit him for some low level work that didn't require a brain? Clyde didn't seem like a problem. If they could sort this guy out and stop the wife's shopping addiction, he'd probably go back to being profitable.

Keats made eye contact with Hiems as the older man headed for the door. He was starting to, just slightly, get in tune with how Hiems' mind worked. Two fingers quickly pointing at the eyes and a gesture outside meant that someone- maybe this guy, maybe others- had been watching them come in.

Keats gave Hiems a look and tilted his head. He didn't want to just walk away from this without trying something, anything- but if Hiems had a plan, and he was sincerely hoping there was a plan involved and this was not just a retreat, Keats was willing to follow him outside and play ball. Keats picked up the briefcase and headed towards the door slowly, ready to speak to the newly arrived thug or quietly follow Hiems outside, depending on which way the older man directed him. Keats's heart was telling him to try something- anything... but he'd be willing to defer to the experience of Hiems if there was a plan to come out of this with a win. Keats made eye contact with Hiems, flashing a glance at the thug and then the door in quick succession before raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner. 

If one thing could be said about the youth of today it was their pride. The unwillingness to back down, shut their mouth, take the hit, lose the girl, come out worse off. Every dog has his day, but to them? That was every single day. He didn't blame them for that, he'd been reckless when he was their age. The Great War changed things, and no one mentioned the dice were loaded until after they were rolled. That house never lost, even if it let you win from time to time. When he got within arms reach, Hiems squeezed a hand on Keats' shoulder, pushed him out the door and down the small set of steps. Taking the lead once more, he walked towards the car.

Keats followed without trying to prove he was the better man. Thankfully. Maybe Hiems would credit him for that later. There were many decisions that separated a man from a boy, knowing when to walk away was one of them. But walking away didn't mean losing, not by a long shot. He glanced over his shoulder at Goliath, standing in the doorway with a smug grin across his face, but kept on walking.

The Goliath wasn't breathing heavy when he arrived. He hadn't ran. No doubt they'd been spotted knocking on the door, but nothing happened until they were invited inside. Better to be sure than to come over and stumble on some door-to-door sales reps talking about a new table mangle. Given Clyde's stutter, the punk reporting their arrival and the time it took Goliath to show up, they had to be close by. Stretching his neck he narrowed down the possibilities.

He knew where the money was.

Hiems snapped his fingers twice, getting Keats attention as they approached the car. He held up one finger, pointed up, and tapped on his chest. Satisfied Keats saw, he held up two fingers, pointed down and pointed at Keats. Another glance at Goliath. Clyde or his wife had said something, distracting the big man for a second. He turned back, made an obscene gesture and slammed the door shut.

Hiems took off. Briefcase in hand he took several large strides, built up momentum, cleared the steps of a house opposite in one leap, threw his weight into his shoulder and his shoulder into the door. The frame splintered around the lock and gave way, opening up into a hall that lead off into different rooms and towards a tidy staircase. He passed two rooms. One empty, one occupied. Keats had better be on his tail. The stairs were conquered two at a time, abusing the element of surprise to its fullest. At the top Hiems doubled back, aiming for the room at the front of the house. The door was open and a dumb punk was staring open-mouthed at the sudden intrusion, pulled from his duty of peeking through curtains at the houses below.

Apartments and houses prime for young families and folks trying to start a better life and the curtains were still closed at this time? Amateurs. He was still staring when Hiems swung the briefcase in a wide, powerful arc towards his head. The connection was solid enough and the brat sank to the floor, knocking over his table of notes, pens and beer bottles on the way down. That was one taken care of.

Hiems hoped Keats had made a move by now. They only had a few seconds before the ringleader realised his own little headquarters had been infiltrated and came storming back over here. The less people they had to deal with when he did show up, the better. Less chance of old Clyde getting injured, too. It wasn't a mercy, but Hiems didn't feel like returning empty handed and having to explain why that revenue stream had been stopped permanently.

With one eye on the door he pulled the curtains aside a little, keeping watch on Clyde's house. The noise of the door being battered open had got Goliath's attention, and he burst out of Clyde's abode like it was burning down. At least there were some walls between them now, provided Keats got a move on. Whoever fired first would start a new timer, one that counted down until nosey coppers showed up, responding to concerned calls from the neighbours. He freed his revolver from its holster and adjusted the cylinder to one empty chamber away from a live one. Just in case.

Keats let himself be guided by Hiems out onto the steps. He inspired trust, and Keats deferred to his experience here. The familiar analytical expression was on the face of the older man when they hit the streets again. Keats tucked his thumbs into his belt. Hiems would probably map something out on his notepad here, figure out some sort of.... two fingers... me... is he sprinting?

