Killer

by Joe Mallon

Connor Lonigan took a hard sip from the cup of coffee.  He placed the mug on the rusted, once-vintage table outside Cuppa Joe’s on the west side of Eccles Avenue, a worn-out sidestreet off Pershing Road in the Back of the Yards.  Good coffee.  Hot.  Scalding hot. The way I like it.  He’d prefer a nice cuppa tea, but the tea in the States was shite.  He became a coffee man, so there it was.

T’was the best coffee in Chicago, in his opinion.  How it survived in this decrepit neighborhood on this decrepit street was beyond him.  T’was a shame he could frequent it only on occasion.  A man in his profession could ill-afford to be a “regular” at any coffee shop.  ‘Tis a lonely life.

"A life you chose.  Remember that,” said The Voice inside his head.

Cuppa Joe stood in the middle of a small row of abandoned storefronts.  The shop owner, long in the tooth, took over a connected building she long ago converted into living quarters.

A jungle of weeds and tall wild grasses surrounded the line of stores.  Rusted cans of Schlitz Malt and Old Mil bottles, and the shattered remains of the choice liquor of bums, Wild Irish Rose. More weeds grew from the many cracks in the sidewalk, a shame for the owners.  Not for him.  He was invisible.

The west side of Eccles was as close to abandoned as the row of storefronts.  A row of houses, none well-kept, some empty, all beginning their journey to the Devil’s Garden of Eden. An empty lot stood at the southern end of Eccles, itself a victim of the jungle. Next to the lot a gravel-strewn alley jutted off Eccles, penetrating west past backyard garages and overflowing garbage cans.

He lowered his cowboy hat, shading his eyes from the hot July sun.  Hot, yes, but an enjoyable, but brief, respite from the constant rain and fog of Ireland.  Still, he would be glad to finish the job and be on his way home.

From his chair, he stretched his legs, cowboy boots and all, out onto the cracked sidewalk.  He kept his back to the wall.  Appearing to read the Trib sports pages, his eyes studied the small street in both directions, missing nothing.  Good habits kept a man alive.

St. Patrick’s ghost, but I love this hat.  Pecan-colored and made of felt, with a wide, four-inch brim, it fit snugly on his head.  Finn would have his hide for wearing such a thing, as well as the boots.  Too conspicuous, he would say.  To each his own.  It was Connor’s position that to be invisible, at times one had to be outrageous.  He could lose the hat and boots later.  Witnesses will remember the hat, not my face.  Not that there would be witnesses.

Lose it, yes.  But he would truly miss his cowboy hat.  

Connor checked his watch.  10:30. An hour before he arrives. Another good habit.  Arrive before the client.

Connor kept his rules simple.  No children.  No collateral damage.  Finally- and to him this was the most important rule- the mark most assuredly deserved to die, whether man or woman.  None of this “my husband is having an affair” shite.

“It soothes your conscience, doesn’t it?  Your three rules?”  The Voice inside his head asked. 

“It’s all I know how to do,” Connor said.  He chastised himself for answering The Voice out loud, like a madman mumbling down the streets of Limerick.

“Trained by the Irish Army Rangers, perfected in war,” The Voice taunted. “You’re one of the best.  You’re trying to ease your conscience.” It laughed.  “You’ll never stop.  It’s in your blood and the blood of your family.  Killers all.”

The Voice unnerved him, distracted him.  Lack of focus meant death.

Walking inside the shop, he ordered another cup of the strong, black coffee.  Back outside, he took a burning swallow of the coffee before putting it on the table.  Leaning against the brick wall he struck a match, cupped his hands, and lit up another fag.  The fag relaxed him, while the dark roast sharpened his mind before the client made his appearance.

Taking a long pull on the fag, he straightened, stretching his wiry body.  A very average olive-green tee shirt hid deceivingly strong muscles.

He examined the street again.

Ah, feck to all hell. His eyes narrowed as he saw a beat-up old Chevy stop before a set of railroad tracks at the south end of the block. 

Stop for too long.

He checked his weapons.  Put this to bed before the client arrives.

The Chevy crossed the tracks and turn towards him.  The driver punched the gas pedal, wheels a-squealing and black smoke billowing from its tailpipe.  The Chevy slammed to a stop in front of him.  Four men in the car.  Glaring at him. Skinheads. 

