This Is My Home

Pat’s mother wasn’t looking anywhere in particular as she poured his morning mug of coffee. “Fishing’s been taking its toll on you, honey. Maybe this is for the best. How many eggs do you want?”

“Can’t you be a little sympathetic?” Pat scanned the letter that had just dropped though the flap in disbelief. It was long and wordy, but he got the gist.

Mr. Keller … no longer required … inadequate performance … new investors require a higher standard … wish you the best … W. Ridgely

“When was the last time you did something other than work?” she replied as Pat paced up and down the small kitchen, trying to find any solace in the news. Two years as captain for this? 24 years toiling away before that. It had been tricky recently, no doubt. The net tear accident had nearly ruined the company. Surely a little patience and loyalty was in order, though?

“For the best…” Pat chuckled wryly under his breath. “What do you suggest I take up instead? Fuckin’ water polo? What else is there for me here?”

He didn’t wait for his mother’s answer as he went outside through the sliding door that took all his strength to budge. Stepping toward the end of the jetty, he soaked in what he could of the false January sun. Pat had combed over, pepper-colored hair on top of a scaly face with rings that dangled from each ear, an archetypal fisherman. The coffee was bad, Pat thought. Much worse than usual. Watery and sour. He was starting to worry about his mother. Pat, a man of routine, had woken up to a cup of coffee from his mother ever since he forced himself to like it. Eventually, it became the main reason he’d wake up in the first place. It was always perfect. She was getting old, though. It was only nature taking its course. Pat wondered if he should mention it when she was done making breakfast.

He pondered over bitter sips as Bunsen came to his side. The old dog was only the second one Pat ever had; he’d been around 16 years. All Bunsen stood for now was a looming, bare reminder of just how long Pat had been tolling away at the bay. He poured the rest of the mug into the water and made his way back inside, where he prepared to get some answers from Meridian.

***

Pat kicked pebbles along the beach on the way to Meridian Fishmonger. He took a moment to stare at the ghost of Rusty’s Seafood. The smells of mackerel, haddock and sole being prepared at the restaurant lingered in his nose decades later. Pat could always distinguish the difference between which fish was being fried. Not many people could.

The fishmonger had seen better days. It stood as sea-washed as Pat was himself, a large hut on the shore with a tin roof that rocked during today’s shower. Pat had been coming here for over half of his life. Nothing brought him more joy than setting out on those dark mornings to bring his catch back, and it tore him apart from he was no longer welcome.

Pat stood in the doorway of the main office, shook his umbrella off, and stared at the two men conversing at the front desk. Sat down was Wade Ridgely, Pat’s former boss who had been a friend of the Kellers since before Pat was born. There was a young man leaning on the desk who Pat resentfully assumed was his replacement. The new guy nudged Wade when he noticed the downcast figure, and then slinked back into the office.

The old man looked over, almost sorry. “Keller, you don’t work here no more. What’s going on?”

Pat quickly got in Wade’s face. “You have to tell me what I did. What’s this about inadequate performance? We had a contract, and I — ”

Wade held a hand up to halt Pat and offered a seat. The wet, salty walls of Meridian normally made Pat feel at ease, but today they seemed smaller, and the atmosphere was alien.

“Can you just let me talk? I don’t get it, boss. Me and my crew were doing fine. We got that new Japanese place, couple of supermarkets and that new deal with the casino. We had it good. I was good.”

“To tell you the truth, son, it was the casino deal that meant we couldn’t keep you on. It was George Slow. You know as well as I do that he’s been running things around the town since he’s been back. The guy loves the final word. He wanted a new guy.” Wade threw up his arms, his withered hands barely escaping the sleeves of his thick, blue winter jacket.

Pat had never met George Slow but knew his story like everyone else. “What makes it his town? He’s been gone for 30 years. And what? He returns a load of cash that he got doing god-knows-what, and buys our casino? That means he can come to Meridian and replace me and my boys with these young bucks?”

“None of them told you?” Wade looked sheepish, as if he was telling Pat too much but not enough all at once.

Pat felt himself backed into a corner. “None of who told me what?”

“Your boys. Jerry, Arnold, Croggs, all of ’em. They’re staying on. They like Teddy.” Wade gestured his head toward the young fisherman waiting in the office. “Plus, Slow’s thrown them a bonus for renewing their contracts.”

