Bob’s habit now and again was to ask me to go for a
drink every Friday the day after we got paid. After I gave him one too many
excuses before to avoid that day I sensed Bob was getting pissed off today, so
for self – preservations sake only, I finally agreed. It went well, sort of.
The key to Bob was to be agreeable in nature and
not to disagree at all on the many subjects that he considered himself the
final word for that could well be the case. Even as the cold beer buzz of a
Heinekan loosened my tongue and gave me dutch courage to tease Bob a bit, it
was gentle as to be unnoticed. So, the night dragged on slowly and I was happy
to eventually get the taxi home to bed. Where Bob normally went in the early
hours on a Saturday was to some drug fuelled party and where he went this
night. It did not go well.
In the haze of opium, cocaine and crack, others at
the party perhaps did not know Bob as well as I did, or at least the rules that
applied in dealing with him, and an argument ensued. A man in a drug fuelled
rage there told Bob he was going to shoot him if Bobby did not shut his mouth.
Bob replied: “Not if I don’t shoot you first.” Bob then pulled out his 34
revolver and shot the man in the stomach. The man, held alive by the drugs that
stopped him going into shock, fell to the floor. The ambulance was called as
Bob left the building.
Bob was at work that Monday and very nervous. He knew
he was in trouble for he was still out on parole. The following week he
brightened when he was told that the man refused to press charges such was his
fear of Bob. His stomach pains made sure he kept that point of view. The week after
that Bob was back to his old self at work or at the least the one that was
easier to deal showed up most of the time. But it was not to last.
To be continued.
By Barry Clifford
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