Tony
I watched them from the front window as they walked back from the Town Hall—the city lawyer in his over-priced coat and Myra, looking smaller but somehow more formidable beside him.
I didn't like the way he moved. Bentley Howser Brooks didn't walk; he glided, like he owned the air he was breathing and was considering charging us rent for it. And I definitely didn't like the way he looked at Myra. It wasn't just professional respect; there was a polished flirtatiousness to him that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was the kind of effortless confidence that made a man like me—all grease under the fingernails and a past I’d rather forget—feel like a background character in my own life.
I was a man of simple math: I saw a threat, I prepared to hit it. But you couldn't
