Darren Franz

"GRANITE CAT"

By Darren Franz

The lead slug tore through Rick Granite's mid-section, driving him backward against the alley wall. His fedora flew off his head. It rolled behind a string of garbage cans. A burning sensation blossomed in his chest.

The stench of cordite filled the air in vaporous clouds. It mixed with the cloying aroma of garbage: spoiled fruit, rotten vegetables and chunks of maggot-strewn meat.

These smells were like perfume compared to the odors emitting from him. Sour sweat. Dutch courage. The coppery smell of blood. The scent of death.

His breath came and went in great forceful gasps. He heard his assailant's wing tips. They clamored up the fire escape above. Rick raised his .45 automatic, but could not get a clear shot. The bastard vaulted onto the roof, and disappeared into the moon-washed night.

The pistol seemed too big for his hand. It slipped to the pavement with a clatter. An old urine-stained newspaper blew across his bloody lap. He caught the headline before a breeze carelessly flung the lone sheet behind the garbage cans; good company for his hat.

ALLIES LAND IN SICILY! CAPTURE PALERMO!

He coughed and spat blood. Harsh, like vomiting pennies.

He was drenched. His life was gushing out of him.

Something crept up from behind the broken crates of fly-blown offal. A pair of golden eyes. Wary. Rick saw the vague outline of the cat just before it stepped out of the shadows. Furry white like a powder puff.

It came mincing up to him.

Sounds were amplified. Light traffic on Broadway. In one of the apartments looming above, he heard The Glenn Miller Band over The Armed Forces Radio. "Moonlight Cocktail".

The cat crouched about five feet from his inert form. Rick watched as it cleaned itself. The graceful moves reminded him of Vera, a dancer at The White Horse Club.

Vera had moves like a cat.

Too bad she hadn't landed like a cat when Doherty's mugs tossed her out the window of her fifteenth story apartment.

Rick felt cold inside. Vera used to know how to keep him warm. Not anymore.

He couldn’t feel his legs.

Quick images flooded his mind. Rapid fire, like muzzle flashes.

Big Wheel Kevin Doherty walking into The White Horse Club with the very lovely Vera on his arm.

Rick Granite--usually as hard as his last name--going soft after one look at her pale skin and coltish legs.

Their eyes locking from across the room. Vera bats her eyelashes at him. Bang! He's as soft as a barrel of apple butter.

A little rough house in the White Horse men's room; Doherty muscle Lucky O'Banion and Kyle Tracey stiff-arming him with a warning: hands off the boss's new doll.

Cutting a rug with Vera on the sly at some dime-a-dance joint in Queens, her breasts finding their way into his eager hands.

Later that evening. Too much champagne; Vera's not only very lovely but very willing too.

Rick Granite waking up with a headache and the strangest feeling.

He’s in love.

Rick closed his eyes. His heartbeat thudded dully in his ears.

“Love,” he whispered, mustering up as much contempt for the word as he could. He felt the fool for trying to kid himself at such a late stage of the game.

Two days ago, he’d gone to see Vera. Doherty’s thugs had gone to see her first.

Now they’d gotten him as well.

Before the lug had fired, Rick spotted the familiar derby and pea coat--trademarks of the South Side Doherty Mob.

“I bet it was...O’Banion,” he told the cat, who blinked at him owlishly while its chin nestled against its paws. “Sure...Lucky it was.”

Rick glanced at the sky. A glowering full moon ducked behind one of the many skyscrapers. Odds were he’d be dead by sunrise.

The cat’s tail writhed like an albino serpent.

He shivered. Winced from the pain.

The cat was purring like an engine. Its bright eyes seemed almost metallic. Twin coins reflecting the moon.

Sidling forward on its haunches, it stepped gingerly over his splayed out legs. Watching it move was fascinating in spite of the pain.

He thought it would leave him, but it pranced over to the first sagging garbage can and leapt quietly onto the flattened lid.

