Epilogue
John Robinson sat in the morning quiet of the bar, hunched over the newspaper with his hand wrapped around his breakfast beer. The front page was plastered with photos of the Hathaway home. Blocks of text detailed the bloodbath in the luxury townhouse, including the names of the apparent killers. Two of the names meant nothing to John. The third one, Herbert Winslow, was a punch to the gut.
He shook his head as he read and re-read the name. “You crazy bastard.” There was sorrow in his voice, but no surprise. “I hope it was worth it.” John raised his beer in salute of his fallen friend. He didn't put the glass down until it was empty. A low burp passed his lips.
John wondered about the kid. After he had seen Herbert, he went to the police station and dropped off an envelope with the contract inside. The chances were slim that they were even going to give it to him. Some street-rat with no family had little chance to beat a murder rap, much less the murder of some big time executive. But he kept his promise, so his conscious was clear.
John stood and circled around the bar for a refill. He watched the amber liquid fall into the cup, hypnotized by the fluid bounce of the beer on the edges of the glass. The door opened and John looked up.
Standing in the doorway was the kid himself. The whites of his eyes stood out against his dark skin. His lips were pulled back in a rabid snarl. “Blackjack.” He raised his arm and leveled a gun. “This is for Herbie.”
“Wait,” John started, holding up his hands. He said nothing else. There were three consecutive impacts in his chest, followed by three distant pops. He stumbled back into a shelf of liquor bottles, sending them crashing to the floor. Then he flopped forward on the counter, the smell of blood and spilled booze filling the air. Everything was growing dim. John Robinson watched the kid enter the bar with another man at his heels, a specter of death in a dark suit with a skull face and impossibly black eyes.