Words were escaping Pat, but not through his mouth. All he could muster was a wheezy sigh. He wanted to speak from the heart to describe the betrayal that had been handed to him, but he felt it sink down and down until it was as if it had dropped from under him.

The silence was too much for Wade, his grey, bushy mustache hiding a frown. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.” Ridgely extended a reluctant handshake as Pat turned the leave, knowing it meant little to the man who had just lost everything.

***

“Good evening, folks! This is the Weekend Show live from New York City with, your host, Billy Crezati. Tonight, we have 3 very special guests. Joining us is the director Henry Quade talking about his new film “Ice Cold Ice”, comedian Peter G. Franks, and all the way from England, performing off their hit debut LP “If I Was A Betting Man” — it’s Racquet Abuse!”

The weekend meant Pat’s mother had her book club down in town. He sat in his living room, alone and bereft, with more time and less purpose than his composure allowed. He poured himself a stiff whiskey to regain some of that composure and sat in front of the television.

“Oh boy, Henry Quade, you’ve done it again. This thing is fun — an instant classic. Can you tell us what it’s all about?”

Billy Crezati owned screens across America. He’d been presenting The Weekend Show for 24 years. Pat knew this because it was the same amount of time he’d been working at Meridian. They were the same age too, though it was tough to tell. Crezati, with hair so elegantly silver and teeth so blindingly bright it felt like they were lighting up the sea behind Pat, was a stark contrast to Pat’s wispy combover. Every weekend, Pat would tune into Billy Crezati as an invisible competitor. It was something that helped him if he’d had a bad week out on the boat. It didn’t matter if they didn’t catch anything or if their net tore if Crezati got bad ratings. Now though, it would take Crezati being taken off the air completely to give Pat any solace. The host seemed on form tonight, sadly. This director, though, seemed like a pretentious hack.

“Thank you, Billy. A pleasure to be here. It’s a simple story, really. A young guy meets someone and together they try and find a way out of their dead-end hometown. Been told a million times before. Oh, I guess that’s not quite the endorsement the studio wanted me to give. Maybe you should all just stay at home!”

The audience laughed at that. They had to, Pat thought. Do what the sign tells you! He didn’t know why he wasted his time watching this vapid crap. He needed to get out of the house. It was late — where to go? Oh well. Another whiskey while he thought. Maybe this comedian could cheer him up. A young guy getting his big television break.

“Now Billy, let me tell you a quick joke. So, there’s this guy. Real sad. Lost his job, just sits at home all day. Never lived up to his potential. That’s if he ever had any! Let me tell you, Billy, he’s real sad. Never even grew out of where he was born. Takes his failings out on people that don’t even know him. Tough to see a way out for the poor guy…”

Pat left for the bathroom before the guest could finish his joke. This guy made him uneasy. Not sure he’ll make it in Hollywood. He heard the bulb blow in the living room blow and when he re-entered, the only light Pat could see was now coming live from New York. The British band was coming on now. Oh well. Another whiskey. Pat always wanted to be a famous musician. He had a few notebooks with scrawled lyrics and costume designs that would never see the light of day. His parents said he had the voice for it, but they all have to say that. The floppy-haired lead singer took the mic.

“Absolutely wonderful to be here, Mr. Crezati. American telly, eh? Right, we’re Racquet Abuse and we’ve got a couple tunes for you tonight. This first one’s dedicated to our mate, Pat Keller. Pat, if you’re listening, and we know you must be, Billy doesn’t know who the fuck you are. Neither does George Slow. Now, lighten up you miserable bastard! One, two, three, four…”

Pat leaped for the remote and turned off the set with a startle. Too much to drink. He watched as the whiskey flooded the carpet. He had to clean that before Bunsen did, but there was no time. He needed to get out of the house. He needed to talk to someone. The casino was open. George Slow would be there. That was someone to talk to.

***

It was never officially called The Slow Casino but that’s what the locals called it. The lack of traffic coupled with the owner’s last name made for a neat coincidence. George Slow didn’t mind. He knew that he had all the tools needed to succeed as a casino owner. He’d seen it all. He knew that the environment in his newest purchase wasn’t all that nice. A bit of glamor was sometimes all a place needed, and George Slow had glamor coming out of the neck.