Rick sat motionless. His hands were limp white starfish standing out against the shadow of his clothes.

The cat tentatively inspected its new resting place before finally settling in.

Rick thought about how comfortable Vera’s shapely legs had wrapped around his waist, how she’d drawn him deeper inside her.

The cat was staring at him. Transfixed.

His fingers tingled. The alley was a washed-out gray. Rick felt naked without his hat.

Purring. Hypnotic gaze. Eyes sparkling like dry white wine.

Maybe I’ll wind up on the slab, he thought dreamily.

PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr...

Blood. Soaking his crotch.

Through a haze of double vision, Rick saw Vera materialize at the far end of the alley. She was wearing a red costume with glittering sequins and a plume of ostrich feathers trailing behind her. The costume seemed to be dripping, melting as though made of liquid.

She came closer. He realized it wasn’t a costume at all.

Vera was covered in blood.

She stopped right in front of him, proud to have hit her mark. Her eyes continued to dance to a tune only she seemed to hear.

“Yoo-hoo!” Vera chortled. Her voice was slurred. A bubbling gurgle. “Rick, my love...”

Rick smiled. His eyes tried to focus, but couldn’t seem to do it.

“You’re not...real,” he managed.

“You have to get ‘em, Rick. O’Banion. Tracey. Doherty. You have to make them pay...”

Rick fought his way through a painful coughing spell. Finally, he said, “I’m a little...busy here, Vera.”

She shooed at him with her hand. Scarlet droplets splashed across the brick wall behind him.

A warm weight pressed against his chest. Rick tried to shift his legs and change position, but they decided not to cooperate.

“You’re dead...and so am I,” he managed through laborious breaths.

“No you’re not,” Vera whispered. She was straddling him now, leaning closer. Their noses were almost touching.

“You’re solid, Rick. Just like your name.”

Her strong thigh muscles tightened against his ribs. He was smothering.

“...Can’t...breathe...”

Vera pouted. In a little girl’s voice, she scolded him. “You said you’d take care of me! You promised we’d be safe, and everything would be jake!”

Had he promised her those things? Yes. In the dim world he was leaving behind, he thought maybe he had. Whispered promises while his seed was still warm and sticky between her legs.

It had been last week. An entire millennium ago.

Dizzying vertigo. He was falling...

Her hand. Pressing on his chest.

“Get ‘em, Rick. Make ‘em pay.”

PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr...

He gave in and let go. Falling. Blinding white light.

When his vision cleared, Vera was gone. The pressure continued against his chest, although it no longer hindered his breathing.

The cat was curled up on his chest like a mound of sugar. Its eyes were a dull copper, tired and washed out.

Something had passed between them. Nasty and secretive, like rape.

Rick grimaced in revulsion. The cat took the hint, leaping off his chest and settling nimbly a top its other favorite spot. The garbage can.

The flow of blood had subsided. He wasn’t back to normal; far from it, but he was well on his way.

It hurt to stand. He didn’t care. His legs were wobbly at first, but after a few minutes he felt confident on his feet again. At least he was up off the filthy pavement.

Rick bent over, and picked up his .45. It felt good in his hand, like bumping into a long lost friend.

An underlying hum resounded from the streets. The city’s pulse. Rick had never heard it before.

The moon cast a silvery glow over the alley. Everything was etched in black and white.

He turned towards the row of garbage cans to retrieve his hat. The cat was gone. In its place, lying on the still-warm lid, was an ostrich feather.

Stuffing it into his pocket, Rick shuffled out of the alley. The reeking smell of spoiled garbage was strong in his nostrils.

It smelled like Lucky O’Banion.

Rick smiled.

He knew where Lucky was shacked up. A small furnished room above Mackley’s Bar and Grill. A brisk thirty minute walk.

Rick contemplated hailing a cab, but the hack might ask too many questions. Cinching his overcoat around his middle covered most of the stains, but there was still enough showing to spook the casual passers by.

