Thomas Darwin (working title)

"When they first told me, I didn't believe it either," the man in the overcoat said. "I knew a guy who said he dated Jennifer Aniston. Just cause someone says it. Don't make it true, you know."
"I...I don't know what to say," stammered the other man sitting at the table tucked neatly away in the darkest corner of the darkest bar in the darkest neighborhood of the city. It was a warm summer evening, but both men seemed to be dressed for much cooler weather. The overcoat worn by the man with his back to the wall was long out of style. So was the grey fedora that sat on his head, pulled down low over his eyes. They were both pilfered from his grandfather's closet. Both from a former time. A time of Bogie and Edgar G. Robinson. The other man, nervous and a little confused, was sweating profusely in his three piece suit. It was modern. It was expensive. It was also better suited for the air conditioned offices of the law firm he was a partner in.
Thomas Darwin pushed the brim of the fedora up a little and eyed the nervous man across the table. "While they were training me for this kind of stuff, I still refused to believe it. Always thought it was some kind of a joke. Always waiting for the punch line." He took a drink of his Jameson on the rocks. Ice watered down the taste, but it was just so damn hot inside Ace's Tavern. "The punch line never came." He sat the glass back down, empty except for some small remnants of the ice he had reluctantly ordered. "Or maybe it did and it just wasn't funny." Darwin swallowed the ice and waved the empty glass at a waitress. One more. Just one more.
The nervous man looked at him blankly. Irving Bergman was never much into philosophy or comedy or whatever it was that the other man was trying to get across. All he knew was that he had a problem. A huge problem that nobody in the world would ever believe. Nobody except maybe that very same man in the wooly old coat and crazy hat, who smelled of mothballs and whiskey. Irving Bergman wasn't much of a drinker and certainly wasn't the sort to go out carousing in an establishment like Ace's. He was uncomfortable and it showed in the dark patches under his arms and rivulets running down his forehead. The club soda wasn't cooling him down any. In fact, the ice had all melted and it was more akin to tap water than anything carbonated. But he had been asked to meet here, so here he was.
"Yep," Darwin continued, "They couldn't convince me for the longest time. They used to call me Doubting Thomas."
"Not Doubting," a small voice said. Thomas Darwin smacked at his coat as if a bug had suddenly crawled onto it.
"Excuse me," Bergman said, looking up from his sad, warming soda. "Did you say something?"
"Um...yeah. They used to call me Doubting Thomas. You know. Because this stuff is so hard to believe." The waitress was nearing the table, her tray carrying another Jameson on the rocks as well as a club soda for Bergman.
"Dumbshit Thomas was more like it," came the same small voice. This time Bergman heard it plain. Darwin smacked at his overcoat again and reached inside it. There seemed to be a small struggle but he eventually pulled out a worn leather wallet. He pulled out a few bills too wrinkled to have been inside the wallet long. He shifted his eyes back and forth from Bergman to the waitress. They had seen the little fight with the wallet and were staring at him with evident caution. He knew that he probably looked a little bit crazy just then, but he decided to ignore it and hope they followed suit.
The waitress offered a half smile when he told her to keep the change. Fifty cents wasn't going to cause her to quit her job for early retirement. When she was out of earshot, Darwin leaned in and said, "Your particular brand of trouble likes to hang out in the seedier parts of town. He and his ilk have been known to frequent the place across the street."
Bergman looked more confused. He wiped his forehead with a damp napkin and placed the cool glass against it. "I...I don't understand. I thought that was a butcher shop across the street. That's a club or some kind of ...?" He looked weary. This business was not his cup of tea. It was a nasty, sordid business and the sooner it was settled the better.
"Yeah, it's some kind of something alright." Darwin turned his drink up and didn't set it back on the table until it was drained. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and that was when Bergman first noticed the tattoo peeking out from a cuff. He checked the other hand that was lying flat on the rickety wooden table. There was what must have been the same tattoo poking out from that sleeve as well.
"Still, I really don't see why..." Irving Bergman started on his excuse for leaving. He had been working on it since he hailed a cab to take him to this God forsaken dump. He had been saving it, putting the finishing touches on it, and now he had better use it before it was too late. But it was already too late.
