Whistling Dixie

He had a way of talking. I brushed his gat away from my face and brought my cuffs into play. They mopped at the blood on my face. I played one of my tunes. Someday Stacey, when you’re out from behind the tin; or maybe some dark night in some lonely place; one of those nights that are bad for cops, I’ll be there. You will never know when, but I’ll be there; until then keep looking over your shoulder. It was a bit of a long talk for me then, in that situation. He replied. You still playing that worn out speech? It was old when you played it the first time. The contempt in his voice filled the interior of the car. It was matched only by his dead-eye stare. I looked beyond him, back at the house; his gaze remained fixed on my face. The cops around the house were all pre-occupied. I said to him. No time like the present. In the bars, back in Atlantic City, they talk about Scotland, over in Europe. Over there, in Scotland, there is a little place on the Clyde River. Well, it’s just about the biggest darn town in the country of Scotland. In that little place called Glasgow, a guy kisses his opponent, to get the upper hand. I gave Lieutenant Ben Stacey a Glasgow kiss. As he slumped back against the seat I tumbled his body out the open door and onto the roadside. I took the motor out from there, like it was the start of the Indianapolis 500.