“And here I was thinking Hell was one big fun park. In the last half hour I’ve been ripped off, I’ve been robbed, I’ve been drenched, and I’ve been swung like a pendulum until I thought my brains were going to slide out my ears. If you really think you can give me a worse time than the one I’m already having, I’d like to see you try.”
If Bully had looked confused before, his face now moved past nonplussed and settled at utterly bewildered. “Listen, small guy,” he shouted. “You’re pushing your luck. Nobody talks to me like that. I’m Bully Malone.”
“Sorry, but I’m going to have to correct you. You used to be Bully Malone, but now you’re just another dead guy.” I paused for a moment, hoping that some of this might actually sink in, but when his face didn’t move, I kept going anyway. “You may think you’re the big man and I’m the little man, but when it comes down to it, we’re really not that different. We were both small wheels in a big machine. We worked because we had to, and sometimes we killed because we had to. But when we got taken out, the machine didn’t stop moving.”
Bully continued to stare uncomprehendingly. Then, suddenly, his face broke into a grin. “I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, but I have to admit you’ve got guts. There’s not too many guys that could kill Bully Malone and then look him in the eye afterwards.” Then his expression hardened again. “But you gotta understand, I can’t just let this slide. I got my image to consider. I gotta get my respect back.”
“Seems to me you don’t have too much of an image problem. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, your image is better than it’s ever been.”
“What are you talking about?” Bully’s brow wrinkled as his brain struggled to make sense of what I was saying. Given it had never had much of a workout while he’d been alive, it was a big ask to expect it to start functioning now.
“Look at it this way,” I said. “You may think you got respect while you were alive, but was that really the case? Did people respect you for who you were and what you did, or was it all due to the Bostino family?”
“What have the Bostinos got to do with this?”
“Quite a lot, Bully. As long as you worked for them, you could never be sure if the respect you got was all due to that association. But now that you’re on your own, there’s no doubt. The respect you’re getting is for you and you alone. But don’t just take my word for it. Have a look at these people. They’re absolutely terrified of you.”
I’ll never know if Bully really understood what I was saying, but in some way it seemed to satisfy him. “Yeah,” he said. “They are terrified of me.” He pointed his gun at a gentleman sitting at a table beside us. “Hey you, give me a handstand,” he demanded.
“Right away, Mr Malone, sir,” the man squeaked. He stood up and then crouched down on the ground, attempting to support himself on his shaky hands. He swayed unsteadily for a couple of seconds before collapsing into the crowd, sending drinks flying.
Bully roared with laughter. “Maybe you’re right, Clarenden. Maybe I don’t have to take you out after all.”
“Call me Jimmy,” I said. “And don’t forget you’ve already taken me out once. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Getting killed by you isn’t so bad after all. I still got my respect, plus I haven’t got any of those crazy Bostinos to worry about.” Bully shook his head. “I tell you, Jimmy, I’m not going to miss the Bostinos. Complete whack jobs, every last one. Did you ever meet them?”
“Never had the pleasure, Bully. They had a gang of trained assassins to ensure that nobody except their closest advisors ever got close to them.”
“You’re right, I trained them,” Bully chuckled. “Let me tell you something about them Bostinos. First, there was Billy Bostino. He got his leg shot off by accident during a poker game, and he had to have a wooden stump attached. I had to kill him because Tommy Bostino didn’t like the thumping sound he made at night when he went to the bathroom.”
“I can understand that.”
“Then there was Freddy Bostino. Freddy had this superstition about his fingernails. He would only clip them once every two months, on a full moon. I had to kill him because Tommy Bostino didn’t like how he got cut every time he shook Freddy’s hand.”
“That would annoy me too.”
“And not forgetting Franky Bostino. Franky had one green eye and one blue eye.”
“And let me guess. You had to kill him because Tommy didn’t like those colours.”
“Nah, Tommy was colour blind. I killed Franky because he had bad breath.”
“That’s a pretty big crime in my book too. So I guess that would make Tommy the craziest one of them all.”
“Not for much longer though,” said Bully, sounding as close to thoughtful as he was ever likely to get.
“What do you mean by that?”
“He’s on his last legs, the old man. They say he doesn’t have much time left. And I’m glad I won’t be around when he goes. With nobody left to lead the family, it ain’t gonna be pretty.” Bully paused for a moment, then he grinned broadly. “But I don’t have to worry about them no more. I’m finally free, and that deserves a drink. Stay here, I’m buying.”
Bully stood up and strode across the room. Although the crowd at the bar was packed six deep, somehow he had no trouble getting straight to the front. And as for the service he received, I’d never seen a barman move with such haste—like a wind-up doll with a fast-forward button.
As Bully made his way back through the crowd, I considered how I might take advantage of his unexpected camaraderie. It seemed unlikely that he knew anything about Sally and her connection to the Devil, but I couldn’t leave this club without making an enquiry along those lines.
“I’m glad we’ve sorted out our differences,” I said after Bully handed me a drink, “because as it happens, I’m after information. Perhaps you can help me.”
Bully scowled. “Listen, Jimmy, don’t push your luck with me. You’re still the guy who killed me. Now shut up and drink.”
I shut up and took a sip from the glass. It tasted a little like bourbon and a lot like raw sewage. I gagged and spat it back into the glass.
“I would’ve figured a man like you could hold his liquor,” Bully laughed.
“Liquor I can hold,” I said. “This is urine.”
“Get used to it, buddy. You’re in Hell now. It doesn’t get any better than this.”
“That’s what you think.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my little bottle. “Help yourself to a real drink.”
Bully grabbed the bottle and took a swig. “Now this is more like it,” he exclaimed. “Jimmy Clarenden, you might be a dirty, two-bit weasel of a private detective—”
“Easy on the compliments.”
“ . . . but I have to say you’re a man of good taste, and I like that. Now I suggest we take this bottle of yours and head over to the pool table. We can shoot some pool, and I can try to tell you everything you need to know.”
“Rack them up and do your worst.”
Judging by the number of balls on the pool table, it looked like a new game had only just begun.
“You fellows nearly finished?” said Bully as we strolled over.
“A-a-as it happens, we just f-f-finished this moment, M-M-Mr Malone,” one of the players stammered, shoving his cue into Bully’s hands.
“That’s good timing,” said Bully. “Now if you’d be so kind as to rack the balls, me and my friend Jimmy are gonna have a game.”
Both players immediately complied with more than reasonable haste and then vanished into the smoky blackness.
“Okay, Jimmy, why don’t you break.”
I chalked my cue, took a swig of bourbon, and settled over the table. I aimed for the spot just to the right of the leading ball, but I miss-hit and the white ball went spinning off to the left. The balls scattered around the table, leaving Bully with a simple shot on the number two ball. He leant over, carefully measured the shot, hit the cue ball with precision, and missed the shot to the right.