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the cash in the Bouncer's hands than seeing Doug in the bath. Almost five grand for the Academy of Hair Design; I'd even sent in the application. He tossed the roll to the Bat who caught it and gave it a look like he'd rather light my dreams on fire to see me squirm than turn it over to his boss.
    They dialed 911 for me and watched as I told the operator about Doug. The Bat cackled as they walked out with the money, issuing threats on my life and friends; they knew about the salon. When I watched the first cop who showed up outside the apartment complex fist-bump with the Bouncer, I knew I was in deep shit.
     
    *****
     
    I look out at the bright lights of the Vegas Strip through the large frosted window of the bathroom and I feel powerful, like I can take back this city and my life. I wonder if this feeling is what Doug was chasing after. I pull my dress on and stuff close to fifteen thousand in my purse. It's heavy, like the addiction I feel pumping in my veins. I walk out of the room like I've started my streak and I can see the Mustang down the hall. This is just the beginning.

Brass
    by Roger Hobbs
     
     
     
                                                           
                 
    It was a rainy Tuesday, around 7pm, when my boss dialed me up and told me he had a couple of big-balls hitmen coming to town. Since I was the low guy on the totem pole, it was my job to show them a good time. "Make sure you don't piss them off," he said. "These guys will waste a guy like you in a minute."
    I started to say something, but my boss hung up on me before I could spit it out. I sighed, went to my bedstand, and wrote down the address where I was supposed to meet them. That was my job for the night, I guess. I was the babysitter to a couple of hitmen.
    My name's Joe. In every criminal organization in the world, there's a guy like me. I'm the young guy in new leather who stands in the back keeping his mouth shut and his head down. The criminal world has a lot of room for advancement, sure, but just like any other job, it takes some time to get there. When you're as fresh to the game as I am, you're everybody's bitch. I bring coffee to wiseguys two times a day, and drive the working girls around so they don't miss a date. The first few years are just getting a foot in the door, I'm told, and right now that's where I am. Sure, I'm the lowest guy in a gang of low guys, but I can't complain. Before the Outfit I had to deal drugs and hold up gas stations just to survive, and I'd rather be somebody's bitch than spend one more minute selling black tar out in the freezing cold. When my boss calls me up and says I've got to show a couple of grade-A murdering buttonmen around for a night, I can't say no. It's just not how it works.
    The address was this hotel bar way out by the Oregon Coast, maybe two hours away by car. I checked my watch. If I drove fast, I could probably beat the hitmen there and have time for a beer in the meanwhile. God knows I'd need one. I put on my leather jacket and was out the door in five minutes.
    I'd never met these two hitmen coming in, but I'd heard about them. High-profile rub-outs don't happen much anymore, but when they have to, every organization has a couple of guys around to do the dirty work.
    For the Outfit, our murderers were a pair of Italian brothers-in-law by the names of Vincent and Mancini. That's what everybody called them—Vincent and Mancini, like they were some sort of Abbott and Costello riff. I'd seen them once at an Outfit party, and heard stories through the ranks.
    Vincent was the kind of guy who talked far more than he should have. He'd blab on and on, like he felt the need to narrate every single one of his daily experiences as they happened, all the time.
    Mancini was the opposite, I'm told. He'd just sit there, listening to Vincent talk, and stare off into the distance, or sometimes right at the boss, like he was about to