Keats was only frozen for a second before he too broke out into a run, pursuing Hiems as he smashed through the doorway on the other side of the street. It was jarring to see Hiems in action, when Keats was so used to him quietly blending in to his surroundings. He moved faster than expected, as well, although Keats was able to catch up by the time the door was knocked down due to a particularly potent combination of youth, enthusiasm, confusion, and adrenaline.

Immediately on entering the building Hiems had ascended the stairs and disappeared. Keats assumed that's what he'd meant by pointing up, and he assumed that the downward point meant that Keats should handle the ground floor. As he ran down the hall, Keats subconsciously cycled through his available resources: fists, knife, gun, briefcase. He tried to move quickly, before anyone realized what was happening.

Keats quickly peered into the first room as he ran through the hall- empty. The second room- table in the middle, kitchen appliances and counter off to the side, closed door in the back- contained a man who'd just lurched out of his chair when he'd heard the door crash open. He was reaching for a gun and Keats didn't have time to get to his own. The briefcase flew through the air toward the man's face, causing the thug to instinctively raise his arms to protect himself. A split second later, Keats drove his shoulder into the man's stomach, hearing the wind get knocked out of his target in a satisfying thud from the impact. The thug seemed stunned, and Keats wasn't about to take any chances when dealing with a man who had a gun. A few well aimed blows connected with the man's head and took him out of the fight, but even as the final blow landed Keats heard someone yell from the other side of the door in the kitchen.

"Vinnie, you okay?!"

Keats, almost against the wall where the door was, saw the it open outwards toward him and a hand holding a pistol protrude first from what must be a bathroom. He reacted instinctively, reaching back with his right hand to his knife and slicing it down at the forearm holding the gun. The gun clattered to the floor as the man screamed in pain, and Keats kicked the door back into him, putting him off balance, before rushing into the bathroom after the backpedaling man. There was a moment of indecision where Keats saw an opening to plunge his knife into the man's chest, but something stopped him and he received a hard blow to the side of his face for his trouble. Damn it. Should have done it. Dropping the knife and grabbing the man's head, Keats slammed it into the sink.  

The two enemies dispatched, Keats had returned his knife to his scabbard and was rubbing his jaw- which hurt like hell, but at least it didn't seem like anything was broken, when he heard an angry bellowing from street. 

The room on the second floor at the front of the house was supposed to be a master bedroom. It had a large window to let the light in, space for a large bed and still left room for other pieces of furniture. Instead of a wardrobe, bed and vanity it held a couple of poor quality tables, foam bedding and miscellaneous junk strewn about the floor. Empty bottles, cigarette butts and old newspapers joined in, making the lookout post a mess. He'd seen bums with more cleanliness, and they lived on the streets.

Hiems opened his briefcase and went to work. It started with frisking the dazed and dozing kid on the floor. His wallet went straight into the briefcase, along with a few other things Hiems needed his switchblade for. Then he tossed the room. Tables, bedding, furniture, even loose threads on carpets were tugged to avoid missing anything underneath. Satisfied, he took a few extra bits and pieces and added them to the case with the wallet and went into the next room to start all over again.

His searches turned up little aside from one or two interesting things. No money though. That was probably downstairs, semi-hidden but easy to get to should the police knock on the door. Towards the back of the house would be his bet, made for a fast getaway. Grab the dough, bolt out the back. A basic mentality but these up and coming gangsters didn't know any better. Shame. A roar of frustration came from the front of house and filtered all the way up the stairs. So the tough guy had noticed. Took him long enough. Returning to the bedroom, Hiems offloaded another big handful of items into his briefcase. From here he watched the wannabe mob boss storm across the street and out of sight below. At least Keats wasn't still standing by the car.

Closing the briefcase up and securing it, Hiems turned his attention to the curtains, pulling them open and letting light flood into the room. Working the catch, he slid the window up and took a breath of fresh air. It was a nice day. Leaning out and over, he scanned the street below and gauged the distance to the ground. He was getting too old for this. Almost, anyway. Reaching out and grabbing the case with one leg hooked over the ledge, he swung the other alongside and pushed himself out with his free hand. The landing gave its usual jolt of greeting, and Hiems had to grab his hat to stop it from being knocked off.