Every night, his patrons saw that white suit strut in through the double doors with that tightly braided ponytail snaked down his back. They looked down to see his jet-black brogues somehow sweep across the sticky red carpet; they looked up to see a prim, clean-shaven, wound-up face that was ever so happy to greet them, and it felt like they were part of something new. Part of a long-needed change in the bay, a seismic shift led by the charismatic hometown hero.

The casino had been there since George Slow was a child. It used to be painted a dazzling white and attracted attention from all down the coast. Back then, it was owned by the Ferdinand family who had all since moved or passed on. They’d let the paint peel, the wood rot, and the business suffer. George Slow took it upon himself to change this.

He’d travelled the world making obscene money and decided to settle back down at the bay. He loved his casino, especially at night. As soon as he’d closed for the night and he was alone, he’d walk out onto the pier and gaze back at it. This could be it, a final achievement, and a chance to recuse himself from the chaos of the gambling world elsewhere.

George Slow sat at his desk, preparing for a sweep of the casino floor. He checked the cameras. A blackjack game, a few men droning away at the slot machine, and a family enjoying the casino’s local seafood menu. One of the first goals George Slow had after returning was to ensure that his casino was the place the residents of the bay could enjoy the freshest fish the town had to offer, much like Rusty’s Seafood was to him in his youth.

George Slow stepped out on the casino floor to a crowd of turning heads.

“Afternoon, George.”

“How’s it going, George?”

“What’s that up there, George?”

A squawk. The patron’s gaze moved far away from their cards and toward the rafters. They tried to follow the flutter overhead, bemused as to what had just disrupted their game. A bird was circling the ceiling, trying to find a way out.

A bang. A bang that could have startled a captain out at sea. Then a thud. The heads turned back to their games in quiet unison. George Slow had all the tools to survive as a casino owner. When the casino you owned happened to be by the waterfront, this had to include being able to pluck a bird from 50 feet in the air to allow people to continue with their games uninterrupted.

“Trust you all are comfortable?” George Slow asked the floor. Polite smiles and thumbs up were good enough responses for him. Another day at the Slow Casino.

George Slow clicked his fingers to usher in a floor worker with a dustpan and brush to dispose of the remains. He turned away toward the bar and sat next to Mick Meaghan. The casino floor manager had been George Slow’s loyal partner for 24 years. His greasy quiff had gone grey in that time, but his mind remained sharp and was one of the only ones George Slow felt he could truly trust.

“Fuck me, George! What was that for? You don’t half make things byzantine for me, do you?” Mick spoke in a harsh whisper. “Mine’s a Guinness, by the way.” He snapped his fingers at the bartender.

George Slow looked at Mick with a pained expression, like a parent telling his child not to draw on the walls for the 100th time. “Byzantine? Where did you read that one?”

“Y’know, like paperwork and all that. Can’t be doing that nonsense in there. Fuck sake, George.”

“I’m not swearing, Mickey. Why are you swearing? The bird is a safety hazard. This casino is where my clients come to feel safe. We can’t have birds flying around the place. Ever heard of bird flu? This isn’t a zoo, isn’t some feral park where you have to worry about getting your eyes pecked out. This is George Slow’s casino. OK, it’s not like we used to run yet, but what is? I’m a proud man. I’m respected around here. Think about it! What if tomorrow’s headline is: ‘George Slow Allows For Seagull To Run Wild In His Casino’? We’re barely turning a profit as is — ”

“That wasn’t a fuckin’ seagull George. That was a dove. Shootin’ that down, that’s biblical, that’s a bad omen. I don’t like it. Those things are peaceful, you can’t go shootin’ them.” Mick knew better than to press George too much and put a hand around his shoulder with a smile. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re good at doing what you do because that’s a dumb fuckin’ headline. I’d write something better. Something like: ‘George Slow Shoots Local Dove’ perhaps?” Mick ghost-wrote out each word.

George Slow stared for a few seconds then let out a hearty laugh for all the casino to hear. “You’re good, Mickey. ‘Local dove’. Funny guy. Listen, I want someone up there tomorrow to fix those windows. No more doves or seagulls. You can handle that?”

Mick took a long sip of his Guinness and leaned in like he had a bigger problem that he’d been meaning to bring up ever since George Slow sat down.

“Sure, George. Now, are we gonna be good when Sherriff Ray turns up?”

“Ray? Why would he come here?” The Sherriff had a reputation in the bay for taking no nonsense. He hadn’t worried George too much, who felt he hadn’t any nonsense to give anymore.