He thought it best to travel on foot, stick to the shadows. Less unobtrusive that way.

Rick counted bricks until he was standing in front of the side entrance of Mackley’s.

He glanced up.

Second story window. Shade pulled three quarters of the way. Lights out. No fire escape; a flagpole jutted out about a foot below the window.

Rick paused, then began pacing in a tight circle. The flagpole was a good twelve feet straight up.

Tensing his legs, Rick crouched, poised to spring. His heels seemed to dig into the concrete.

He never even thought about it. He simply leapt.

His body surged upward with amazing agility, cresting the metallic pole. A double clicking sound-- “tak-tak”--echoed through the night as the soles of his shoes touched down.

Like a pro gymnast sensing his equilibrium, Rick steadied himself into a crouch along the pole.

His eyes narrowed into slits. He gazed into the strip of window afforded him by the drawn shade.

The room was a void of darkness, yet he was surprised at how much he could see.

An old bureau. A round table littered with playing cards, poker chips, and liquor bottles. Several chairs. A lamp without a shade. And in the corner, a bed with a vague hump beneath a tangle of sheets.

Lucky O’Banion.

Rick licked his lips. His tongue felt dry and coarse, like a strip of sandpaper.

Vaguely, he could hear Lucky snoring.

Rick grimaced with contempt. Vera’s silky voice purred inside his head.

(There he is...just look at him! It hasn’t even been a full hour since he shot you...now the smug bastard’s out like a light!)

“Don’t worry. His luck’s just run out.”

Leaning forward, Rick tried the window. It slid upward too easily; the pane could have been slathered with lard.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke and Irish whiskey hit him like a freight train. Rick stepped gingerly into the room. His eyes were glued to the bulky shape on the bed.

After ensuring the window was shut, he drew his .45.

Moving slowly, taking his time, Rick crept up to the bed.

O’Banion’s ugly mug was pressed firmly against the pillow. His mouth was hanging open like a bulkhead door; a bright shock of strawberry hair was spiked upward in weird curlicues.

PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr...

Pointing the pistol’s muzzle a mere eighth of an inch away from Lucky’s yawning mouth, Rick placed his open hand, palm out, just above the barrel to deflect the splatter of blood and brains which would soon be decorating the wall and the bed.

He was just about to squeeze the trigger when a better idea struck him.

Rick brought his hand away. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ostrich feather. He stroked it lovingly for a moment, reveling in its exotic texture.

Keeping Lucky covered, Rick began brushing it against the burly Irishman’s reddened nose.

After several gagging snorts, O’Banion groggily came around.

“Whazzat?” Lucky began, then immediately blinked in surprise upon seeing the gun.

“Rise and shine, asshole,” Rick said, placing the feather back in his pocket.

Lucky squinted, trying to match the voice with a face. Rick thought it was comical to watch.

“Who’s there?” O’Banion demanded.

Slowly, Rick leaned over and turned on the lamp by the bed.

Lucky gasped in shock. His eyes widened in a mixture of sudden realization and absolute horror.

“G-Granite?!”

“That’s right. I know what you must be thinking... You couldn’t have missed me back in that alley. Well, guess what?” Rick unbuttoned his trench coat as he spoke. “You didn’t...”

Spreading the coat open, Rick motioned towards the congealed scarlet stains on his shirt and trousers.

“But how?” Lucky began, staring in frank amazement. “How could you be...”

“Alive?” Rick shrugged. “I dunno, lughead. Maybe we oughtta swap names or something, ‘cause I’m the lucky one tonight.”

Rick cocked the hammer of his .45.

Lucky’s head kissed plaster.

“Hey, c’mon Granite,” he babbled. “Let’s talk this over, huh? What is it that you want? Anything... Just name it.”

Rick pointed the pistol at Lucky’s stupid-looking face. Point blank.

“I want Vera back, you worthless piece of shit.”

