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"No worries."
We're kind of friends now. I can feel it.
"Look, can we just get this over with so I can get this woolen mask off, Daryl?"
"Could you just show us a little discipline, Keith? All good hit men have impeccable discipline, all right!"
"Hit men?" I ask.
Daryl shrugs. "Well, you know, that's what we call ourselves."
"Sounds plausible," I concede.
"I suppose." And he thinks hard now.
He ponders. He speaks.
"Okay, Keith, you're right. We better head off soon. You got the pistol, didn't you?"
"I did, yes. It was in his drawer."
"Good." Daryl stands up and pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket. On it are the words Ed Kennedy. "Got a delivery for you, Ed. Please stand up, son."
I do it.
"I'm sorry," he now reasons, "but I'm under instructions. I have to tell you one thing--that so far you're doing well." He speaks more quietly. "And just between you and me--and I can get maimed for telling you this--we know you didn't kill that other man...."
Again, he apologizes and delivers his fist beneath my ribs.
I'm bent over.
The kitchen floor is filthy.
There's Doorman hair everywhere.
The hammer of a fist lands on the back of my neck.
I taste the floor.
It joins my mouth.
Slowly, I feel the envelope land on my back.
Far, far away, I hear Daryl's voice one last time. He says, "Sorry, Ed. Good luck."
As their footsteps echo through the house, I hear Keith now as well.
"Can I take the mask off now?" he asks.
"Soon," Daryl answers.
The kitchen light fades, and again I'm sinking.
I wish I could tell you that the Doorman's helping me up, but of course he isn't. He comes over and licks me a few times before I find enough strength to get to my feet.
The light dives at me.
Pain stands up.
