"I don't know you," said Moe to the gently-smiling man with the neatly combed sandy-blond hair and the right arm that moved properly but seemed slightly lower than his left.
"My name is Mr. Gordons and I'm sorry I cannot offer you a drink but this is your establishment and it is incumbent upon you to offer me a drink."
"All right, whaddya want?"
"Nothing, thank you, I do not drink. I wish you to attempt to kill someone with your pistol."
"Hey, whaddya, out of your head?" said Moe Alstein. Moe was slight and shorter than this man. His eyes were sharp blue and his face pinched like a stretched cellophane bag. His eyes did not trust the bland features of this man but even if they had, he wasn't going to do contract work for someone who came in off the street.
"I do not understand your colloquialism, 'out of your head,'" said Mr. Gordons.
"First off, I don't kill people. Second off, if I did, I wouldn't do it for some bimbo who comes in off the street, and third off, who the fuck are you?"
"I am not sure that your expressions are accurate. That is, I think you are saying things for your protection and not because they are true. This I have found to be commonplace, so do not take offense as people often do when they are exposed in inaccuracies. I have something you want."
"What I want is you should get out of here while you can still walk," said Alstein.
"Not necessarily," said Mr. Gordons and from his jacket pocket, he took a fresh stack of fifty $100 bills. He placed it on the table between them. Then he put a second package on top of the first package. And a third and a fourth. And a fifth. Moe wondered how the man kept his suit so neat with all that money stashed in the pockets. When the pile was ten stacks high, Mr. Gordons started a second pile. And when that was ten high, he stopped.
"That's a hundred grand," said Moe Alstein. "A real hundred grand. No government frame ever offered a hundred grand."
"I assumed you would think that."
"No hit ever paid a hundred grand. I mean, not a regular contract, sort of," said Alstein.
"And these bills are valid," said Mr. Gordons. "Examine the silk fiber, the engraving around the face of Franklin, the clarity of the serial numbers which are sequential and not all the same."
"Real," said Moe Alstein. "But you know, I can't move right away. To take off a capo is a tough thing. I got to spread some of this around."
"This is not for your usual work of helping an ethnic group settle disputes among members of their crime families. This is for a simple hitting."
"Hit," said Moe.
"Hit. Thank you. It is now hit," said Mr. Gordons. "This hit is simple. I will personally show you where he is."
Moe Alstein's head jerked back in shock.
"Whaddya paying me for, if you're gonna be there? I mean, the point of getting someone else to make the hit is that you're not there. Unless you want to watch the guy suffer?"
"No. I hope to watch you kill him. There are two people. They are very interesting. Especially an elderly yellow man who is most interesting. Every movement of his is most natural and seen in people, yet it accomplishes much more than other people's movements. Him I wish to see. But I cannot observe properly if I must also perform."
"Oh, two hits," said Alstein. "It'll cost you more."
"I will provide you more."
Alstein shrugged. "It's your money."
"It's your money," said Mr. Gordons and pushed the two piles of bills across the table.
"When do you want these guys hit?"
"Soon. First I must get the others."
"Others?"
"There will be others with us. I must get them."
"Wait a minute," said Moe, backing away from the table. "I don't mind you watching. You're as guilty as me before a court, probably more so. I'm just doing a contract. You'd, for sure, do life, know what I mean? I got something over you. But strangers, witnesses, they got something over me. And you. Know what I mean?"
"Yes, I understand," said Mr. Gordons. "But they will not be only witnesses. I am hiring them too."
"I don't need help. Really. I'm good," said Alstein and told the bartender to get up on the stage with a glass.
The bartender, a balding black man who had become very good at the Chicago Tribune's crossword puzzle, rarely having anyone but Alstein to serve, looked up from his paper and winced.
"Make it two glasses," called Alstein.
"I quit," said the black man.
Moe Alstein's right hand went into his jacket and came out with a whizbang of a .357 Magnum, chrome plated like a big shiny cannon. It went bang like a roof coming off. The heavy bullet blasted a shelf of glasses and shattered a mirror above the bartender's head. Shards scattered over the inlaid floor like shiny pieces of sharp-edged dew under a morning sun.
The bartender went under the bar. A black hand with a long champagne glass at the very end of its fingertips came up over the bar.
Boom went the .357 Magnum. Splat went the plywood backing where the mirror had been. The hand now held only a champagne stem.
"See, I don't need no help," said Moe Alstein, and raising his voice, he yelled, "you can come out now, Willie."
"I'm not Willie," said the voice, still beneath the bar. "Willie quit."
"When?" asked Alstein, his eyes squinting, personal hurt all over his face.
"When you had to order the last mirror. The one that's on the floor now."
"Why'd he quit?"
"Some people don't like to be shot at, Mr. Alstein."
"I never hit anybody I didn't plan to. Never fucking hit anybody. You anti-Semites are all alike," said Moe Alstein, and confided to Mr. Gordons that it was the same virulent anti-Semitism that had ruined his bar business.
"People might feel endangered even though you did not physically hurt them," suggested Mr. Gordons.
"Bullshit," said Moe Alstein. "An anti-Semite is an anti-Semite. You Jewish? You don't look Jewish."
"No," sad Mr. Gordons.
"You look WASP."