Across the road, Clyde and his wife were watching with wide eyes from the front window of their own house. Big men could be very intimidating, especially big men that liked to get physical. No one wanted pain and the more pain someone though they would be dished up only made it easier for them to sink into obedience. But threats and getting the job done were two different things. If a threat wasn't made good, well, all they were full of was hot air. Hiems adjusted his tie and straightened out his jacket. He walked back up the steps and into the house once more, standing in the broken doorway.

Half-in, half-out of the hall further on, the tough-guy was peering into the room on the left, hand in his jacket. Keats must be on the other side, as the room on the left got no reaction. The gun was drawn, though, and he turned to the right, the kitchen area his next destination. There were no sounds of a scuffle, so either Keats was waiting for an ambush or unconscious on the floor himself. A thug would have been celebrating, and the chance of both men being out cold was slim. Well, let's see what hand the kid had been dealt.

Hiems loudly knocked on the busted open door, shooting his own smug grin down the hall.

Hearing the shouting from the street and knowing that the large man was quickly approaching, Keats tried to grab the guns of the two men who were in various states of consciousness on the floor. The first guy, at least, was groaning. Didn't want them shooting him in the back. He had the first gun in his pocket and the second one loose in his hand when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. The big guy turned the corner from the hallway- he had his gun out- Keats dove into the bathroom as gunshots cracked in the kitchen, slamming into the wall around him and chipping the porcelain sink. One or two might have hit the thug lying on the ground, his own guy. Keats blindly fired a couple shots around the corner, but was greeted by another hail of bullets.  

Keats was a decent shot- Ewiv had been giving him some lessons at the range- but he didn't feel great about his odds of leaping out of the bathroom and hitting the guy before Keats absorbed a shot or two himself. Could always save it for later, if he had to. But perhaps discretion would serve him better here, as well. 

During a short break in the shooting, Keats shouted out the only stupid thing he could think of to keep the man's attention.

"Hey asshole! Your suit doesn't even fit you right!"

Keats paired his insult with another couple shots blindly fired by snaking his hand outside the bathroom door; he was answered by a string of profanity and a renewed assault that punched new holes in the bathroom and broke a mirror, scattering the glass over Keats, who covered his face. 

Well, at least he'd gotten the guy's attention. Hopefully Hiems was coming to check on him soon and would be in a good position to finish this. 

Hiems checked his watch when the shooting started. The new countdown had begun. Fortunately they didn't have to jump into the car and speed away. There was a place close by that would not only be quick to get to, but also protect them with lies to no end. Clyde had a lot to make up for, after all. He'd probably welcome them with open arms. Maybe Hiems would commandeer their kitchen and make some coffee.

It was a little annoying. Most things, if done right, were best done with patience and careful attentiveness. It was the only way you could minimise the issues that would crop up while maximising the chances of success. It applied with everything, from gambling and women to petty crime and friendly fire from Keats' wayward shooting. If you couldn't do it with one bullet it was best to not do it with more. Certain actions complicated things, and leaving extra shell-casings around the joint wasn't a wise move.

Coming in front from the front of the house gave Hiems a little advantage. Leaning against the door frame and firing into the room, the tough guy had his back to the hallway. Most likely so he could see both into the room Keats was holed up in as well as the staircase should one of his guys - or anyone else - come strolling down them. Fortunately, the gunfire masked the sound of his arrival, allowing Hiems to place the briefcase down, withdraw his revolver and take two long strides. Slamming the butt of the gun down hard on the back of the tough guy's head, Hiems grabbed a handful of hair with his free hand and held it still for a second strike. The third connected, but glanced off as he stumbled forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Hiems disliked tall people. They had an arrogance about them that few could compete with. Their clothes usually had to be tailored specifically for them, which cost more, which they let you hear about often. The constant complaining about how doors and other daily obstacles were a challenge, as if the world should have been made to suit their dimensions. All because of something they had no control over. An extra foot of height also meant an extra foot lengthwise he had to dig six foot deep, so even if death they proved themselves to be hard work to deal with at the best of times.

It was with this conviction in mind he watched with a satisfying smirk as the recipient to his blows fell face first onto the floor. Best to let as many live as possible, though. In a situation like this, where the police would eventually show up, there's nothing they can say or do to gain advantage. Everything would be an unexpected accident or a joke taken too far. No one would talk. They couldn't risk it. Bottom-feeders never could. They open their mouths about their dealings? They would go to jail. They open their mouths about the family that put them there? They'd swap their jail for a morgue. No power, no money and no hope in hell of pulling a stunt like this again. Leaving a house full of bloody bodies actually gave the coppers something to do, and may bring unwanted attention to Black Rock.

