one old bookshop [20/??? artefacts collected]

[sadfreezingbrit]

As the dust settled on a stack of yellowed magazines I remembered why I had learned to love the silence. Silence was all I had left now. Silence and books that were never bought, a telephone that never rang

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[dashboardlite]

There's a little word that rings true with those in the family business.

Revenge.

True, the family isn't all blood-related. Distant cousins, friends pulled into the fold, loyal comrades-in-arms...but not really comrades, because those are Russians and friggin' nobody likes them. Dean Winchester is of a fair mind to exact some of his own revenge on an old jasper of his. Hell, they practically used to drink from the same damn bottle.

Dean got pinched by the feds after their last encounter - one that ended in a whole lot of blood and lead. Three slugs, one gashed eye, and a finger wrenched through heavy machinery at the warehouse. Patched back together by a pretty nursing dame with gams up to her eyeballs and thrown in the hoosegow for a few months until they couldn't come with anything to convict him for besides trespassing on private property.

Let him out with a warning.

But good ol' Clarence is living respectable now. Working some kind of hock-shop on the other side of town; 'least, that's what Dean's sources tell him.

[sadfreezingbrit]

The dusty shop hadn't seen a customer in weeks... and it wasn't about to.

I was catching up with a few old friends in the paper's obituary section when I saw the light shine through the open door. And when I heard his voice I knew the shop bell had rung with the gentle chime of death.

The only question was whose.

"How can I help you, sir?"

The accent was perfection. On a good day I could even fool myself.

"If you're a collector by any chance, we've got a remarkable set of encyclopaedias in the back; all first editions, excellent condition."

[dashboardlite]

Perfect accent or not, the shopkeep wasn't convincing enough. I knew who it was, and even though I speak my mind all the time, the narration let me slide back into internal monologue like oil down a drainpipe, for the sake of everybody here.

"Sir," I chuckled, because Hell, it was too hilarious. Clarence thought he was a real wise guy, and even if he had the bulge the last time we met, I had it now. Book store salesmen don't exactly keep tommy-guns behind the counter. Still...I wasn't taking any chances.

"Yeah, actually, I was lookin' for a copy of Othello. That Iago fella, man, he sure pulled the wool over him, right?"

I sauntered up to the counter, leaning on it all gentlemanly-like, and tipped my hat up to grin at the sonuvabitch.

"But I guess it's what you expect from a double-crossin', two-bit, hinky hombre."

[sadfreezingbrit]

His words settled everything

[dashboardlite]

The accent had to be the best part. Nancing around like some kind of limey fruitcake, Clarence was a civvie. But old habits died hard, and he was bound to have something behind that cutesy little counter that would put the hurt on me if I gave him half the chance.

We used to be pals, too. Bunko artists and headknockers down on Skid Row. It paid the bills, though; especially Bill, my bookie, and Bill, my probation officer.

I smiled at the jibe - Clarence was always the stiff who'd sit there blank-faced with everyone else wondering whose ass he just insulted. Normally I would've let it slide, but things had stopped being so copacetic between us months ago. Sliding my left hand over the book, dusting it off, I decided to drag out the play a little longer before giving him the sting.

"Nah, I just came to visit an old friend. You might know 'im."

[sadfreezingbrit]

There wasn't a single drop of sweat on my brow and yet I felt my whole facade melting away. Dean Winchester sometimes had that effect on people, even before breaking out the chives.

"'Fraid not, sir. My only friends here are Dickens and Wilde."

Smith and Wesson I neglected to mention, but I had a hunch that one of us would introduce them soon enough. I had another hunch that it would be me.

Everyone had a tell, not just in poker. His tell was the distinct lack of bullet holes in my suit. He could have waltzed in here with a dozen loogans and turned the place into a Swiss cheese shop in a matter of seconds.

But he didn't and I was still standing and he was still talking, which could only mean this was more than your average morning pop for revenge. And I had one last hunch that his visit wouldn't turn into a jolly reunion party.

"Let me just get a bag for you then..."

My hand slid under the counter. I'd played the rat before, but I wasn't about to become the mouse in his game.

[dashboardlite]

I ground out the end of my cigarette on top of Othello, flicking it over the edge.

"Yeah, that'd be jake."

It was true enough that I wasn't just there to jaw about the weather. Clarence started moving to ring me up, and I knew he was reaching for some kind of bean-shooter; if he didn't still have his old Smith and Wesson P.38 with him, I'd eat my goddamn hat. I knew his style.

I decided to introduce a persuasive friend of my own: the .45 caliber Colt 1911, who'd been known to make rather convincing arguments. With its handle resting on the counter, I cocked the roscoe.

"Grab air, Clarence, nice and slow." I gestured with the barrel that he keep his mitts where I could see them. "Like Wilde said, a true friend stabs you in the front."

