Patsy VI

Patsy: The Decline of Paul Moore

Chapter Six

Oh, you folks are going to love this part.
Let me keep you updated up to where I am right now. I’m not writing on my notepad anymore, where I am there’s a typewriter. I’m a mob man. None of this was my plan. I never intended to associate with organized crime but it’s comfortable. As soon as the coast was clear, I headed back. This place is nice and I’ve started to pick up a little Italian. Mainly stuff like “Come siete questo giorno, il fratello?” or “Merda Santa!”. Did you know that Mafia is actually an acronym? It stands for Morta Alla Francia, Italia Anela which translates literally into ‘Death to France, this is Italy’s cry’ though it has a completely different inflection nowadays. At this point, I’ve taken the oath… but I’m getting ahead of myself… we haven’t finished our previous story.
This. This is the part you folks are going to enjoy. I certainly didn’t.
You remember that squirrelly weasel Oliver I mentioned before? Of course you do. Well I had to get to Giovanni through him, of course. No one else knew where Giovanni was. So how does a guy get information he needs from someone like this accountant? Easy, scare the piss out of him. I didn’t want to kill anyone, I wasn’t a murderer before and I told myself I never would be.
Now a gun is a strange object. You point it at someone. You move your finger very slightly and a person dies. Tell me something scarier than that. The problem with a man like Oliver is that you can’t bring yourself to not underestimate him. Bastard. Let’s change things up, shall we? I’ll tell you how I thought the scene should have gone down. Then I’ll tell you the truth.
Here’s how anyone would expect it to go down.
I would’ve walked in to see that tight-ass accountant. I’d say “So you’re Oliver?” He’d look up at me indifferently and say “Yes, I’m Oliver.” And he’d look back down at his desk, finishing up paperwork or some sh*t like that. I’d stare at him, stare a hole through his bowler cap and pull out a gun, cock the damn thing. I’d watch him jump back in his chair as he realized that there was a gun there. He’d reach for a gun that he keeps in the drawer, all accountants do, but no. I’d shoot at the place he was reaching for so as to keep him from reaching there. He’d realize that he was f*cked and he’d say “What do you want from me? Is it money?” I’d say no. I’d say “I just want to know where Giovanni is”.
Then he’d tell me. End of story.
Here’s what happened. I’m clearing my throat as I type this, adds effect.
Rosemary, she knew this was the day that I was hunting him down. She offered me something to help motivate me that a lot of girls like her offer. I refused naturally. Rosemary just… wasn’t my type. She pointed me to the office, on the way I started to smell the familiar scent of gin and something else… maybe Wild Turkey… can’t remember. The door was a frosted glass and it said on it “Oliver Weisman: Accountant”. As strange as this seems, with all the crimes I’ve dealt with before, with all the baddies I’ve tangoed with… I was still a little nervous. I stepped inside.
I stepped inside to see nothing like what I thought it’d look like. The floors were wood with a million holes in it. Tiny half-inch holes covering it in a strange pattern, it looked like it’d be incredibly painful to walk on barefoot. The walls had torn wallpaper, leaky ceiling and the place was a mess except for two things, his desk and the painting behind him. The desk looked executive with small picture frames and paper neatly organized. The painting behind him was a large portrait of a bald man with a hard face, giant chin and neck-beard.
There was no chair in front of his desk.
I was a little scared. Change itself is scary. But I proceeded.
So… you’re Oliver?
He looked up at me. This man was scrawny, his bald spot was so gigantic he didn’t care to try covering it; the size of his glasses rivaled his face. He looked at me with tired eyes. He said to me with cracked thin lips, “Yes.”
He kept staring at me.
“Do you… need something Mr. Moore?” How he knew my name, I wasn’t, am not and never will be sure. I didn’t bother asking, just tried to play it cool. I prefer “Paul.”
“I don’t care.” He said with a face that never seemed to move, let alone speak. “Now let me reiterate, Paul… do you need something?”
I couldn’t respond. He’d left me speechless somehow. I was expecting too detailed an encounter, I never prepared myself for this. I decided to just ask him where Giovanni Stone was.
“Why do you need to know?” That’s none of your business.
“You’re quite wrong; I’m the one telling you. This is entirely my business.” Damn this guy was stubborn.