Hiems walked back to his briefcase, leaving Keats the momentary silence to gather his bearings and calm down after the shoot-out. He also didn't want to walk in the room and take a bullet from jittery hands. Holstering his revolver and scooping up the case, he walked into the room opposite to check it over swiftly, not wanting to leave any stone unturned.

As the shooting stopped, Keats waited several moments before leaning one eye around the corner of the bathroom. Standing, he heard shattered glass from the mirror fall to the floor and he delicately tried to shake any shards off his suit. Maybe a small scratch or two, but nothing serious. To him, not the suit. Cautiously, he emerged with his gun pointing in the direction of his assailant, until he saw a large outstretched hand on the ground. Exhaling, he holstered his gun and checked on the henchman who'd taken a couple shots from his boss in the crossfire. The shots had hit him in the leg and he was cursing quietly to himself, half conscious, but it looked like he'd make it. Exiting the kitchen, he crossed the hallway and found Hiems in the opposite room, open briefcase on a small table as he meticulously examined the area.

"Sorry, Hiems. I managed to get a couple of them, but the big guy got the drop on me. I appreciate the assist."

The quiet endured for a few moments as Keats inexpertly attempted to assist in the search, knocking on the walls to see if there was a hollow area and looking for any loose floorboards.

"You think they've got the money stashed here?"

Keats did his best to sound confident and calm. Honestly, he was feeling okay. He was getting used to violence. Still, it's not something he sought out. He tried to affect a tone that suggested he was perfectly fine in handling the previous situation, but still preferred that things stayed more orderly. The future seemed straightforward. Grab any money they could, then head back across the street. 

"So, we'll find the money and head across the street before the cops show up?"

Hiems let Keats compose himself as best he could, ignoring the younger man as he began a swift and methodical search through the room. There was nothing of interest here from a first glance. Too close to the front door and the window pointing out to the street. Most likely they used this room for having chats and conducting their own private business. The money wouldn't be here. These amateurs didn't understand hiding in plain sight. If there was a bust, they'd want to scram fast and take the money with them. Hiems saw Keats checking the flooring and walls. A nice idea, but not these guys, not in this room.

Which left the kitchen and bathroom. The kitchen would be used often by the cronies here. No chance of the money being stashed here, either. Why keep it in arms reach of the thugs that you paid to take it? Like they'd be able to resist helping themselves. That left the bathroom. Hiems almost rolled his eyes. He made a mental guess at either the toilet cistern, wrapped up in plastic, or one of the many cupboards used for storing the latest in cleaning products. Gathering a few more nondescript items, he added them to his briefcase and walked through the kitchen. It was getting quite heavy now. Pausing only to gather up the wallets from the incapacitated men and give the place a quick once over he strode to the bathroom and guessed the cistern.

Hiems was wrong. It was empty. It wasn't a penthouse en suite though, and it took a few more seconds to open up every single cupboard and drawer in the room. Empty. Hiems stopped for a second and took a breath. Okay, so they weren't clever, but the ringleader wasn't that stupid. He needed either quick access to the cash or a good hiding spot so that it wouldn't be found during a search. He could break in and get it later. Turning on the spot Hiems let his eyes drift over the surfaces, the toilet, the bathtub, the door, the floor, the sink.

In the end it was the moronic giant that gave it away. The bathroom was clean, small, but furnished well. Almost brand new and designed to appeal to those new families. It boasted plenty of storage space and had an easy-to-maintain vibe for any budding wife. Part of that design involved boxing off all the unseemly curves and awkward spaces that collected dust. The cabinet under the sink did a good job of hiding the bulging basin base. The squared-off cover did a good job of hiding the bathtub's curves too. The bullet holes that were aiming for Keats did a good job of splintering one of the bathtub's covers.

Kneeling, Hiems prised the cover away from the bath, revealing the tied up blocks of bank-notes and a few other dubious substances. With no time to count it, he grabbed the cash stash and the drugs and went back into the kitchen. He left it all on the counter, much to the dismay of the conscious thugs, and gestured for Keats to get the items of value in his briefcase. The sound of sirens were getting louder now, and leaving Keats to pack up and get a move on, Hiems walked down the corridor, down the steps and onto the street.

As expected, Clyde was still watching at his window. Hiems pointed at the front door as he strode forward, hoping that the little peddler saw what happened to the last closed door he came across.

Keats followed Hiems, whose gears were obviously turning, as he moved from room to room. Waiting outside the bathroom with his arms crossed as Hiems searched inside, Keats glared down at the wounded henchman. They didn't speak to each other. There was no need to. The wounded man had seemed pissed when Hiems took his wallet, but he seemed to realize that there was nothing he could do to change the outcome other than to hope for the best.

