Beginnings - Cement City

Lemon drops rained from the shattered glass dispenser along the back ledge, fronting the wall length mirror, and bounced in all directions across the Italian marble floor of the ancient corner candy and ice cream counter.

“The next one is in your head!” snarled the menacing yet clean cut hulk of a man in the midnight blue, hand tailored suit, holding a large black handgun. Smoke eased wistfully from the black eye of the muzzle. The man’s attire spoke of money and power, from the hundred dollar haircut to the four hundred dollar pair of black wingtips which glistened from hours of polish and buffing.

He spoke, like one who was accustomed to getting his way, to the smallish, frail old balding man in the red apron, cowering near the floor. In an angry yet controlled hiss he spoke again.
“Now then, we will try this again. Where is your boss, McCloud!”
The shrinking man, clung to himself and squeaked faintly but did not reply.

The large suit stepped around the corner and strode toward the quivering mass. In one gloved fist, he grabbed the old man’s shirt and lifted until the man’s tan loafers hung in the air above a scattering of yellow marble sized confections.

“Charles!” reading the name off a faded badge pinned to the crumpled man’s apron, “Charles, you don’t want to die, protecting scum like your boss McCloud, do you?” He waited, holding the man aloft as easily as if he were a holding a finger in the air to check for wind. “Now answer the question!” He screamed suddenly, shaking the man in the air.

“I….don’t…know where he is…” Charles finally sputtered. “I haven’t seen….him since…Saturday morning, Mr. Woods.”

“You know me? Huh!” Mr. Woods chuckled with more menace then humor.
“I’ve heard..a..heard of you, of course.”
“Well, then you know that I am not a patient man, Charles. Especially with people who are loyal to scum bosses and who lie to me!”

But..bu..bu” Charles stammered like a rapid spattering of hiccups.

But Mr. Woods was done chatting. He dropped Charles to his feet, with a thud by releasing the grasp of his left hand while instantaneously bringing his right around in a tight efficient swing. The swollen right fist, holding the gun by its barrel, came down against the side of Charles’s skull with a crack. Charles collapsed without further sound into a limp pile on the Italian marble among the scattered yellow lemon drops.

Mr. Woods stepped, dismissively, over the mess on the floor and walked with purpose towards the front door but not before stepping to the counter and, with one meaty arm, knocked every glass candy container to the floor, leaving the floor covered in broken glass and colored sticky sweets.