THE HAMMER FILES: A Seat at the Show
The day was a long, dusty road with no end in sight. My kind of day. The cases had dried up, the phones were quiet, and the only dame calling me was the one on my conscience. I found myself where I always do when the world goes quiet: a crooked place. The kind of joint with more shadows than lights, where the air hangs thick with the smell of cheap booze and broken promises. I like it that way. No one expects you to be a saint in a place like this.
I took a slow pull from my beer, the glass cool against my hand, and let my eyes roam. This was my world, and these were my people. The kind of folk who dance on the edge of the law and look good doing it. They weren’t hurting me, so I didn’t mind. I like watching the games. The call girls were running their usual play, their voices soft and low, selling a dream that’s got nothing to do with money, and everything to do with a man’s need to feel wanted. The marks were buying, of course. They always do.
The Supporting Cast
In the corner by the jukebox, an amateur pickpocket was sizing up a mark. Kid looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week. He was going to get his nose broke before the night was over, and I didn’t have the heart to warn him. Some lessons you just have to learn the hard way. Across the room, old Ron was shuffling a deck of cards, a smile on his face that was slicker than the grease on his hair. The poor fool who sat down with him was about to learn a lesson in a different kind of pain—the kind that hits you in the wallet.
And then there was Weasel. He was every bit his name, a skinny, greasy shadow with eyes that darted around the room like two trapped rats. He was a spotter for Lenny Bent, a big-time fence who ran his business from the shadows. Everyone knew that if you had something hot, something you wanted to move fast, Lenny was your guy. But you had to go through Weasel first. He was the key to the whole operation, the gatekeeper to the dark side of the city. He didn’t look like much, but he held the keys to the kingdom.
A New Performer
I took another swig, noticing the new barman for the first time. He was a stocky kid with a clean face and a polite way about him. New blood. The kind you don’t see around here much. And as the door swung open, a big, stocky stranger walked in. His voice was deep, a low rumble that cut through the cigarette haze. He didn’t look like he was here to play games. He was big, loud, and brawny. But he had an air of gentleness about him.
The night’s show is just getting started. And tonight, I was just part of the audience.