"I need you to identify the..." He paused to consider his words. "I need you to point out your cousin." Thomas Darwin was trying to be diplomatic. Diplomacy was something that he definitely did not excel at.
"Why? I gave you his picture," Bergman protested. "You don't need me. What if he sees me?"
Darwin held up a hand to quiet the other man. It wouldn't do to have him getting all excited. "He won't see you. You can stand inside the doorway here and just point him out to me. I have to be sure. I can't take a chance and get the wrong...guy." Diplomacy.
"I'm sorry Mr. Thomas, but..." He was getting excited.
"Mr. Darwin," he corrected him in a soft calm voice.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Mr. Darwin," Bergman started.
"But you can call me Thomas," Darwin smiled what he hoped would be a settling, calming smile.
"Sorry. Mr. Thomas..." he tried again, rising from the table.
"No, just Thomas." He kept smiling his stupid smile.
"I don't fucking care." He hissed, jumping to his feet. Irving Bergman was beginning to crack.
Thomas Darwin couldn't have that. Not now, not here. He reached across the table and grabbed the nearly hysterical man's tie. With force that surprised both Bergman and himself, he pulled him back down into his seat. Still holding his tie, Darwin pulled the man in close to him. "Shut the fuck up. It's too late to back out now. Two days ago I wouldn't have given a rat's ass what happened to you or your cousin. Now, I'm involved. This is something that can't be undone. It can't be forgotten. You're going to walk over to the door and point out your cousin to me. Then I'm going to do my job. Then you're going to give me the envelope that you got in your inside left jacket pocket. Then you are going to go away. Go back to your life. And hopefully, we'll never see each other again."
Bergman was wincing at each word, delivered with spit and the smell of booze and cigarettes. He was afraid. He was afraid of his cousin. Of what he had become, of what he could do. But he thought that he just might be terrified of this man. This man in the strange old overcoat and battered gray fedora. This man that suddenly seemed to double in size. This man who went from looking like someone playing a 1950's villain to maybe being an actual villain. They were close to each other now. Bergman couldn't hold the other's gaze. He couldn't look into those eyes. Those eyes that were like holes. They were like empty, cold space. A bottomless well. He looked away. He looked down at the table, at the man's overcoat. He looked at a pair of beady eyes looking back from inside the coat.
Irving Bergman had reached his limit. He squealed like a nine year old girl and Darwin slammed his head into the table with a pull of the handmade silk tie. He pushed against the table, forcing himself up with all his might just to have his head slammed back down by another pull on his tie. He lay quiet, his face in the water sweated off of his tepid glasses of club soda. He was dizzy. He thought that he might very well lose consciousness.
"They'll be pulling up now. Are you ready to man up and get this shit over with?" Thomas Darwin's voice was cold now, no artificial warmth, no calming smile. No diplomacy.
Irving Bergman nodded, rubbing his face across the scarred wood of the table. He felt the pressure of his tie around his neck ease off. He sat back in his seat, water mixing with sweat as it dripped off his chin. He fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his face. He was better now. Scared straight, that's what it was, he thought. But he was calmer, clear headed. It didn't seem quite as hot now. He couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth when he said, "Let's do this."
Thomas Darwin's unshaven face cracked open into a toothy grin. "Alright then." He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. He shuffled his overcoat around, pulling on the lapels to straighten them. He wasn't a big man, but he was in shape. That was one thing those crazy bastards had done with all that training. He had finally got the kind of six pack that didn't come from the Seven-Eleven. If they knew about all the whiskey and cigarettes he had been going through they would be all over him again.
The two men walked to the front door of Ace's Tavern. It was dusk now, still too early for the regular crowd. There were only a handful of hardcore alkies in the place now. That was good. Darwin didn't like reliable witnesses. The street was almost empty. The lights were on at Sorvino's Meats across from them. A sedan with blacked out windows pulled up in front and parked. All four doors opened and out stepped four John Travolta wannabees. And everybody said that disco was dead.
