September 4, 2025

THE HAMMER FILES: A New Hand

Jack Hammer04 mins
A grayscale, high-contrast pulp-noir graphic novel panel shows Jack Hammer, a burly man in a trench coat and fedora, walking down a rundown city street at night. The street is lined with dilapidated buildings, broken windows, and fire escapes, all rendered with sharp lines and deep shadows, conveying a sense of urban decay and grittiness. A grayscale, high-contrast pulp-noir graphic novel panel shows Jack Hammer, a burly man in a trench coat and fedora, walking down a rundown city street at night. The street is lined with dilapidated buildings, broken windows, and fire escapes, all rendered with sharp lines and deep shadows, conveying a sense of urban decay and grittiness.
This entry is part 7 of 16 in the series Chapter 1: The Case of December's Debt.

A New Hand

Frank just stared, the cigar smoke curling around his ancient face like a shroud. He didn’t say much, but his eyes, those flinty chips of granite, told me everything I needed to know. Blood and loyalty were the only currency in this part of town, and I was about to find out how much my family debt was worth.

“Rocco’s looking for you,” he rasped, his voice like gravel on a tin roof. “He’s got a score to settle, and he ain’t sending flowers. It’s a private game. High stakes. A backroom poker game where a trigger man will be playing. Only the chosen few get a seat at that table.”

The Problem

A backroom poker game. My gut tightened. This wasn’t just about survival anymore; it was about getting close to the snake before it struck. “How do I get in?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Frank gave me a look that said I was dumber than I looked. “You don’t. Not like this. Everyone there knows everyone. Or at least, they know who you are. And no one’s going to be wearing name tags in an eight-man game. A hitman doesn’t like it when his target is onto him. That’d likely force his hand, faster, harder.”

He was right. I couldn’t just walk in there, a marked man with a reputation. The moment I showed my face, the game would be over, and I’d be looking at a one-way ticket to the morgue. A disguise? Maybe. But those things only work in the movies. And this was real. Too real.

The Dead End

The old man just watched me, the smoke from his cigar a silent judgment. He’d dealt me a new hand, all right. And it was a hand full of jokers and a whole lot of trouble. The kind of trouble that could get a man killed before he even knew he was playing. The stakes were too high. To high.

The silence in Frank’s dusty living room was heavier than a tombstone. Every plan I tried to form crashed against the wall of Frank’s logic. I was a dead man walking, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I left Frank’s feeling, lower than a slug’s belly, with no other moves to make.

Series Navigation<< THE HAMMER FILES: Old Town Frank’s WelcomeTHE HAMMER FILES: High Stakes and a Diamond >>

Chapter 1: The Case of December's Debt.

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