“Hey kid,” Petharic said after contemplating his drink in silence for several minutes. “You got any leaf?”
“I thought you quit that onna counta it makes you paranoid.” Johnny Dawkins replied.
“Yeah,” Petharic shrugged. “But now I’m board.”
“You think leaf will make things better,” Medussa Jones, the bartender at The Bucket of Blood, said rhetorically.
“What the hell,” Petharic shrugged. “I’m sitting in a dingy basement bar at two in the afternoon on a weekday getting drunk with a kid. How could a little leaf possibly make things any worse?”
As he spoke, the door to the bar opened admitting a sudden blast of late winter wind. Backlit by the light from outside stood a tall, well-armed and imposing man with dark hair and sunglass. The man hesitated at the door for a moment, surveying those inside. Petharic drew his Colt and shot the man between the eyes before he’d even taken a single step inside. The body collapsed in the doorway preventing it from closing.
“Hey!” Medussa Jones threw a wet cloth at Petharic glaring with her one crusty eye. “This is your last warning— keep that behaviour to the streets. Now, clean up your mess or there’s no more drinks for you.”
Petharic shot back the contents of his glass before slamming it down on the bar. “Come on kid, I need your help,” he said to Johnny, “Find me some bricks. We’ll toss this one into the bay.”