(no subject)

[jholloway.livejournal.com]

Ernie Pike clips a cigar and lights it, drawing smoke gently before he passes it to his boss. Danny hates the little jump of flame; only lights his own when there’s a girl around to impress, or he’s trying to pass. Mind you, right now his hands are full anyway.

“You think I give a fuck about your fucking excuses?”

The barrel of an M1911 is basically a five-inch steel bar; the whole thing weighs about two and a half pounds, and it hurts like hell when Danny brings it smashing into the side of your head. Tim Anson is almost crying, gabbling offers, pleading, trying to negotiate. Danny would usually listen, but he’s getting like he gets sometimes, nostrils flaring at the scent of the blood. Ernie takes half a step toward his boss.

“Danny, please—“

“Danny please? Danny please this, you fucking gonif, you goddamn fucking thief. After all I’ve done for you.” Another crash, this time with a little nick from the bladesight. “You fucking steal from me? Where’s my fucking money, Tim?”

The pistol rises and falls, rises and falls. Ernie’s voice is soft.

“I reckon he’s had enough, guv.”

Danny turns, one finger sliding along the pistol, still outside the trigger guard, and his face is pale, eyes wide.

“You fucking reckon, Pike?”

Not too many people will talk to Danny when he’s like this, but Ernie Pike met him when he was still just a kid, still Jerry Horvath the black marketeer, and he doesn’t flinch.

“Yeah, I reckon.”

A long moment, uncomfortably conscious that for all his little advantages he’s only human and Danny is decidedly not.

“Yeah, OK. OK. Get this piece of shit out of my sight. And Tim – I want my fucking money tomorrow, you hear me?”

He doesn’t talk on the ride home, eyes glassy as he looks out the window. As they pull into the driveway, he makes a call, his voice mechanical, telling the big man that he’s back at home now. Ernie leaves him at the door, shaking his head to deter Dave’s worried look. He’s got the boss through worse.

Inside, Danny makes a tiny noise of disgust when he sees that Tim’s blood has spattered his t-shirt. He takes it off and pulls a new one from the drawer. He pulls it on, and as he does the world goes slow –

-- he hasn’t worn it in almost a month. It’s been washed, but still he smells rich earth, the faint tang of old blood. Above them the last hint of a floral scent. Hand shaking, he reaches for his cigar case.

Comments

[nikoliborsh.livejournal.com]

Why do I keep thinking of the Sopranos when reading this...

[gold-dust84.livejournal.com]

Glad it isn't just me...

But that's awesome James. Really good.