The Spaces in Between by Chase Henderson

two days ago sat Michael Stewart on his usual stool. It was past last call, but whenever the bartender would muster the courage to announce it Michael would shoot him a glance that would make his heart stop. Mickey the Irishman as he was called, or just the Irishman, since that was all people were able to gasp before they got on the wrong side of him, was not someone to be trifled with. He stood at six foot three, broad shouldered, and his muscles could be seen through his turtleneck sweater.
    He didn’t really mean the bartender harm just wanted to finish his pints in peace, but like hell he would let him know that. Trade secret you know. Mickey the Irishman was a thug for hire, and it would be bad business to find out he wouldn’t dare hurt someone without payment. He was a professional. Would a blacksmith shoe a horse for free? No, and Mickey wouldn’t be a criminal for free. He had no qualms about doing good deeds, but there was absolutely no market for anonymous good deeds so he never bothered.
    A man in a white suit, long black hair, and red sunglasses entered the bar and placed his hat beside the Irishman. “This seat taken?”
    “For a pretty man like you – never.”
    “I have a job for you,” the man in white said. He was indeed quite gorgeous, but none of his features really stood out. The Irishman thought this guy could never get ID’ed in a line-up and was envious. The Man in White pulled a manila folder him his overcoat and slid it to the Irishman. “I want this man brought to me tomorrow morning at the enclosed address four am on the nose. One million now, another at drop off. Do not harm a hair on his head. I’ll cover any expenses.”
    “Four in the morning?” the Irishman replied, “What are ya? A tuppin’ vampire?”
    “Not anymore than you’re a faery,” the Man in White said. He was referring to the Irishman’s auburn hair and beard.
    “Aye, but I am, in the modern sense if you catch my drift.” The Irishman thumbed through the manila folder. A picture of Warren Elliot was paperclipped on the first page. Inside were Elliot’s address, fiancée’s work place, and even his medical records. “Normally I don’t care, but what the hell did this gimp computer programmer do to you that’s worth two million? Did he hack your bank accounts or something?” Only it came out as ‘sumtin’.
    “It’s not any of your business, but if you’re asking if I have the money I certainly do.” The man in white placed an attaché on the bar and opened it. There was certainly a lot of Benjamins in there, but to count it would be bad form. The Irishman had a feeling even if they made this transaction in a police station no one would notice. “Are we in agreement?”
    “Mostly.” The Irishman took a drink. “Can’t do it tomorrow night. I’ll be at mass.”
    “Are you serious?” The Man in White said. “This is two million dollars! What the hell can be more important than that?”
    “The Lord,” the Irishman replied, “I’m a devout Catholic.” The Man in White was flabbergasted. “What? Don’t give me that look; if the Priests can be gay I can too. I never done anything so bad as a little boy. In my line of work, I need to look out for my spiritual health and get to confession often. I do regret the things I do, but Jesus just keeps introducing me to hotter and hotter guys and more lucrative crimes. You are the peak of both, my friend.”
    The Man in White was now very uncomfortable. “Fine. I’ll meet you Monday night instead.” The Irishman really didn’t notice the Man in White leave, but the attaché was still on the bar.
     
    5
     
    Warren found himself standing on the bus. There was not man in a black suit in sight.
    He reassured himself if those were rowdy white men in the back of the bus he wouldn’t be sitting with them either. Then he took his seat. As the bus pulled away with a dull vibration and a squeak Warren pondered the reason he was running late to keep his mind