“That shot was loud. I’d be surprised if no one made a call. Look around — there’s a few new guys here today. One of ’em could get jumpy. At least put a silencer on it next time, thought you were a careful man.”

George Slow rolled his eyes. “It’s just a seagull — ”

“Dove!”

“It’s just a dove. No one got hurt. We cleaned it up quick.”

Mick slammed his palms on the bar. “I think you’re missin’ the point on purpose, George. Are we gonna be good?”

“And what is this point you’re so elegantly skirting around?”

Mick finished his Guinness. “This is how I see it. Ray gets the call. He comes here to investigate the shot. This fuckin’ guy, this nosey fuckin’ guy, he’s gonna wanna come in. Now, I’ve made a pretty good living keeping you out of harm’s way. I don’t mind it, it’s fulfilling. Not exactly what 8-year-old Mick told his teachers he wanted to be doing all his life, but it’s fulfilling. Sherriff Ray is one of those who doesn’t like what we’re about. I’m a mean bastard, it’s been known, but this guy is a petty, arrogant, ‘nother level prick. I hear it’s because of his very serious condition. ” Mick put a hand down near the floor. “Poor fucker has the small-man syndrome, so be very careful George. Might take your ankles off, start chewing on your chair leg. He’ll look for any reason to get us out of his sorry, bumfuck, redneck, salty, ocean-people, cousin-fuckin’ town. I mean, how embarrassing would that be? We spend decades mixing it with the finest around the world just to get booked here? Not happening. So tell me the truth, George. Are we gonna be good?”

“Yes, Mickey. There’s nothing here for him to find. How come it’s taken 24 years for you to start doubting me?”

Mick eased off slightly. “I think it’s this place, George. Gives me the heebie-fuckin’-jeebies. Like a hospice patient drew a seaside town with their eyes closed. I miss Monaco. People here are different. They’re too permanent. Got too much to complain about. You piss the one wrong guy off and you’ll wish we stayed where we had a good thing.”

George Slow looked forward as he got out a ten to pay for Mick’s drinks. “We will be good. He might not even come. I’m not sure what you’re even thinking will happen if he did. It’s just a dove. No one got hurt.”

“You know as well as I do that sometimes I have a penchant for the unsavory. A knack for the nasty. A proclivity for the painful. It helped us in Monaco, but I have no intention of it following us here. Ray gets wind of some of the antics I got up to, could be bad. But okay, George.”

With that, George Slow left Mick to his second Guinness and resumed his patrol of the floor. He considered himself a steady man, but Mick’s words left him with a nagging unease. The Irishman was the only man whom George felt he could trust. Losing him would be unacceptable. He turned around and crept back to his office.

As a casino owner, George Slow knew that leverage against anyone can be a vital tool. He was trying his best to pry open a rusting filing cabinet he hadn’t yet replaced. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Mick about the tan file titled ‘Monaco’ that sat deep within. He pulled it out and sat it on his desk. Below it was a copy of a letter that George had forgotten he even had. He remembered writing it when he first arrived at the bay, but greasing the creaky wheels of casino bureaucracy was never easy. The switch should have gone through today.

Mr. Keller … no longer required … inadequate performance … new investors require a higher standard … wish you the best … W. Ridgely

George Slow had never thought much of it. Change for the sake of making a change. If the fishmonger was going to be supplying his casino, he wanted the best. Some old connections had told him about Teddy, and he liked what he heard. It looked good from where he was standing. A fresh face is always good. The old man at Meridian was reluctant to sign off on it, but Mick can be very persuasive.

***

Pat always thought it was like the old man Wade Ridgely had the entire universe swirling around his head. Hard to imagine someone that age being wise beyond their years, but it was true. It was well known and admired that Meridian was his entire life, that why Pat knew he’d still be hanging about the place, even at the ungodliest of hours.

“Wade! Wade!” The drunken wails echoed back to Pat.

Ridgely emerged slowly from his office and rubbed his eyes as he gazed toward the door.

“I can’t take this. What am I supposed to do?” Pat found a seat and cradled his face in his palms.

Ridgely pulled up a chair and put his arm over Pat’s sunken shoulders. “I’m sorry if I was a little blunt earlier. This is hard for me too. Slow loves to get his way, and he doesn’t know you as I do. I don’t reckon it’s personal, but I gotta say, you ain’t been yourself recently.”

