Polite words served up with a straight razor

close-shave“Ah. Doctor Martin. You’re early, or I’d not have been moving about so close during your grand entrance.”

As usual for Dubin, polite words served up with a straight razor.

And unfortunately, as usual for me, incoherent babbling.

“My what? Early? For what?”

“I don’t have time for you to sort things out on your own, my good doctor, so I’ll elaborate, boring as it is. Your bumbling associates have traded your skills for their skins.” He looked around, and one of the four, no five, large over-coated gents moved an ancient oak chair closer. Another shoved a smaller chair behind me, pushing it against the backs of my knees.

I dropped onto the chair. Dubin sat, and continued. “I’ll begin our conversation by ensuring I have your attention.” He beckoned with a finger, and another of the thugs pulled out an iPad.

This is an excerpt from Into the Fog To read the whole story, get your copy at Amazon.

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