The driver turned to the skinhead in the back passenger seat.

Connor crossed his arms, leaning against the building, waiting.

Heavy Metal blared from the speakers.  Connor watched as the driver turned to the man behind the front passenger seat, yelling, pointing at the car door.  The man in back slinked down in his seat.  The driver reached back, grabbed him by the shirt and screamed at him again, slamming the passenger back in his seat. 

Jesus, I can’t hear a thing with that awful music.  No need, though.  As clear as the nose on my face.

Gang initiation.  That was Connor’s bet.  The fella in the back was a first-timer.

The door bounced opened as the passenger jumped from the car.  The car sped away, door slamming shut, turning west onto Pershing.

Jesus, the little bastard was no more than a lad.  Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Pale, white skin and a shaved head. Red around the eyes.  High on something. 

Shaking, the skinhead pointed a gun at him.  Street gun.  Smith & Wesson 9m.  Cheap and old, yes, but enough to get the job done.

Connor moved away from the wall, raising his hands.  “Easy now, fella.”

“Kill him,” The Voice said.

The boy’s hand shook. “Your fucking wallet.  Now.”

The eyes of the wolf glared at the kid.  He has to go.  Now.  The client could come early.

The killer shook his head with great deliberation.  “No.  I won’t.”  His eyes glowed like hot coals as he watched the boy.

“You can throw his body in the weeds.  Cover him with that car hood,” The Voice whispered.

The boy’s eyes twitched.  “I’m not fucking around.”

“Ye’ll find an empty wallet, lad.  Not a red cent.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

“I’m going to reach for it.   You can look for yourself.”  After digging into his back pocket, Connor threw the wallet in front of the skinhead.     

The boy reached for the wallet. His eyes moved to look inside.

“Who’s your crew?”

The boy looked up, squinting.

“Huh?”

“Your homies. Crew.  Who is it?”

He leaned over, waving the gun in Connor’s face.  “Bomber Boys.  Remember that name.”  His red eyes twitched, from the drugs. His head jerked, rotating like a spinning top, up and down each direction of Eccles.  Eyes quivering and squinting, head twisting and tilting like it will fall off. It’s a wonder the boy can see.

“Grand name.”

The kid looked inside the wallet then back to Connor.  “There’s only fucking credit cards and shit in here.”  His head jerked again to the left and right, up and down the street, eyes twitching.

Coke, meth, crack.  Could be any of the three.  All dangerous.

Connor nodded.  “I said as much.”  He paused.  “You gotta a name?”

“You think I’m stupid I’m going to give you my name? Fuck you.”

Connor shrugged.  “Only making conversation.” He looked to the south end of the block.  “Your lads are back.  By the tracks.”

The boy, bloodshot eyes peering, jaw opened, at last found the tracks.

That damned gun.  It’s getting on me nerves.

The car sped off. The kid’s eyes followed the car. “What?” He sniffed, running his sleeve across his nostrils.  “What the fuck?” His head spun from the tracks on the south and jerked towards Pershing on the north.

Connor grinned, a grin that held no humor.  “You talk too much. They left.” 

The boy rubbed his hand across his shining bald head.  “Shut up.” His eyes twitched from the drugs. Close to needing another fix.  He spun again, looking back toward the tracks, confusion growing on his squalid face. 

Connor’s eyes’ narrowed.  There’s more going on than a simple robbery of one man. He’s looking up and down Eccles. Confused.  Muddled.  Something was off.  What was it?  Think, and do it fast.

“Hell of a crew ye got there, fella.”  Connor kept his grin.

A cocky, nervous smile appeared.  “Bomber Boys be back, you watch.”   He was missing a tooth.  “I think I’ll take these credit cards.”

That was it.  The skinheads. They’re here for someone else. They saw me.  Thought they’d make some extra cash.  The skinheads went off-mission.

Connor’s voice turned dangerous.  “Go.  Now.  I’ve never seen you.” I’m losing time.

“You get out of here.  Or I’ll fucking pop you right here. Boom!” His hand came up, pulling an imaginary trigger with an imaginary recoil.

The wolf took a step forward.

The kid’s dancing eyes opened wide with fear.  He backed up a step.  “I’ll shoot.”