Can you just tell me where to find Giovanni?
“Can you just tell me why you need to know?”
F*ck. I had to bring out the steel early. I reached inside my coat. I let him hear a loud “clicking” sound, let him know that I meant business. I said it again,
Can you just tell me where to find Giovanni?
He stared up at me, his face completely unchanged. He sighed. I knew… well thought I’d won. He discreetly flipped a switch on his desk in plain view. It looked like a regular light switch, nothing different. I found it funny that he manipulated it with two fingers. Two bony fingers. I heard a whirring… not very quiet but not very loud either.
What… what are you doing?
“I’m doing exactly what you never expected or even thought of… well; I presume anyway… you should feel it… right about now.”
Oh sh*t. I almost tried to run. In that split second, I knew exactly why I couldn’t run…
Have you ever been stabbed before? No? Stepped on a carpet tack? Well, I just stepped on a hundred carpet tacks and they were all three inches long and half an inch wide.
The holes in the floor bore spikes and they were still rising. They cut through the sole of my boots like a hot knife through butter. I can’t remember exactly what happened right there but I think I screamed. I know that I jumped. My feet could not move but the rest of my body could just barely move.
See, if you stand on a bed of flat nails, it will eventually surge pain through your ankles to the rest of your body, it’s just the way things work but this… this went beyond waiting. I didn’t have to wait for my body to absolutely give in to the pain.
I did the only thing I could; I threw myself onto Oliver’s desk… He was talking but I wasn’t listening, I was a bit too concentrated on the pain in my ankles and my bloody feet. To this day, it was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I started listening as soon as I heard a click. Oliver had the drop on me.
“Understand?!” I didn’t understand. I wasn’t listening before, so I told him that. After a quick pistol whip, he said to me “Well open your ears you dunce!” So I did… Didn’t make the pain in my feet any less painful.
“Ask me a question, any question, the first thing on your mind right now and I guarantee I will be able to answer you! Anything at all!” I was quiet for a second which, in turn, led to another pistol whip. I then complied. I told him the first thing on my mind.
You’re an accountant why the f*ck do you have f*cking SPIKES in your floor?
“I thought you might ask that.” Of course he did. Asshole. “I hold more secrets than you could ever imagine. You are not the first person to come in here with a thirst for forbidden knowledge. You know, I know things about you too, in fact… I have your inheritance.”
Come again? “I own your inheritance. Your father trusted me.” Oh no… “As he might… I was his lawyer and I was his friend. But when you went to the clink, he couldn’t exactly pass his belongings onto his jailed good-for-nothing murderer son, could he?” I wanted to shoot him. Die Oliver, die. “So his will was outdated and I did the reasonable thing. I gave the money to his friend. Me. Oh, you’re starting to get your brain back? Startles you when your feet get punctured, doesn’t it?”
I wasn’t listening again. I was thinking, coherently thinking. He was a motor-mouth and I could use this to my advantage. Instead of telling you what I thought to do, I’ll tell you what happened.
He talked. My gun was already loaded…
“My father before mine was a great man too… you know. You pathetic worm, you…” He kept on talking… I started to put my hand back under my coat. Gunfire.
“God-Dammit, stop reaching for your gun, I’m talking! How extremely rude of you! Really, Mr. Moore, I expected better of you.”
I prefer “PAUL!”
I rolled off the desk and hit the floor. My gun had already gone off and my back was hot.
I was planning on rolling off the desk, having cover, I’d rise and I’d neutralize him by shooting his shoulder.
Things are never that simple for me. Turns out my gun had already fired before I hit the ground.
Oliver died. Hit him right in the jaw. Through the throat. Through the medulla. Out the back. This was a strong gun too. It had fired while it was still in my coat, which was the warm I was feeling, a bullet-hole in my favorite coat. Another thing to add to the list.
Read that last part again, make sure you got everything. Oliver died.
I was in too much pain at this point to realize that I’d failed my mission.
F*ck.
I lay on the floor letting my feet bleed and feeling the pressure of tiny little holes in the floor. That also hurt.