A loud knock rattled the door. Rick almost pulled the trigger.

“Hey, Lucky. You in there?”

Rick knew the owner of that gruff voice.

It was Kyle Tracey. Lucky’s other half and Doherty’s favorite strong-arm. A knife expert.

Pushing the .45’s muzzle just above Lucky’s left eyebrow, Rick whispered, “Don’t do anything stupid, or I’ll give that poor excuse of a brain of yours some ventilation. Got it?”

Lucky nodded that he did indeed get it.

“Come on, Lucky!” Tracey shouted, pounding on the door. He sounded extremely impatient. “Kick loose and open up, will ya?!”

“Is that door locked?” Rick asked, motioning with a curt nod.

Lucky shook his head.

“Good. Tell him to come in. Tell him anything more, I start ventilating.”

“C-c’mon in.”

The door rattled open, squealing on its hinges. Kyle Tracey’s massive bulk seemed to squeeze through the frame. For a moment Rick thought the issue was in doubt. It was like watching some strange optical illusion. The building seemed to shudder with relief once Tracey had slipped inside.

Kyle Tracey was a towering mass of solid muscle. There were no curves to his body; he was squared off like an iron strongbox.

He came in rambling. Upset. Rick had the feeling it was all a put up job.

“Doherty wants to see us at the pool hall...”

Tracey stopped dead in his tracks. A look of surprise appeared on his broad face, but it wasn’t as big as Rick would have liked.

“Welcome to the party, sucker,” Rick said, keeping the pistol trained on Lucky.

Tracey’s gaze immediately turned to steel. He gave Lucky a quick fish eye. Rick also got the feeling that old Lucky didn’t mind having the gat pressed against his head, like it was suddenly the least of his problems.

Tracey fixed his flinty eyes on Rick once more.

“You got balls comin’ here, Granite. I didn’t think a two-bit, cream puff gambler like you would get your hands dirty.”

“I enjoy playing against the odds,” Rick heard himself say.

“That so?” Tracey shot back. “Well, lemme clue you in, hotshot. This is one game you ain’t gonna win.”

Lucky’s eyes darted nervously back and forth between them, almost as though he were observing an interesting tennis match.

Rick was thrown by Tracey’s unflinching gaze. Nudging Lucky with the .45’s barrel for emphasis, he replied, “Neither will he.”

Tracey shrugged. It was a cold gesture, completely without remorse. Rick began to question whether he really was in control.

“Lucky’s through, either way. Shit, look at him. Even he knows it. You might as well be covering a corpse, Granite.”

Rick didn’t know what to believe anymore.

He noticed Tracey wasn’t going to give him the time to figure it out. Slowly, deliberately, Tracey reached beneath the lapel of his pea coat.

Rick stood frozen. Undecided. “Don’t move!” he shouted.

Tracey cracked a smile as he continued digging. “Take it easy, hotshot. Just gettin’ me smokes.”

He’s testing me, Rick thought. And I just failed that one.

He was suddenly terrified of Kyle Tracey. The man’s hands were as large as Kraut helmets. He could easily see those hands snapping him in half like a toothpick...

...Or shoving a showgirl out of a window.

Rick was fully expecting to see a knife in Tracey’s hand when it pulled free from the folds of the tent-sized coat, but what came out was what Tracey had said: a deck of Lucky Strikes.

He lit up and smoked like a man without a care in the world. After tugging on the creases in his slacks, Tracey pulled up a chair. His considerable heft spilled over both sides, making the chair look like something out of a kindergarten classroom.

Rick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His stomach picked up a flutter he didn’t much care for.

Through a thin veil of smoke, Tracey said, “Tell me something, Granite. You ever kill a man before?”

Rick didn’t answer.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You ain’t got that look.”

“Why don’t you just shut up?” Rick said, his eyes darting nervously from Tracey to Lucky and back again.