“Ye don’t know how.”  In one move, Connor’s right hand went up, grabbed the gun, and twisted it out of the boy’s hand while his left hand came out with a switchblade, the click of the blade all too clear to the boy.  Connor pressed the tip of the knife to the kid’s balls.

“Sit.”

The boy, shaking, sat, like a puppy beaten by its master. 

Connor sat as well.  He ran the knife up the boy’s torso to under his chin.

Connor smiled, one that would turn a man dead. “Ye made a mistake, lad.  A dire one, I’m afraid.  Ye ran into a fella like me.  Too bad for you.”

“I wasn’t going to shoot you, I swear.”  Connor heard piss trickling onto the sidewalk.

The jackknife broke through the skin. “Who’s coming?  When?”  

A dewdrop of blood dripped onto the boy’s dirty pants.  The boy’s voice was too hoarse to scream.

“Who?”  Teeth clenched, Connor drew the knife across his chin, drawing more blood.

“Them.” He pointed.

At that moment- at that damnable moment- a Crown Vic turned onto Eccles. 

Coppers.  Christ in heaven. “Don’t. Fecking. Move.” Connor tossed the gun into the weeds. He pocketed the jackknife.

“Oh, Jesus.”  Connor thought the boy would cry.

“Quick.  Tell me what’s what.  Lie and I’ll cut your fucking throat.”

The Crown Vic stopped across the street from the coffeeshop.

“We pay for protection.”  The lad’s eyes blinked faster than a dog’s tail wags.

“Your crew’s dealin’?”

The boy nodded. “Other shit, too.  Anything we do, they take their cut.”

Christ.  He had thirty minutes left.

“We’re short, man.  My crew.  So, we brought four. Take care of business.”  For the briefest of moments, he attempted a tough guy face before crumbling.

Jesus.  He’s dumber than he looks.  Take out two cops?

“They’ll kill me.  You gotta help.”

What the feck does he expect me to do against two bent cops?

“Kill them all,” said The Voice.

Connor stared at the boy.  I should walk away. He could cross the tracks and disappear into the labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys of the decrepit old neighborhood. 

The voice whispered to him. “You walk away, you’re a dead man.  The client isn’t the kind to forgive and forget.” 

Connor hesitated, frozen.

He looked at the boy.  Ah, shite.  He’s just a kid.  A lad.

A lad he would need if he wanted to get rid of these two dicks in a hurry.

He leaned into him, ferocious eyes burning. “Listen to me.  I’ll take care of them.  One condition.”

“Anything.  I swear to God I’ll do anything.”  This kid is terrified.

You’re out of the life.”

Connor saw one of the plainclothes adjusting the car mirror. Looking at me, wondering.

The boy’s head shook up and down.

Jesus, if he shakes it any harder it’ll fall off.

“Okay, man, whatever.  Just get me out of this.”

Connor’s voice lowered to a savage whisper.  “You break your promise, I’ll find you.”  He paused, staring at the boy.  “You know what I can do.” 

T’was a keen strategy on Connor’s part.  The boy would pose no threat through what was sure to be an ugly confrontation.  None at all. ‘Tis me he fears now.  He’ll see Saint Peter all the quicker if he fecks me.

“How much do ye owe?”

The boy let out a long breath.  “A thousand.”  Sweat dripped down the boy’s forehead.  “Someone fucked us.  A buyer. It’s not our fault.”

Jesus.  All this for a thousand dollars.  I’d pay them myself if I thought they’d go away.

The wolf growled.  “Don’t talk.  Not a fecking word.  If ye do, I’ll slit yer throat, ear to ear.  Then I’ll kill both of them and leave all three of your dead fecking bodies in the fecking weeds.”

“But what if they…” The boy’s voice trailed off, unable to speak, his voice as thick as dried peat ready for the fire.

He smiled.  “Ask ye something?  Ye sit there like a deaf mute.”

Time was running out.

The two dicks got out of the car.

Crossing his legs, Connor lit up another fag.  He took a sip of his coffee.

He observed the two men. A short fat one wore a brown suit, matching tie, striped, and a well-worn white shirt, frayed, open at the collar.  Red-faced. Forty-five, maybe fifty years old. The badge on his belt ID’d him as Murphy.  A good Irish name for a bent copper.  The other was tall and lean, hair slicked back.  Thin, from too many fags and liquor, yet kept a dangerous look.  Black pants and a checkered sports coat. Also carried an ID.  Scarpino.  A wop.  He never liked those feckers.