[sadfreezingbrit]

My finger was already on the revolver's grip, but it was too little too late. I cursed myself for taking my sweet time to make a move. Now all I could do was play along.

"Wh-- What are you talking about?"

I noticed with an odd sense of pride that the violation of old William's classic stung. With my hands trembling in the air I was really living the role. Heck, I expected my inner monologue to burst into terrified rambling any second now.

"Take the money, take-- Take everything, just please, p-please just don't kill me, don't kill me!"

[dashboardlite]

For an instant, I had my doubts. Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree. Maybe my goons had made a mistake. It wouldn't be the first time. But when I put the wire on Clarence and had him tracked, I knew I'd chosen the right torpedoes for the job.

For a trigger man, the guy was a sure-fine actor. But all I needed to do was tighten the screws.

"Rubbin' you out ain't on the to-do list," I growled, "Ankle over to your door and lock it. You're closin' shop early today."

[sadfreezingbrit]

"Y-yes, sir. Of course, sir."

I stumbled over to the door and turned away to hide my surprise. I thought his visit was all banter and a bump-off, but without the latter I found myself not wanting to take guesses on just what was going to take its place.

As the keys jiggled in my hand I idly wondered just how much of my dread was really show.

"There- there you go, it's- it's all-- All locked, sir."

I put my hands back up and let the keys slide off my finger, not looking down to watch them hit the floor.

[dashboardlite]

Something was wrong, and it wasn't me. Clarence was too good at this. Too good at pretending. I didn't want to burn powder on the guy - I had plans. Then again, I didn't know how much good bumping gums with him would do.

I moved behind the counter because I had to make sure. A bruno doesn't just leave his gun behind even when he drops off the charts, and good pea-shooters are expensive.

There it was.

A Smith & Wesson P.38, fitted out with a walnut handle all the way from California. Yeah, it was his, all right. No one else would've shelled out that much dough for a grip that durable, except maybe me.

"You wanna stop screwin' around?"

I lifted the Walther up and snapped open the chamber, letting the lead fall to the floor.

"I know it's you, you sonuvabitch. No other dropper has a piece that nice."

[sadfreezingbrit]

"I don't know what you want."

Begging came easy. I'd been on the other end of this scenario too many times to count. Character study, I think is what the fine gents in Hollywood called it.

"Please, I-- I just--"

But when he grabbed my baby I felt the bile rising in my throat, almost too bitter to swallow. Nobody touches my baby.

"My name is Philip, Philip LaFresque, I only moved here from London a year ago, I-- I bought the gun from a pawn shop because I was told this was a bad neighbourhood, I didn't- I didn't know-- I can't even shoot the thing please, I-- Please just-- please don't hurt me just pleasepleaseplease don't hurt me."

As things stood my old friend had five rounds at his disposal and I had an infinite number of dry sobs. Somehow the advantage in quantity didn't give me much confidence.

[dashboardlite]

"If it ain't really yours, you won't mind me takin' it."

Snapping the chamber shut, I pocketed the gun. If I knew Clarence - and I knew him - he'd be antsy as Hell about somebody else getting their mitts on his Smith & Wesson. Sidling back around the counter, I holstered my Colt and sized him up.

"I'm tired of this monkey dance," I snapped. "Spill it, or somethin' of yours'll be spillin' all over the floor."

I didn't want to do it. Well, to some extent, I did. But knowing the why behind his scam after playing the sucker and getting nabbed by the feds...Dean Winchester wasn't anybody's patsy. I had him where I wanted him, and all that was left was the break.

1/2

[sadfreezingbrit]

"Please-- Please, I have no idea what- what you--"

The last sob died in my throat. The act had grown stale on my tongue and this was as good a chance as any.

2/2

[sadfreezingbrit]

"...Ah, screw it."

I straightened myself. Granted, I could hardly tower over Dean, but I thought I might as well look the part.

He'd gone through a lot of trouble to meet his old pal and if that was what he wanted then who was I to refuse?

"See, you should've said goodnight when I set you up nice and easy, but now you're just gonna make this harder on yourself."

I smirked. Two guns and none of them drawn? Dean, Dean, Dean. Who was out of practice now?

"'Cause I figure one of us oughta rest in peace and if you won't let old Clarence have the honour, well..."

And just like that I disappeared behind the dusty shelves.

[dashboardlite]

And there it was.

Just like that, he changed. The cringing, whining book shop owner was replaced by someone I knew better than the back of my hand, and he wasn't a sight for sore eyes. It only made me angrier.

People talk about seeing red when you're burned to high Heaven, but you never know what it's like 'til it happens to you.

I had better plans for Clarence than a couple slugs of lead in the noggin, and if he was ready to put up his dukes, I would have at him.

"I took the goddamn fall for you," I barked, moving around the far end of the first row of shelves and pushing at them. They swayed, cracked, and started batting over like dominoes.

"And you skipped out while I was under glass!"