Tracey sneered. He ground the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe. “Nope. No moxie at all. Not a jellyfish like you.”

“I dunno, Kyle,” Lucky stammered, chiming in. “I gut-shot him, but he’s still breathin’.”

Tracey’s unwavering gaze did not falter from Rick’s face.

“I doubt it. What you did was clip him a good one, and he bled like a stuck pig.”

Now Tracey turned to face O’Banion, daring him to say otherwise.

Lucky kept quiet.

“That skirt who took a swan dive...you loved her, didn’t you?” Tracey asked Rick.

The question threw Rick off guard, just as Tracey had intended. Rick found he was unable to keep himself from nodding.

“Sure,” Tracey replied with a faint trace of a smile. “You’re just as sappy as one of those old poems.”

Rick flushed. His skin felt caustic.

PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr...

“That’s enough,” Rick said. Motioning Lucky with the .45, he added, “Get over there next to your wiseass buddy.”

Lucky slowly got up off the bed, and stood next to Tracey.

“How does it feel, loverboy?” Tracey said. His Irish brogue was so thick, the words seemed to lay heavily on the air after tumbling from his mouth. “How does it feel to know that love really can’t conquer all, huh?”

Rick turned and fired blindly at Tracey.

The round went wide, blowing the lamp on the night table to pieces.

Darkness crashed down around them.

Lucky came at him first. A clumsy bum’s rush. Rick pivoted on his heel and fired twice. The reports were deafening in the closed confines of the little room.

The first muzzle flash illuminated Lucky O’Banion’s desperate charge. During the second, Rick clearly saw the round tear half of Lucky’s head off.

There was a gurgling grunt, followed by a wet spattering sound.

Lucky O’Banion went down hard.

Whirling, trying to see everywhere at once but blinded by the flashes, Rick crouched low...

A small sound. Barely audible in the wake of the pistol’s reports: “snik...”

Tracey’s switchblade.

The air was rancid with the stench of cordite and gunpowder. Rick shook in a dreamy sort of delayed reaction. Every muscle was coiled tight like a spring.

In a wavering falsetto which was somehow chilling in its mockery, Tracey called, “Loverboyyyyyyy...”

Rick cocked his head, straining to hear.

There was an abrupt rustling noise; the sound clothes make when on the move.

Frantically, Rick turned towards the sound, firing blindly. There was an angry whine as the bullet ricocheted off the door frame, splintering wood.

Before the sound had completely receded, Kyle Tracey sprang out of the darkness like a deadly jack-in-the-box .

Rick tried to duck, but the blade punched into his chest, just above his left armpit. A freezing bolt of pain ripped through him.

He was drenched. The knife slid out with a moist whisper, and Rick tried to scream.

A whistling wheeze was all he could manage.

Rick Granite collapsed. The carpet was already soaked through with his blood.

Without pause, Tracey placed one knee on the small of Rick’s back, and buried the knife between his shoulder blades up to the hilt.

Rick’s whooping gasps for air abruptly halted. He shuddered once and lay still.

“Well,” Tracey said, removing the knife and flicking blood off the blade.

He groped his way to the bathroom, and turned on the light.

His hands were streaked with crimson. It was all over his shoes, but Tracey didn’t care. Blood wiped off.

He washed the knife first. Then he went to work on his hands, concentrating thoroughly on the fingernails and knuckles. When this task was completed, he yanked a wad of toilet paper off the spool and went to work on his shoes.

Tracey took his time. Why not? Old Lucky and that marshmallow Granite were on ice, just like the boss wanted.

Satisfied he would pass muster, he unzipped his fly and began to urinate.

He was thinking about taking a ride out to Jersey, blowing a wad on some of the slots in the casinos down by the shore, when something brushed up against his leg.

He jerked, stumbling back, and managed to piss on his leg.

“Aww, for the love o’Mike!” he shouted, realizing he was actually quite terrified.

For some odd reason he thought it was Granite’s pale white hand groping at his leg.