Scarpino, the Italian, spoke first, a smile on his face.  His crooked, yellowed teeth matched the color of his gaunt face.  The confidence in his voice dictated that he was in charge. “Morning, sir.”

Connor returned the smile.  “And a fine morning it is, officer.”  He took out his packet of smokes.  “Can I offer either of ye a fag?”

The men looked at each other.  Murphy spoke.  “As much as we might enjoy… a fag,” he said, smirking, “we’ll decline the offer.”

The lad looked as if he would piss his pants again.

“We have police business with this young man. Unfortunately, we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”  Scarpino smiled again.

“Well now, officers, as much as I’d like to, that won’t be possible.”

The two coppers looked at each other. “We weren’t asking,” Scarpino said, his smile growing.

Connor looked at Scarpino’s hands.  Swollen knuckles on massive hands.  A boxer, washed up from the drink and age.  Still, one to be watched.

“You see, the situation I find myself in, officers, is I’ve only now ordered this fine cup of coffee and I’m afraid I can’t leave until I’ve finished.”

Murphy stared at Connor, head tilted.  “Do I got this right? You say you’re not leaving?”

“Exactly right.”  He took another drink, tipping the cup.  “Cuppa Joe has a fine dark roast.”

Murphy took a step towards Connor.  “As much as I’d like to knock that cowboy hat off your head and throw your ass in jail, I’m not one for paperwork.”

Scarpino nodded with that grin that was beginning to get on Connor’s nerves.  “We’ll take Dog with us and leave you to finish your coffee.  Okay, cowboy?”

Connor grimaced.  “Once again, we find ourselves in a… sticky situation.  Dog, as you call him, has business with me.  And until we’ve concluded, I’m afraid I can’t let him leave.”  Connor tilted back his hat.  “So if ye’ll be so kind as to give us a few minutes, we’ll be done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”  Connor smiled.  “And when we’re done, I’ll buy ye both a nice cuppa coffee.”  Connor winked.

The wop looked at the kid, his smile gone.  “Dog.” He flicked his head towards the Crown Vic.  “Get in.”

Dog’s eyes darted back and forth between Scarpino and Connor.

“Hey.”  Murphy took a step towards Connor.  “You’re pushing your luck.”

Scarpino, his grin returning, said, “What my fellow officer means is that we’re gonna arrest your Irish ass right after we knock that fucking cowboy hat off your head.  Capice?”

“Well about me hat…”

Scarpino threw a right hook that caught Connor on the chin, knocking him out of his chair. The coffee went flying as the table fell to the ground.

Connor sat on the cracked sidewalk, momentarily stunned, gathering his wits about him.

There was a time, as a young man, that Connor would drive his jackknife into the copper’s throat, give it a twist, and watch him sink into an Irish bog.  As would his Da to the British during the Troubles, and would his grandpa, a good Fenian.  Killers all.

He was older now, and smarter.

Connor stood, dusting off his cowboy hat.  A mirthless smile appeared on his face as he rubbed his jaw.

 “There was no need for that now, was there?”  He held the hat in the air, examining all sides.  A coffee stain.  A coffee stain on the bloody brim.  He placed the hat on his head, giving it a tilt to the right. He contained his fury.  Good thing for them I’ll be disposin’ of it.

Murphy walked over to Dog.  “What’s this business you have with Irish, here?”  He smacked him on the back of the head.  Dog fell forward, what little color left drained from his face.  He said nothing.

Connor stared at Dog.  Jesus, what a name.

“You’re getting that look,” said The Voice.  “You want to kill, don’t you?”

Still staring at Dog, he said to both coppers, “Dog won’t be tellin’ ye our business.”  He turned to Scarpino.  “It’s me you’ll want to be talkin’ to, fella.”

Murphy and Scarpino exchanged glances.  T’was Connor’s opinion they were clueless on their next step.

With his voice still soft, “I told ye both, I’d buy ye a cuppa coffee.  The deal still holds.”  He paused, his eyes moving to Scarpino. To Murphy.  Back to Scarpino.  “And I know exactly what the term means here in Chicago.” 