As Keats shifted his weight to his right foot and leaned into the bathroom, he saw the older man pulling packets of money and drugs from around the bathtub. Keats wasn't surprised that Hiems had found it so quickly, but nevertheless listened to see if he could hear a siren. Nothing yet, at least. He picked up his briefcase and brought it over to the counter, where Hiems had gathered most of the stuff together. Within a minute, his suitcase was full and he was catching up to Hiems, who had walked down the hallway and out the door. The older man walked nonchalantly, even in spite of the approaching sirens, but Keats could see his eyes flickering over their surroundings, taking note. 

As they approached the Johnson residence, Keats saw Hiems point at the front door and wasn't surprised to see it open quickly. Hiems walked quickly past the man, while Keats turned to shut the door. Fortunately, the streets seemed to be pretty empty. Gunshots seemed to have that effect. Highly unlikely that people would talk to the cops, either. They knew the drill. 

Allowing himself to relax just slightly, Keats returned to the couch where they'd been sitting just a few minutes before. It was a strange sense of deja vu. Did all that really just happen or was it a daydream as they sat here? Nope- there was a tiny piece of glass on the arm of his jacket. And his briefcase was certainly heavier. And there was Clyde, nervously taking a seat across from them with his hands laced in contemplation, prayer, or both. Keats spoke authoritatively, leaving no room for misunderstanding or doubt. There was talking to be done here, a situation to smooth over. He was getting better at fighting, although he was still learning many things. But talking? Talking he could do.

"Get your wife. She'll need to hear this, too. And I trust that both of you know how stupid calling the cops- or anyone else- would be at this point."

Clyde scurried off and Keats glanced at his companion, trying to divine enough to ensure they were on the same page. Keats took out his gun; Hiems shot a concerned look before Keats immediately shook his head so that only Hiems could see him. Hiems, understanding immediately, nodded as Clyde as his wife returned and sat down in two chairs opposite the couch.

Keats cleared his throat, rubbing his forehead like he had a headache and leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees, gun dangling down in front of him.

"First, lets just make sure... you two didn't call anyone else, right? And your big buddy didn't either?"

Keats nodded slowly, before lifting the gun and considering it with a philosophical look on his face. He paused for a brief moment before returning it to his holster. Hiems sat with his gaze transfixed on the Johnsons.

"I'm not going to threaten you. We don't need to threaten you. You've worked for Don Hayes long enough to know he's not the sort of man who needs to make threats. You also knew your responsibilities. Your expectations. Your duties. Here, you chose to ignore them. Many people sitting in my position would say you deserve to die." 

At this, Hiems casually rose and walked toward the Johnsons. Keats saw the couple freeze until the older man walked quietly over to the door, no doubt to take a covert look at the situation outside.

"Clyde, you worked for Don Hayes for a long time. My guess is that you let your wife... Keats raised his eyebrows at her... and your big pal over there... Keats cocked his head back toward the streets for a beat... you let them talk you into this.  Because you don't seem dumb. I can imagine what happened. Your wife starts developing more expensive tastes. Some meathead tells you he can get you a better deal. There's no better deal, Clyde."

Keats shakes his head, seemly sympathizing with the man's plight while simultaneously disgusted.

"This is the deal. The only deal. You're going to go back to work for Don Hayes, doing whatever he asks you to do. And for the next couple months, you're going to kick up a little extra in tribute, just to show him how much you appreciate this second chance. And that big guy? You're done with him. I'm going to send a few of my associates around to check on this place to make sure he's not troubling you. And if he shows up and starts banging on the door? You call us- I'll give you the number- and we'll take care of it."

Keats looked at Clyde closely, studying his face, trying to get a read on him. The guy didn't seem stupid. And he had been a good earner before. There was no sign of deception on him, just a realization that he'd fucked up royally, as he was enthusiastically nodding about this second chance. Keats sighed as he looked at Mrs. Johnson.

"It's a deal then. And Clyde- your wife here almost got you killed with her Rockefeller impression. Maybe you handle the money for the household from now on? Now we're going to sit here until my partner tells me that it's time for us to go. If we're leaving now, you'd better hope we don't see each other soon. If we're sticking around, one of you needs to make us some coffee."

Keats leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs as Mrs. Johnson, preparing for any eventually, headed to the kitchen. Hiems was standing in the room again, although Keats wasn't sure how long he'd been there. Hopefully he'd approve of this second chance. Keats gave him a questioning look, wondering both about his reaction to Clyde and what has happening outside.