He heard a curt meow, and looked down to see a furry white cat slinking back and forth between his legs.

“Well now, lass. Ain’t you the friendly one?”

The cat purred contentedly, sparing him a glance as it nuzzled his calf.

“I didn’t know Lucky had company,” he said as he stooped and picked up the cat gently in his massive arms.

“Nice kitty...sure.”

The cat stared indifferently at him; its golden eyes were sparkling.

PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr...

Tracey leaned closer. The cat lashed out lightning quick with its sharp claws.

Tracey’s eye was punctured, dribbling yellowish white fluid down his flayed open cheek. The cat hissed.

Tracey screamed, flinging the feline into the claw-footed bathtub with one hand. The other clapped over his gushing eye.

“Jesus Christ!” he cried, groping for the sink. A crock of shaving soap fell to the floor and shattered.

Tracey slammed his head against the mirrored medicine cabinet. His face resembled a cheap cut of butcher’s beef.

The cat uttered a shrill cry and dove onto his broad back, claws thrashing, digging in.

“Get the fuck offa me!” he shouted, managing to twist his fingers into its rippling fur and yanking it off. The cat came reluctantly, with a grotesque tearing sound.

Tracey threw the cat to the floor.

Pulling out his knife, squinting through a gummy veil of blood, Kyle Tracey searched for the cat.

“Come here ya little cock knocker!”

He spun dizzily, switchblade gleaming. His head was on fire. He staggered, struggling to keep from falling down.

“Hey...” a voice called.

Tracey froze. His head turned towards the direction of the room where the two bodies lay.

“Who’s there?!” Tracey called, then collapsed backward when he saw a figure step out of the shadows.

Rick Granite.

His clothes were a bloody ruin, but Granite looked like he’d just gotten up after taking a short nap. A cat nap.

“N-no...”

“That’s right, Tracey. I’m back...” Rick leveled his blood-grimed .45 at him. “And I’m solid. Just like my name.”

Blubbering, Tracey raised both hands in a warding-off gesture. His eye was a gaping raw hole.

Rick fired three times.

Kyle Tracey slumped against the toilet. A fitting end, when Rick thought about it.

When the smoke cleared, he examined the stab wound which had pierced his lung.

Spreading apart the shredded shirt he was wearing, he peered at the fresh baby-pink scar tissue which had miraculously formed there.

Rick suddenly felt faint.

The cat began to purr as Rick collapsed against the bathroom door. It jumped nimbly into his lap, nuzzling him.

“I’m so tired...Vera.”

PurrrPurrrPurrrr...

“Just one more, Rick,” he heard Vera say. “One more, then we can be together forever.”

Nodding wearily, Rick managed to stand. His body felt like one giant open sore.

He wavered, but steadied himself against the door jamb until he felt capable of moving on.

Like Mackley’s and the White Horse, Tommy’s Pool Hall was Doherty Mob property. Kevin Doherty firmly believed in the old adage of keeping his fingers in as many pies as possible. Most of the legitimately run businesses on the south side paid some sort of kickback to him. It was either pay up, or find yourself in the East River trying on a brand new pair of cement shoes.

The cat had curled up on the bathroom floor. Its eyes were squinted shut as though from some intense spasm of pain.

Rick could definitely commiserate.

Checking his .45, he found he had only two rounds left. He was going into the lion’s den... with only two rounds.

Weaving through the shadowed maze of furniture, Rick left Lucky’s apartment.

Outside, it had begun to rain.

Hunching his shoulders, Rick stepped up his pace a bit. He was making lefts and rights with an almost predestined ease.

Rick darted across the street, scampering to avoid the oncoming traffic. Rain sluiced over the brim of his fedora, creating a hazy gray sheet. He winced from the pain.

None of that mattered now. He knew where he was, and where he was going.

The city was etched in blacks and whites and grays; the shades seemed almost surreal.

