Lance Dendor blinked.
"What?"
"I want you," Mr. Rhodes repeated, "to kill Chuck Hallfield." He handed Lance a creased photograph. Chuck was short and stick-thin. The picture was nearly life size.
"For 10,000 dollars?"
"For 10,000 dollars."
Lance stroked his moustache. It was a good moustache, thick and dark brown. He liked to believe that stroking it made him look as if he was thinking deeply. And he did think deeply; he may have been a bit slow, but he generally got there eventually. What was currently occupying him was the fact that he owed Mr. Rhodes 10,000 dollars. Donald Rhodes was the the kind of man you were indebted to for long.
"I'll do it."
* * *
Rhodes walked slowly down Ramparts place. He was of average height, and not very old. Nevertheless, his sparse hair all seemed to have fled to his bushy eyebrows. He often gave people the impression that he was made of skin stretched over wire coat hangers. He was the owner of a successful business. It wasn't the kind of business that made things. Rather, it moved things from place to place: generally cash, but occasionally arms and legs as well.
Rhodes had seen Lance in a fight once, when he had been a bouncer at the Brødhedd. It was an old bar down on Vintor street. he'd heard that they'd had to make repairs afterwards, the result of Lance's carelessly thrown table. Poor old Chuck. He smiled. After Lance was through with him, they could blame it on a rogue elephant that had escaped from the zoo. He climbed into the limousine waiting for him at the corner, which drove away.
* * *
Chuck left his dingy apartment. He was not aware of what fate had in store for him, at least not specifically. He did, however, have some idea of what happened to someone who owed Donald Rhodes 50,000 dollars plus 3 limbs interest. He was not happy.
* * *
Frank Smythe was a policeman. Sometimes he liked to pretend, just for a moment, that he was making a difference in the city. This generally required the assistance of quite large quantities of alcohol. Now, however, he was certain that he could accomplish something. He was on the trail of Donald Rhodes, a man who had people murdered on an hourly basis. And he had proof, or at least would be able to get it. He had seen Rhodes meeting with some hired goon, no doubt planning something. This is real police work, he thought.
* * *
Lance strode into the Brødhedd, ducking under the lintel as he came in. In the gloom of the bar, his exact features were muffled. He still, however, managed to exude the impression that he had not been born but constructed, probably out of stainless steel.
Lance was prepared to ask some questions. He would have been the first to admit that he was a slow thinker, except that most other people would be able to do it first. His questions weren't the most fiendishly cunning, but when people found themselves looking up at his knees, they somehow couldn't help but answer truthfully.
He idly picked up the man next to him. A few people looked around, and then seemed to suddenly realize that their drinks were the most interesting things in the world.
"You seen this man?" A photo was shoved in the hapless customer's face.
"N-no."
"Oh, right then."
* * *
Chuck walked slowly down Vintor street, stepping on the occasional crack vial or drunken beggar. How was he going to get a hold of that kind of money? Going to Mr. Rhodes was out of the question, unless he wanted to leave with more holes than he'd started with. he considered running away to some foreign country, but Rhodes would send goons to find him no matter where he went, with the possible exception of Hell.
As he approached the entrance to the Brødhedd, Mr. Rhodes walked by idly. Chuck flattened himself against the wall, which was not difficult for him, when he recognized the figure. It didn't seem to have noticed him. He could tell by the fact that his head was still attached.
Chuck wiped his forehead on a shirt sleeve. He wasn't meant for this. He'd never asked for much out of life, only that it be spread out over as long a period as possible.
* * *
"H-he lives on-on Chellake street, right on the corner of-of Lafayette."
"Thank you," rumbled Lance, who then lowered the man back into his chair.
* * *
Rhodes sighed as he climbed into another of his fleet of limousines. Lance was a stupid man, all right, but very useful in his way. Smart people, you usually had to have killed. Woe unto the man with intelligent associates. For some reason, they always got ideas. Like that man, whatsisname, who'd tried to blackmail him last month. He'd forgotten to take into account that a tip to the police did not override the monthly check Rhodes sent to the Commissioner. Some people had no understanding. That particular one also had no ears now, he seemed to recall.
000200000E36000015C9
Frank took note of Rhodes' license plate, and then went into the Brødhedd. Currently, he was more interested in the goon, who he had noticed was in the bar. He was a difficult man not to notice. It was the way his head scraped the plaster off of the ceiling as he walked, Frank decided.
* * *
Chuck sat down at the bar next to Frank, and flagged down the barman. He consumed a glass of Gerbin's Extremely Solid Ale. He used a fork for the last two inches, but there probably wasn't a better word than 'consumed.' His nerves were certainly calm now. He gradually became aware that either he had been in there for a very long time, or something was blotting out the sun. He tried to recall whether there was an eclipse today, with the thought processes of the happily drunk.
* * *
In fact, Lance had sat down next to Chuck. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. He could, of course, flatten the man at any time, but there were people around. Despite the known dangers of noticing anything going on around you in the Brødhedd, there were always people who didn't get the hint. As he watched Chuck managed to stand up, on the third attempt, and stumble out of the bar.
* * *
Frank saw the goon get up and follow his quarry. After a moment, he too stood up, and walked out of the tavern. He didn't need to stay close behind Lance; the man was like a lighthouse.

Lance followed Chuck down the street for some time. He had decided to simply follow him to his apartment. Unfortunately, this was turning out to be more difficult than he had expected; Chuck was lurching down the street erratically, his brain gently dissolving in Gerbin's finest fermented substances. Lance was beginning to get the feeling that he would permanently lose the ability to walk straight.
* * *
It occurred to Chuck that he had walked too far along Vintor street. Lafayette street was a block back. Weir. No, wait, Damn. That was it. He turned around. And walked straight into Lance. There are few things in the universe as sobering as walking into Lance Dendor. Perhaps it's the feeling you get when you look up at the icecap on his bald head.
* * *
Frank looked round the corner at Lance. This was it. He had him.
* * *
Without thinking, Lance picked up Chuck by the head. The people around them hurriedly went about their business. Now, what had Mr. Rhodes said about, what was it, dis-cre-ti-on? Damn. No time for that.
* * *
Chuck had passed through the point of mere fear some time ago. He was far beyond that. For one thing, he was having a heart attack. Literally.
* * *
Lance realized that something was wrong. Wasn't the guy supposed to be breathing? He was almost certain that was the normal way of things.
* * *
Frank said, out loud, "Oh, Damn. He's dead! That's not supposed to happen. He's supposed to be killed!"
* * *
Mr. Rhodes sat in his beautiful house, smoking a fine cigar. He had just had a pleasant conversation with the police commissioner. Apparently, some wacko officer had tried to make a case against him. They'd both had a good laugh. He flipped on the evening news.
"In other news, a Brooklyn man died of a heart attack today. He was dead before the ambulance arrived. Strangely enough, a police officer claimed that the death had been an assassination, although doctors have confirmed cardiac arrest as the cause of death.The officer concerned has been fined for being Drunk and Disorderly."
Rhodes blew a smoke ring, and leaned back in his leather armchair.
The TV droned on.