Peter Braxton slipped into the Parkhurst lounge and beckoned to the bartender, looking furtively about as he did.

"Gunther Morse sent me," Peter whispered, eyes widening as if to punctuate the statement.

"Nice of him," Jim said, noncommittally.

Peter smuggled a piece of paper across the bar, shoving it into Jim's hand. "He said you'd see this got to the right person. He'll call later." Too panicked to stay any longer, Peter fled the lounge.

Jim looked the paper thinking it must have been for Marty who was off sick. He tucked it in his apron and went back to work. When the call came Jim was still on duty, and he listened as Gunther said a man would be coming in soon for the message so he was to check him out and see that he got it.

"This one is important and time sensitive. Otherwise it's just like the other times, Marty."

"I'm not Mar-" Jim began, but there was just a dial tone.

********

Harold changed slowly out of his mail coveralls into his street clothes and closed the locker with a bang.

"You still poutin' over our conversation, boy?"

"Nah, it's not that, Syd. I learned my lesson there."

"Then why so down? Young man your age should be eager to get out and burn up the night."

"I know but I just have nothing to do"

"Don't you have a girl? You never talk about a girl." Syd gave him a questioning look.

Harold slipped on his jacket and walked with the old man out to the door.

"Never seem to be in the right place at the right time, Syd."

"You should go with the rest of them some night over to the hotel, there's always plenty of office girls there looking for some fun."

How the hell would old Syd know that? "How do you know that?"

"Told ya, I bin here over thirty years. It's an old hotel." He winked and said good night to Harold. You old bugger, Harold thought, and then he thought why not, why the hell not?

The lounge was fairly busy and he recognized some people, a few who gave him a friendly nod as he made his way to the bar. Jim appeared, an uncertain smile as he waited for his order.

"Just a beer, please."

"I don't serve, just a beer," Jim said, setting a draft in front of him. "I serve end of day glasses of beer. Much different.

They shared a chuckle and Harold toasted him, sipping a mouthful.

"You're right, it is different."

Slipping into a banquette across the room, Bill Staines watched Harold. At the opposite end of the bar George took a stool, ate some peanuts and watched them both.

Jim came back and idly polished the surface in front of Harold. "Say, I haven't seen you in here before have I?"

"Nope, first time."

Jim leaned closer, murmuring out of the side of his mouth. "Special reason?"

"Yeah, you might say."

Jim took his glass and refilled it, setting it down carefully, indicating it was on the house. He could do this for Marty, maybe save him some grief.

"This a perk for first timers?"

"Certain first timers." Jim answered a tad carefully.

Harold contemplated the change in behaviour and a red flag alert rang softly in his ear.

"You trying to tell me something, fella?"

"Jim. My name's Jim."

"Okay . . . Jim. What's up?"

Jim leaned closer. "Gunther told me someone special would be here tonight . . . and I was to give him a message."

Harold smiled curiously. "Okay."

"He said this was the protocol. You, do uh- specialty work he said, right?"

"'Fraid I don't know what you're talking about." The flag waved.

"This." Jim slid the piece of paper from under his bar rag and Harold covered it with his hand. Jim nodded and moved to the far end of the bar.

Harold looked at the paper and the word target caught his eye. This was not any protocol he was familiar with. He left his beer and easing himself off the stool, sauntered casually toward the exit, the slip of paper burning a hole in his hand. A man bumped against him and they both stopped, staring at one another.

"Sorry, man," Harold said, noting the sharp eyes in the dull face. A flicker of undefined recognition flashed between them and then, with a nod, both parted.

Outside, Harold paused under a street lamp and unfolded the paper.

"What the fu-!" It read, Target, Harold Pope. Ten thousand. He crushed it in his hand and looked frantically about then made a beeline for the subway entrance at the corner.

********

Staines had missed Harold outside and hurried off down the street, assuming he was taking the subway. George watched with interest and amusement at the DA's man's ineptitude. But he was struck with another thought, one that presented another possible problem .

Was Pope freelancing now?

He missed the byplay inside at the bar as Jim stood sweating after a hard looking man had asked if there was a message for him, and left in angry disgust when Jim just shook his head, dumbly. Marty was not going to be pleased.

********

Harold paced around his apartment, holding his head, straightening pictures, swearing aloud and generally winding himself into a mess. He flopped on the sofa and stared at the paper. Ten thousand! That's all he was worth? He swore again about his irrelevant thoughts. He thought back to what the bartender had said, about a Gunther having called. Who the hell was Gunther?

He didn't know the names of his employers at the chat site and he couldn't imagine them giving out a name to a bartender. This was something else. Staines came to mind but would the DA put out a contract on him? And why, they had no proof of anything . . . He got up and turned on his laptop, typing in Gunther and running a search. It coughed up dozens. Businesses, songs, fables; page after page.

He tried narrowing it down to his city and had more interesting results. After arbitrarily eliminating chefs, dry goods and sundry other occupations, Harold settled on five names; three lawyers, a private detective and a travel consultant. The detective was his first choice and when his question about the Parkhurst bar brought a suspicious pause, Harold thanked the man and hung up. Fresh start tomorrow, he told himself.

In the morning after a quick coffee and toasted bagel, he grabbed his jacket and headed immediately for the detective agency.

Gunther Morse, held up his hands as Harold burst into his office waving the piece of paper.

"Who the hell told that bartender to give this to me?"

Gunther gaped, realizing an error might have been made . . . a big error. "Hey- oh shit! Look, man I was just following your instructions. Uh- I just told Marty to uh, give you the message - you know, as usual . . . like you said?"

"No, I don't know and I never said anything. Who the hell is Marty? What the hell is this anyway?" Harold opened the paper.

"Look, I think it was a mistake. The bartender made a mistake. Just give me that and we'll forget the whole thing."

"A mistake! Forget it? You know who this is?" Harold yelled, waving the paper.

"Please - yes - it's a mark, a client of mine wanted - wanted seen to." Gunther cringed.

"A mark your client wanted seen to! Do you know who that mark is? Do you? That mark is me, fella! I'm Harold Pope!"

Gunther bit his party pick in half. "Who?"

Harold flung the paper on the desk and snarled as Gunther read the message.

"Well, that isn't right. I learned that the guy my client wanted was an Anthony Renesto." A fresh pick went into the mouth. "Hmm, ten grand, eh?"

Harold boggled, snatching the message back and leaning down onto his forearms on the desk. "Who?"

"Anthony Renesto, he's a salesman-"

"I know who he is," Harold said slowly, his lip coming up revealing his teeth. "You should tell me all about this, Mr. Morse - now!"

Harold stood and raised his hands and Gunther, thinking he was going to get hit, cried out as his party pick stabbed his lip and he almost fainted.

"You will just answer my questions succinctly. No uhms and ahs, got it?

Who's your client?"

"That's privil-" The harsh smack stung and Gunther blurted out Peter Braxton's name licking at the blood on his lip.

"Braxton!" Harold couldn't think. Why would Braxton order a hit on Tony? What the hell was going on? He growled at Gunther and told him to spill it all if he wanted to get out of his office in one piece.

The bizarre tale came out with several more smacks as reminders and it still didn't make sense to Harold. Braxton wanted a hit on the guy that took the photo and Gunther said he found out Renesto was the guy. So how did I get involved?

"You know," Gunther said nervously, "maybe Braxton was looking at a different guy. We never did actually say names, I just assumed it was the guy I found but Braxton said his guy, uh- you apparently - practically confessed by mentioning a snapshot."

The conversation with Della flashed in neon in front of Harold's eyes. "Oh, crap!"

14,172 Word Total (Microsoft word count)