Pool_2

A mere creak would undo him. Staying carefully away from any of the floor boards, lest they squeal his presence, he slowly monkey crawled the joists. A multitude of nails that jabbed downward everywhere, at least two inches through the roof, to anchor the shingles, were yet another distraction. Get behind the chimney. He instinctively sought its sanctuary. Quietly. Quietly. Joist by joist, lizard like, slow but carefully to a hiding place. Behind the brickwork, crouched, in this womb of darkness, straining to hear conversation, clutching the few things he could muster from the clutter, the muddle in the dark of his mind cleared and his hands felt like lead. "I'm telling you Mick, it's the fucking Jamacians. No. No. Think about it. Who pays our bills? Huh? Who? Who is the competition? See? No, really. See? Think about it. A baby doctor doesn't go around hanging heads on walls. This is all.." but he was told to shut up. Thinking was not what they did. Follow orders. Don't think. Do. Do the unthinkable. Conversation was drifting in and out as the two men moved about. Whoever Mick was, he didn't say much. What kind of figure of speech was that? Hanging head? He couldn't get all the pieces of what was being said, "So what are they going to do with.." died out with distance but was followed by a closer, "she's not our problem, he is." He who? Most of the conversation over the next five minutes was too indistinct to grasp. Then, "I don't know why we're bothering with bugs, Mick. This guy's so clean, even his garbage doesn't stink. Why don't we just whack him?" That was clear enough. Mick finally spoke loudly enough for unfading complete sentences to be noted. "We will, but not yet. It can't look like a hit. Maybe we get a way to set him up. First, our job! We collect information. Get it? That's our meal ticket." Mick was pacing, perhaps measuring the length of the upstairs, "This house is a problem. It's long. Too many