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Mafia.  Vega scowled at the television.  If that bitch had moved in on his merchandise he would have given her more than fucking amnesia, that’s for sure.  Nothing and no one got in the way of his business.
    He shifted his attention back to the stranger and noticed he was sipping his beer and looking in his direction.  That stupid hat still obscured much of his face but Vega could sense the man was checking him out.  The stranger glanced at him and then back at the screen a couple of times, as if making some connection.  Then he tilted his head and Vega saw the man’s pale eyes for the first time.  The bastard was staring directly at him.  He looked surprised, like he recognized Vega.  Which wasn’t possible.  Vega never forgot a face and he sure as hell had never seen this fresh-off-the-farm rube before.
    He reached for the gun in his waistband, intending to stand up and confront the stranger, show this asshole the natural order of things.  But something about his cold, unblinking gaze stopped him.  Vega could usually read a man’s eyes, detect his weakness and go for the jugular.  He detected nothing from the stranger, though, not a flicker of humanity.  It was like looking into the eyes of an animal — or a dead man.  Vince Vega didn’t ever try to stare him down because for the first time in a long while he felt the chill of fear.  The beer suddenly tasted sour in his mouth so he put it down slowly on the table, picked up his newspaper and walked out of the bar.  As he passed the stranger he detected a faint, almost imperceptible sickly-sweet odor.  He had smelt it before, on a number of occasions.  It was the smell of death.
    Outside, he immediately felt better and cursed himself for not confronting the stranger.  He was Vince Vega, for Christ’s sake, and Vince Vega didn’t back down from anybody or anything.  Yeah, he reassured himself, if the guy was still there when he went back to the bar then he’d teach him a lesson he’d never forget.  Heading for the low-rent apartment he used as an office, he cut through one of the deserted alleys off Burnside Street.  It was only when he reached the end that he sensed someone behind him.  He turned, just as his nostrils picked up a waft of the cloying smell he had detected in the bar earlier, but he was too late.  The man was upon him.  Before he could cry out a large hand clamped over his mouth, something sharp pricked his arm and his legs collapsed beneath him.
    Sometime later his mind cleared.  He had no idea how much later.  All he knew was that his head throbbed and his mouth felt dry.  His hands were bound and he was lying face down on cold concrete steps inside a dark stairwell that smelt of piss.  He was no longer wearing his own clothes, but a bra and women’s panties.
    “Feel familiar?” rumbled the same low voice he had heard in the bar.  The smell wafted by him again and the big stranger came into view.  He had a cell phone taped to his forehead and it took Vega a beat to realize its video lens was recording everything the sick rube was seeing.
    “What are you doing?  What the hell do you want from me?”
    “Remember this place?” growled the man.  Vega heard the stranger’s excited heavy breathing and looked around frantically.  Where was this place?  Why should it be familiar?  The fucking retard must have him confused with someone else.  The man opened the black bag at his feet and Vega saw the carton of marker pens from the bar, a transparent box of large syringes and a copy of the Oregonian newspaper.  Reaching beneath the syringe box the man retrieved a staple gun and a large knife.
    “No, no,” Vega cried.  “You’ve made a big mistake.  You’ve got the wrong guy, I tell you.”
    “I’m going to cut your throat and throw you down the stairs.  Does that help remind you?”  Suddenly, despite his terror and panic, Vega realized what the guy must be talking about.  But how did he know?  How