"That's him. That's him there," squeaked Bergman. He cleared his throat and in a more manly tone added, "The one with the bleached hair."
"You sure? You absolutely positive?" Darwin's face had grown intense. This was zero hour. No time for mistakes.
"Yes." Bergman nodded. "Yes, of course I'm sure." He was nodding and pointing now. Darwin gently pulled his arm back down and forced him another step inside of the bar.
"Wait here," he said quietly. "When it's over, I'll come back inside. You give me the envelope and we leave out the back door. There are two Ubers waiting out there. Then that's it. We're done. Okay?"
Irving Bergman nodded. He was breathing heavily almost to the point of hyperventilating. He wasn't sure what was going to happen. Darwin had never discussed it with him. It had only been two days since he had first spoken to the strange man. He had found him online and was half afraid to go and see him. He had been half afraid ever since. But something had happened to his cousin. Something was wrong with him that defied rational explanation. Thomas Darwin didn't require a rational explanation. Bergman had told him what he had seen, what he had felt. That had been enough. He had believed him. Thomas Darwin had believed this insanity when he himself couldn't. And now there he was walking across the street. Walking toward that thing that had been his cousin.
Darwin kept a brisk pace, his head down and lapel up. His gray fedora was pulled down almost over his eyes. The four men were busy laughing and talking while one of them fiddled with the locked door. They were having trouble with the padlock that held the chained iron shutters in place. Darwin had changed the lock hours before, and now, as he neared them, he flicked the key at the cousin. All four men turned to see who was approaching. To see who was courting their wrath with such complete disregard. Five feet, four feet, three feet away, he stopped and raised his head to meet their cruelly smiling faces.
"Just who the fuck do you think you are?" asked the cousin.
"Natural selection," Darwin grinned.
The four stopped smiling. They could sense that something was wrong. That he wasn't afraid. They looked at each other for reassurance then turned back toward him. He waited, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Slowly their eyes narrowed and their lips were drawn thin over white teeth. A glimpse of fang as one snarled. Before any of them could pounce, Darwin's hands were free from the overcoat. In his right was an old German Luger, his left held a .45 Desert Eagle. The .45 was just there for back up. It was never needed. The old Luger always did the job just fine.

Four pops from the Luger. Four headshots. Four Tony Manero lookalikes dead on the sidewalk. He stepped in among the bodies, poking with his foot to make sure no one was playing possum. Satisfied, he hurried back across the street to where he hoped Bergman and Bergman's check were still waiting. He wasn't concerned about the cops. He was concerned about the cousin having any friends loitering about.

Inside, Irving Bergman was in total shock. Darwin had to grab him and hustle him off to the back door of the saloon. "You shot them," he sputtered. "You just shot them."
"What did you think I was going to do? Ask them to dance?" He thrust out his hand for the envelope.
"I didn't think you were going to just shoot them. I don't know what I thought." Bergman fumbled for the envelope. When he found it, he pressed it with a shaking hand into Darwin's steady hand. Then realizing that that hand had just murdered his cousin, he pulled it away. "I didn't think a gun would..."
"Don't believe everything you see on late night television."
"If you were just going to shoot them all, then why did you need me?"
"I needed to make sure your cousin was one of them."
"And what if he hadn't been with them?"
"I would have killed them anyway. Probably. Then we would be out looking for your cousin now instead of heading home." Darwin glanced at the check and then as he put it to his chest, a little hand darted out and snatched it inside. When he saw the questioning look on the man's face he added, "Don't ask."
They exited the back door of Ace's tavern to find only one Uber had waited. When Darwin saw Bergman's pleading eyes he nodded for him to take the ride. He shoved his hands back into his pockets. He looked up and down the alley to make sure that there were no unsavory characters other than himself around.
"Our ride will be here in three minutes," came the tiny voice from his coat.
"I hope their air conditioner works," replied the man sitting on a garbage can.
"You think you're hot?" asked the little voice. "You ought to try staying in here all day."
"Where the Hell is that Uber?"
"It's on its way. The guy's name is Randy. You can always trust a Randy."