Pay Him Out

Nothing was certain at first: the North Side was burning. There was war. The Tinkertoys had returned, and the Schoolboy was making deals. He’d fallen through a stitch.

Then, as the dust settled: the Schoolboy was dead as nails, and no one knew how.

The Queen gave the briefcase to her trio, bishop, knight and hulking rook. “Go to the meet. Give that to Quick. And then pay him out.”

They watched her with their eyeless faces, silent as ghosts.

“Discretion, gentlemen. No one can know we’re involved.”

They nodded and slid away, side to side, in leaps, straight ahead.

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