Brain Guy in: Rebar for Tootsie Rolls

I was trying to read the blood-stained Post-It under what was a 75 Watt bulb, at least before the thick bar smoke glaze over the months reduced it to a greasy yellow oven light. The broad at the end of the bar wore the kind of a dress that looked probably looked alright in the Nixon administration, with J. Edgar Hoover in it. On her, not so much. She gave me that certain signal. I feigned a stroke until she the sheer awkwardness drove her away.

I tossed back another Everclear and Bailey's, soaking my Camel 100 and accidently swallowing it. I was drinking to forget, successfully, at least as far as short term memory over smoking was concerned.

I slammed my hand on the bar to call over Crumples the Bartender for another drink. Crumples was a prizefighter in the 30's, and had all the cheerfulness of a dead puppy lobbed in a clear plastic bag into a crowd at Chuck E Cheese.

"Another Irish Start-Up, Crumples."
"Go fuck yourself." Crumples wasn't much for a joke, or even an order. He was so ugly his face had inspired stealth technology as a way to protect the public. He did 30 years up the river for running over his cousin Larome with a self-propelled steam calliope over an unpaid library fine.
Instead of the drink he handed me the two bottles and kept throwing ice cubes at my face. That made reading hard.

It was even harder to forget the face of the guy that I pulled the Post-It note off of. Bits were still stuck to it. Under a sliver of orbitus muscle just the three words were legible, the three that got me this gig and a chance to get away from my sideline of shaking down museum docents for back taxes.

JENNY FLOSS KILL

I knew right off that a hyphenated last name was unlikely. Who would marry Mr. Kill? Maybe a Dr. Kill. That's at least a step up in the world for some $5 Two for One generic Robutussen whore like Jenny, willing to go downtown with any man with clean Dockers and two slices of a sun-dried tomato pizza with artichoke hearts. But I'm just guessing. I don't know Jenny from a betamax tape of Star Whores: The Pimppire Strikes Back. But who doesn't know a hundred dames like that?

Stay tuned.