Scarpino sneered.  “You do, eh?”

Connor nodded.  “So let’s cut the shite and get down to brass tacks.”

Connor picked up the chair, sat down, and lit up another fag.  “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

Without taking their eyes off Connor, they took two chairs from the other table.  Eyes glaring at him, they sat.

Connor blew smoke through his nostrils.  With cold, dark eyes, he said, “The boy works for me now.  You’re out.”

The two cops stared at him.  Scarpino chuckled.  Murphy joined in.  In a moment their chuckles turned to laughing.  “We’re out? Out?  My man, I don’t think you know how this works.”

Connor reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of fifties, tied together by a rubber band.

Dog stared at the roll.  “What? You said....”

“Shutup, boy.”  He should have asked for my money instead of my wallet, the eejit.

He counted out a thousand dollars, laying it on the coffee table.   “Debt paid.” The money roll went back in Connor’s pocket.

Murphy shook his head.  “Buddy, it’s time you walk away.  The kid and his crew aren’t going anywhere.”

Connor smiled.  “Ye must know it’s comin’.  You’re small time.”  He nodded towards Dog.  “If crews like his are your racket, you’re not my kinda player.”

Scarpino scowled, finger jabbing the table.  “Nothing’s coming.  We’re cops, not-players.  We’re out to make-an honest buck.”

Connor smiled.  “Honest, ye say?”  He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.  “I hope you’re better cops than businessmen.”

Scarpino stared at Connor with his wop eyes.  “How ‘bout we just kill you?”

“Two coppers killing two men in broad daylight. With Mrs. Macyowski lookin’ out the window.”

The two coppers turned to see a heavy-set woman with long gray hair scowling at the four of them.  “Meet Josephine Macyowski, owner of Cuppa Joe’s.  Will ye kill her, too?”  He smiled, tipping his hat to Mrs. Macyowski.  “Personally, I wouldn’t mess with her.  They say she hides a shotgun under the counter.  Never seen it but wouldn’t want to find out.” Scowl still in place, she turned and walked back behind her counter. 

He leaned forward, pulling out the money roll.  “Now.”  He counted out another thousand.  “Here’s a tidy amount more for your troubles.”  The wolf’s eyes glowered.  “And that’s the end of it.”

Scarpino surveyed the street. No one.  He stashed the cash in his pocket.

Murphy leaned across the table.  “You’ll need to come up with more than that, my friend.  Consider it a down payment.”

Connor took a long draw from his smoke, releasing into the air.  He looked at the lad. His eyes turned back to Murphy.  “He’s not worth much more.”

Murphy stared at Connor in his eyes.  “Ten thousand.”

Connor let out a short burst of laughter. “As a general rule, I don’t negotiate.  No sir.”  It’s my position that a man willing to negotiate rarely has a leg to stand on.”  He pursed his lips.
“You’ve done nothing but collect from a piss-pile of gobshites all thick in their heads.  I’ll make them earners.”

“You better rethink your position”, said an agitated Murphy, his face turning liquor-red.

Scarpino turned to Murphy.  “What’s this fuckin’ cabbage-eater talking about?”

Murphy glared at Scarpino.  No, Murphy didn’t like the insult Connor smiled to himself.

Connor allowed an uncomfortable silence hang in the air.  He tapped his smoke, burnt ashes floating to the sidewalk.  “Once- only this once- I’ll negotiate, to show my respect for the law.” He took a long draw of the fag before releasing it.  “I’ll give ye five.”

For the first time, Connor saw the uncertainty in their eyes, their petty bravery overcome by the third of the Seven Deadly Sins, the sin of Greed.

A wary Murphy tapped his knee.  “Try again.”

“I’ll not.”  A tight smile crossed Connor’s face.  Good.  Make another next offer.  Show me your greed, you cop bastards.

Without looking at his partner, Scarpino spat out, “Eight.”

Murphy’s head jerked towards Scarpino with a “what the fuck” look.”  Good.  I’m breaking up the team.

“Well, I don’t have much cash on me so there’s that.  So, for the trouble, I’ll raise the offer to six.”

“Nine.”

The cold eyes of Connor Lonnigan stared at the two coppers.  “I said six.  The negotiations are over.”

The two cops huddled up.  Connor couldn’t hear the conversation, but could tell it was heated.  All the better.

