A Walk In The Park
I WAS ROTATING MY NECK from side to side when I heard footfalls close behind me, turned slightly to my left, and saw a small man approaching wearing a dark windbreaker, his hands in his pockets. He had close-cut dark hair and his skin had an olive tint that was fairly visible even in the low light put off by the park lamps all around us. As he approached, I could see that he was very short, not more than five-five, if that, but he walked with a confidence that made it clear he was not somebody to be taken lightly.
“Hi you doing?” I said in a friendly tone.
“All right,” he replied in a thick Boston accent. “Out kind of late tonight, pal.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You too. That accent tells me you’re not from around here.”
He smiled, but not with his eyes, and stopped next to the bench, maybe four feet from where I sat.
“Yeah, everybody can tell where I’m from once I open my mouth. Can’t place your accent though.”
“Wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said.
He nodded, glancing around casually, his sharp dark eyes taking everything in like a professional, which I assumed he was.
“I know what you mean,” he said nonchalantly, removing his left hand from his pocket encased in a dark leather glove, something it was far too warm to be wearing on a night like this. “They told me you was from Alabama but you sure don’t sound like it.”
Then his other hand came out of his other pocket holding a subcompact pistol that looked like some kind of Taurus .380 auto…
