I didn’t even bother calling Roz. My life was going down the toilet; why did I need a job? I wound up at Al’s, leaning on my elbows at the bar while Jimmy set up for the afternoon trade. The place was empty except for us. Al was out somewhere, probably sizing up lady mud wrestlers. By now I’d already got my head around the fact that I’d have to take Stanley out. It was a matter of survival. I had Marcia and the cops coming at me from one side, Bernie the loan shark from the other. My problem was I was new to murder. Oh, I read the papers and watched the news on tv, and I knew people killed other people every day. Trouble was I had no experience. I slid off the stool to help Jimmy shift a couple of kegs. Then I went back to leaning on my elbows. “You okay, kid?” Jimmy asked. His deeply creased face, partly covered by a fall of bleached-out hair, was worried. Like I said, he was a good friend. “Yeah,” I said. “I talked to Al about a rematch,” Jimmy said, thinking this was what was bothering me.
