Chicago Roulette

The bottle smashed against the wall, leaving behind a blood-red scar. It wasn't the first time, not in this joint. I ignored it, and kept my thirty-eight trained on the goon. He looked the part: tough, swaggering, muscles everywhere except his head. Well, I can deal with those all right. I pulled a chair away from a nearby table, made myself comfortable. All around me, the regulars craned their necks to watch. Some places, people pretended not to see, but the folks around here like a good show. Well, time to make sure they got one.

I made sure the goon had a good look at the barrel pointing at that big bucket head of his. There was fear in those eyes. Good. I gave him a nice, genial smile. “So,” I said. “Someone wants me off the DeFranco case? How about that. Wanna tell me who?”

The punk shook his head. “Can't do it, mister,” he stammered. “If they found out they would wax me for sure.”

I gave him the smile again. “That so? But they're not here, and I am. And right now, it's me who's got the gun. But you know what?” I sat back in the chair, taking my time. “I believe everyone should have a fighting chance. So, you and me, we're gonna play a little game.”

I flicked open the cylinder, started idly rotating it with my thumb. I saw his eyes following the cylinder as it went around, nice and slow. I didn't say nothing, just let the sound and the sight of the thing burn themselves into his senses. You get into people's heads, you're halfway there. And a head like this...

I stopped, and held the gun up so he could see. “Now, what we have here is your basic thirty-eight special. Nothing fancy, but a good, serviceable weapon for your working types. This model, as you will note, takes six bullets in the cylinder. Now, I tell you what I'm gonna do...” I tapped at the cylinder; one bullet slid out of its chamber into my waiting hand. I put it next to me, on the table, standing up. He couldn't keep his eyes off of it, poor dope.

“One,” I said. I gave the cylinder a quick flick with my thumb, set it spinning. Before he could react, I stopped it again, tapped out another round. It joined its brother on the table. “Two.”

Another spin, another bullet. I placed the last one next to the others, and gestured triumphantly to the tableau. “Three!” I said, snapping the cylinder back home. I leaned in close, real close. “You and I, we're gonna play a little game. See, I'm gonna start turning this thing, and you're gonna tell me when to stop. And then...well, we'll just have to see, won't we?” I gave him an honest man's smile. “That is, of course, unless you have something you'd care to discuss with me?”

The poor bum shook his head, terrified. “I—I can't—”

I shook my head. “That's a shame. That really is. Well, let's get started.” I cocked the hammer partway back, started to click through the chambers, one after another. Nice and slow. He never took his eyes off the gun, looked like he was trying to stare down the barrel, see what was waiting for him. Poor sap; in this dank old hole you were lucky to see anything at all. “Just say when,” I said, keeping the rhythm going. “I got all the time in the world.”

After a few times around, he opened his mouth like he was gonna speak, then shut up again. He did that a couple times, actually, but finally he yelped out “Stop!”

I grinned. “Right here?” I made a show of squinting at the cylinder. “Are you sure?”

“No—I mean, yes, I—aw, nuts. It was Big Jim what sent me!”

I laughed. “Big Jim? Can't imagine how he figures into this. Well, I'll have to find that out later. In the meantime,” I lined up the gun, got my aim.

“Wait!” he cried. “You don't mean you're gonna go ahead an'—”

“Son,” I said, “I like you. I really do. But a man's word is his bond. And besides, you could've told me just as easy two minutes ago. But hey,” I grinned, nodding towards the three bullets. “You don't know; this could be your lucky day.” I put the barrel against his head, let him feel the cold metal on his skin, and pulled the trigger.

Well, the way he went down you'da thought he'd been shot by an elephant gun. Out like a light, can you beat it? I just shook my head...pathetic. Big Jim sending this wreck after me? That bordered on insult. I'd have to see to that later. In the meantime, I popped the cylinder, slid the three bullets back home. The landlord had joined the audience early on; I gave a ten for my drink and the décor, and headed out into the streets.

As I headed home, I found myself wondering if the boy would ever work out that I'd only had three bullets in my gun in the first place. I doubt it; his type, they never get wise.