Rick reached Tommy’s Pool Hall, and walked past its big picture window.

A mellow glow illuminated one of the center tables. Doherty and two of his boys playing stick.

It was too easy.

Turning the corner, Rick sized up the back door. Clear. Unguarded.

He gingerly edged up to the back door. Placing his hand on the cold brass knob, he tried turning it.

The door was unlocked.

Every nerve ending screamed at him to get out of there, and fast.

Quietly, Rick slipped inside.

Pulling his .45, he worked his way around the crates and old billiard tables; it was some sort of store room.

Rick heard voices. Clacking balls. Short bursts of laughter.

The whole place screamed set-up.

Rick plunged ahead regardless. There was a feeling of inevitability about his actions that he didn’t like.

He entered the hallway low and careful. The voices began to take shape and definition.

“You can’t make that shot, Paddy!”

“The fuck I can’t!”

Rick’s pulse quickened; his heart took a bounding leap to the back of his throat. He stifled a sneeze from the chalk dust.

“Son of a bitch...”

“Saints preserve us! The bastard made it!”

Rick stood up and marched towards the row of pool tables.

He got about halfway before hearing the bolt of a Tommy gun being pulled back somewhere behind him. He was covered.

The three men at the table looked up.

Kevin Doherty smiled. With a jerk of his pudgy thumb, he knocked his derby far back on his peeling scalp.

“Mr. Granite! So good of you to pay us a visit. Has anyone told you that you’re walking around dead?”

Doherty gave a curt nod to the trigger man behind Rick, and the guy cut loose with an explosive burst.

Rick danced like a marionette with tangled strings. His arms and legs jolted awkwardly to the beat of machine gun fire and the jingle of spent shell casings. As round after round punched through him, spinning and jiggling him in an erupting crimson cloud, Rick Granite saw a malevolent twinkle in Doherty’s eyes.

He slipped in a pool of his own blood, and was dead before he hit the floor.

“Good work, lad,” Doherty called over the ringing silence. “Paddy...Bobby. Toss that sack o’shit into the river. Give me a call when it’s done.”

-- -- --

Rick suddenly came to. The smell of fish--which clung to him with thick intensity--told him immediately where he was.

The docks.

Rick pressed his scarred and pitted face against the cool warped boards of the pier he was lying on.

“No...no...more,” he croaked. His body curled into a fetal position. “Please. Not again...”

A passing tugboat’s blaring horn rattled him into a tighter ball. Hugging his knees to his chest, Rick tried to ignore the holes in his clothes; the powder burns; the deep pock-marked scars which seemed to hold his flesh together.

He shuddered. A man-shaped wound in spasm.

His eyes darted along the length of the pier, not really seeing; not even focusing...

...Until he spotted the cat.

It lay in a slick trail of its own blood. Its eyes were glassy and glaring at the blackened water below.

It was dead.

Something hard and hot seemed to slide loose from Rick’s heart.

It’s over! Rick thought, managing to sit up. I’m free!

PurrrrPurrrrPurrrr...

Another cat--this one with a coat as black and shiny as sealskin--sat a top a pylon, watching him intently. Its tail lashed through the air like an ominous snake.

Other than the sharp wisps of its tail, it did not move at all.

Over this fresh cat’s idle purring, Vera chimed in again.

“Didja miss me, Rick?”

The waves lapped at the pier.

“You have to get ‘em, Rick. There’s still so much to do. Doherty. Bobby O’Grady. Paddy Nichols. And Mike The Trigger. You have to make them pay...”

The last word seemed to reverberate through his reeling mind. He shuddered.

“I’m through,” he moaned.

“No you’re not. I’ve seen to that. You’re solid, Rick. Just like your name.”

The black cat leapt gracefully off the pylon, nuzzling his foot with its whiskered cheek.

The sun was rising.

Rick Granite slowly got to his feet.

As he shuffled back towards the south side, he wondered how long this day would last.

THE END