Murphy spoke for the both.  “You’re lucky we’re not raising our offer.  He’s worth at least ten.”

Connor’s cold eyes did not leave the men.  “If ye make me another offer, I’ll lower mine.” He leaned forward.  “I. Don’t. Negotiate.”

Murphy’s neck craned forward.  “Is that a joke?  You think we’re stupid?”

“Well now.  As a matter of fact, I do.  Anyone who deals with our man Dog here must be touched in the head.”  He smiled.

“You Irish Fuck.”  Scarpino scrambled for his gun.  Murphy grabbed Scarpino’s gun arm.  “Tony, no. put it away.”

Connor crushed the fag under his foot and took out another.  “I’d advise you to listen to your partner.” 

His eyes watching Scarpino, Connor stood. “Ye’ll wait here, and I’ll fetch it.”

Scarpino shook his head, hatred for the Irishman growing.  “We’ll go together.  Including Dog.  And we’ll search you before we go.”

“I’d expect nothing less, officers.”

They all stood, including Dog.  Murphy searched Connor, patting him down.  Squeezed his balls, as well, which Connor would not forget.

 Murphy pulled the jackknife from Connor’s pocket, smiling.  “Souvenir from Ireland.”  The copper flipped it into the air, caught it, and slipped it into his pocket.        

Connor burned.  The present from me da.

Scarpino slapped the cuffs on Dog.

Dog looked wild-eyed at Connor, still not talking, scared shitless. 

“The boy goes free.” He’s as good as dead if he gets in that car.

“Come again?” said Scarpino.

Connor stared at him, the eyes of the killer that he was, slowly appearing.  “The boy walks.  Now.  Or ye won’t see a feckin’ nickel.”

The lad’s frightened eyes darted back and forth between the two men.

“Enough of this shit.”  Murphy grabbed the boy in a headlock, and, pulling out his Sig, pressed it against his temple.  He pushed him towards the car.  “Get in.”  He looked up at Connor.  “He goes with us.”

Tears streamed down the kid’s face. Looking at Connor, he said, “Please. I’ll go. They’ll only find me later.”

“I’m tellin’ ye once, let the boy go.  The boy gets in that car? Ye’ll get nothin’.”  He stared at Scarpino.  “Ye both know it.” 

Murphy and Scarpino looked at each other, Scarpino giving the slightest of nods.  Murphy returned the nod.

Connor had them.  On the hook like a fine salmon.

Murphy uncuffed him. He slapped him on the back of the head.  “Get outta here.”

Dog bolted like a rabbit.

Connor smiled to himself. 

“If anything happens to the boy, I’ll know.”  He left it at that.

Scarpino took out his cuffs.  “Turn around.”

Connor eyed him.  Cold.  Deadly.  “There will be no cuffs on me.”

“You’ll do as you’re told.”

Connor grinned in a manner that showed no humor.  “You’re most welcome to try.”

The two men, vicious each, stared at each other.

Ye greedy fecks, ye’ll not cuff me and ye know it.

Scarpino, still staring, put away his cuffs.  “You fucking move in that back seat, you’re dead.”

“Good man,” Connor smiled.   “Off we go, then.”

They’ll kill me in my flat if I give them that cash. 

“Greed is a terrible sin,” said The Voice.  “Two bent coppers won’t be missed. It fits your… standards.”

Scarpino pushed Connor into the back of the Crown Vic.  Murphy took the passenger seat.  Scarpino drove.

Scarpino looked in his rearview mirror.  “Where to?”

“My flat.  South on Eccles.  A five-minute drive.”

He wouldn’t need five minutes.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  He’d make his meet.

He had friends in a Mexican cartel.  A batch of Mexican Soup, for a price, would dispose of the bodies within three hours.  The right amount of lye would do that to a man. They’d handle the car as well.

Best wait till they got to the alley. As vacant as vacant could be.   Stuff the bodies in the trunk.  The cartel would take care of things from there.

“Are we clear on who we are now?” asked The Voice.

Connor’s face relaxed, his breath slowing.

I’m a killer. 

Scarpino slowed at the stop sign.  The one by the alley.

Murphy looked out the window.

Connor’s hand slid down his leg.  Into his boot.

Yes, they should have checked his boot.

And that was that.