“Be cool”, Elmore Leonard says, in a voice that’s a cross between a George Clooneyesque drawl and a gruff , Stephen-King storyteller old man father-figure tone. “Be very, very cool.” he says. “Lots of time. Keep your paws to your own self, youngster, and all will be well.”
I comply agonisingly. There is a tremor in my voice as I whisper back. Get a grip. Don’t show him you are weak.
“One glimpse? A small peek? ”
Tommy Monaghan smiles at me. It’s not a nice smile. I know I would shit in my pants if he took his dark glasses off, but thankfully he doesn’t.
“Not a good idea, kid. The old timer told you something, and you better listen up.”
“But one quick look wouldn’t hurt, would it?” I ask back. “It’s not like the goddamn end of the world or something.”
“Tell me. son.” The Saint of Killers this time. A voice that would slice my skin off the flesh, if I listened for too long. His face hidden in the shadows. “How is the water around your knees feel? Smell funny, huh?” His face moves a little. I think he is smiling. I wish. “That’s because that’s deep shit you’re treading in, son.”
The laughter begins. The bastards. Let them laugh. Laugh on, you infantile lot of slimy wankers. No, er, I am sorry I said that, Mr Monaghan, sir. Can I take a look now? Please?
Please?
* * *
Things like this happen. Especially on days you get packages of complete runs of Transmetropolitan, Lobo. and Adventures in the Rifle Brigade delivered to you in the morning, and then you realise you have to leave them in their shiny plastic packets for ten more hours before you can go Gollum Gollum. Ten neverending hours. Somebody make the torture stop.
AAAGH! Not that way, Mr Saint, sir.