“I’m gonna talk to Slow. Let him know the mistake he’s made.” Pat slurred as he got up to leave.

Ridgely tugged at his sleeve. “Keller, no offense, I’m sure that man has dealt with more intimidating fellas. Maybe sleep it off. Go home, talk to your mom, get some rest. This whole thing is unfortunate, but I can assure you my hands are tied.”

Pat pushed Ridgely’s arm off him and turned to the old man with a scowl. “How could you let this happen to me? Talk about going soft as you get old. Why don’t you just retire already? Give the whole thing to the ponytailed fuck, why don’t you?” Pat threw a lantern off the wall and jumped back as it crashed to the floor, spraying glass every which way.

“Go home, son. Please. My hands are tied, I promise.”

“That’s a fuckin’ lie, you’re just scared of big, bad George Slow. This whole town is. Shit, I’m gonna show him someone who’s not.” Pat bolted out of the office and through the exit. Wade heard the screech of tires fade into the distance.

***

A knock. George sat at his desk, waiting for his final patrol of the floor. He tightened his ponytail.

“Come in.”

It was Mick. He had a rugged look of worry strewn across his face, replacing his normal cocky grin. “I told you, George. It’s Ray.”

“Where is he now?”

“I’ve got him waiting out the front, he’s talking to the staff right now — hold on — what’s that? Is that me?” he jolted toward the desk and picked up the file that George had taken out of the cabinet. “Why the fuck have you got this? Are you turning me in?” Mick held up the pictures to George. One showed him with a knife to the throat of a young man with a bag over his head. It was the son of a sheik, he had been caught running a scam on Slow’s casino. The second picture showed him on the ground. The third showed Mick dragging him away.

“Mickey, you know I trust you — ”

Slow’s most-trusted assistant shoved the file in his jacket and ran. “Fuck sake, George, you righteous prick. Don’t know if you’ll see me again, but good luck running this fuckin’ grim excuse for a town on your own.”

George Slow sat back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Was it relief? Mick was a dear friend, but his recklessness in Monaco was also the only thing stopping George from having a good night’s sleep since they arrived at the bay. Maybe part of George wanted the file to be seen, to be gone. Now he was in the clear, with nothing in the way of him finally relaxing, of giving back to his hometown…

“A dove? That’s biblical, George.”

George Slow wasn’t a religious man. How could he be? He didn’t understand why everyone seemed so concerned about the dove. It was just another thing in the way, stopping his clients from having a good night at his casino. He wasn’t exactly going to climb all the way up there and take it as a pet, was he?

“Earth to Slow!” The sherriff clicked his fingers in annoyance. He didn’t stand much higher than George’s chest but didn’t seem intimidated one bit. “Look at me, George. I understand you discharged a weapon in here tonight. It is my job to tell you that, obviously, this is against the law. Understand?”

“No one got hurt, Sherriff.”

“Don’t fuck with me, George. King of the fuckin’ bay, shouldn’t be talking in riddles. Just own up so I can give you a slap on the wrist, though Christ knows I’d love to give you a whole lot more.”

“I’m not swearing Sherriff, why are you swearing? Look, if it means that much to you, you have my assurance that if a dove comes through my windows again, I will call the correct folks. That good?”

Ray put a fleecy hand on the owner’s shoulder and gave him a patronizing look behind his aviators. George thought better than to ask why he was wearing aviators inside, and at night. “If you got nothin’ to hide, I got nothin’ to seek. If I may ask, though, Mick Meaghan, where is he?”

George Slow swallowed. “Just left. Said he was sick.”

“Right, right.” The Sherriff nodded.

“Will that be it?”

“For now. No more doves, OK?”

“Goodnight, Ray.”

***

George Slow felt the first snow of the year on his face as he performed his daily ritual of walking out onto the pier. He felt a strange contentment, losing Mick was tough, but perhaps necessary. He’d always lived his share of life with certainty, maybe now it was time to surround himself with others who did the same. Or no one at all. His basking was cut short by a man thumping the casino’s front doors.

“Sir, we’re closed. What are you doing?”

The man whipped around, cursing in a drunken mumble. “Fishing is seasonal, course it won’t taste so good the whole year round. Inadequate performance, what do you know about adequate fish? If you knew the first thing about what you were doing here, I’d still have my job.”

