He put the glass down on the scarred tabletop and blew out a thin stream of smoke. It was a practiced move meant to impress. It didn’t.“Sure, I like to kill. Love it actually,” he said. “Who doesn’t?”“Not everyone has had the pleasure,” I said. “If you could call it that.”“True. I should say, ‘Who wouldn’t?’ I suppose. Given the chance, I guarantee the pope himself can think of a person or two he’d like to terminate.”“Interesting theory,” I said, picking up my drink for a generous gulp.We were in the Sun, a bar literally on the wrong side of the tracks and certainly misnamed. It was a dingy hole carved out of a converted train depot that sat next to about five fully functioning rail lines. People of our ilk frequented the place because the near constant rumble of trains going by drowned out any bit of conversation not spouting forth from a mouth directly across from you. It was the kind of place where no one saw anything.Clark and I both worked for Sid Hart, a guy with his finger in a lot of pies.