George Slow outstretched a hand. This must be him, from the letter. “Mr. Keller? Nice to meet you. Let’s calm down a little. I’m sure we can come to an amicable agreement.”

Pat batted the hand away. “I don’t want any fuckin’ agreement. I want what’s mine, my job back. And I want you to leave this place alone. You come back with the Euro-trash, glitz and glamor style — that’s not us. You know it. That’s not the bay I’m proud of.”

George Slow nodded along with a smile. “Walk with me, Mr. Keller. I’m trying to get at something very plainly and I want you to be able to understand. This is the bay you’re proud of?” he gestured down the coast. “This bay exists in your mind not as it does in anyone else’s. You know that, right? I’m sure you have happy memories of you and your family walking along here, enjoying the seaside. What good do those memories do for the rest of the town, struggling to make a living because tourists don’t want to be seen dead here? It’s selfish. You say you want the best it. No. No, you want the best for yourself — to cling to a happy childhood that never translated to a happy life. I want the best for the bay. You said it yourself. This isn’t a place you’re proud to be from anymore. Which one of us is trying to change that? If you attach yourself this much to a place, you must be prepared to let go when it’s clear that its future doesn’t include you.”

As they moved toward the end of the pier, Pat tried his best to get a word in. “You’re wrong. You lost your human touch mingling in those fancy palaces with the rest of your scummy elitist pals. The bay doesn’t need you as much as you like to think it does. We don’t need your help.”

“I don’t have any pals, Mr. Keller. I don’t need any. This is what I want, to honor the place I’m from.”

“You can honor it by letting those of us who actually care about it handle it.”

“You want to just let nature take its course? Here’s something for you to consider — cockroaches. Slimy fellas, aren’t they? They don’t care about what nature wants. They refuse to be left behind. They’ll outlast all of us. The world is changing every day and if it hasn’t already, it will leave people like you behind. Natural selection has already left you jobless, stuck in a home you don’t recognize. If you start lagging even one step behind the walk of human nature, you’ll feel alien. You’re not owed anything. When did it go wrong, Pat?”

Pat stopped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Stop talking nonsense. This isn’t about me, it’s about the bay.”

“Let me finish. The same still applies. If people like you sit back and simply will the bay to remain how it was back in your day, it will rust, it will mold, it will sink, it will burn. But at least you can still call it home, right Mr. Keller? The cockroaches don’t care about the rot, or the burn, or the filth. The cockroaches call it home all the same.”

Pat spat on the wooden ground and pushed the casino owner. “Fuck off, Slow.”

“I’m not swearing, Pat, why are you swearing? I didn’t mean to rile you up, perhaps I got too ahead of myself. Let me reel it in. Here’s a fact: we’re both from here.”

“I’ve forgotten more about this place than you’ll ever know.”

“Please, the hostility is getting boring. Work with me here, I’m trying to meet you at your level. We’re both from here. I’m not some alien, I was a fry cook at Rusty’s Seafood all throughout high school. In fact, Rusty officiated my wedding out in Italy. Did you ever go?”

Pat looked down at his shuffling feet. “Course I did. Every Friday. I could always tell which fish was being fried just by the smell.”

George Slow smiled and shrugged. “Chances are, I was the one frying them.”

It was then Pat started to tear up. “I just — I’ve never been as happy as I thought I was going to be. When I was that kid coming down here every day, I could look out at that sea and think I had the world at my feet, but it’s 30 years later and this is still my world. Or it was until this morning. Now what?”

George Slow outstretched his arms. “Come closer, Pat. I’m sorry about what I said. Could be that we need each other. Could be that you can help retain the essence of this place while I make sure it doesn’t go under. Could be I made a mistake getting rid of you.”

Pat wiped his eye and, for the first time, looked at George Slow with trust. He walked over and knelt his head on the shoulder of the white suit.

Then there was no bang. Then there was no thud. Just George Slow with a man at the end of his tether in his arms. It had been a day of problems arising for the casino owner, but now they had all been solved. After he dabbed his white suit to clean it off, he dragged the limp Pat to the end of the pier and filled the fisherman’s pockets with whatever he could find. He smiled as he imagined the headline that would never happen: ‘George Slow Shoots Local Man’. No one knew the poor guy was coming here, and if they did there was nothing a few notes couldn’t fix. As the body sunk below, George Slow turned to face the casino, and wondered which window repair service to call in the morning.