Snitch World by Jim Nisbet

quality.
    And Klinger? Klinger was in the position nine-tenths of humanity finds itself in, which is, if you’re not spending money, nobody returns your calls.
    Such is the little bifurcation as I’m allowed, Klinger was thinking to himself, one or two bifurcations later, from the path of righteousness, onto the path of a little greater righteousness. I don’t even have a driver’s license anymore. Why should I be held to account? If you come to a fork in the road, Yogi Berra is reputed to have said, take it. But as Klinger saw the scenario, if you come to a fork in the road, take it to a pawnshop. Good whiskey or bad, if I don’t get out of these clothes soon, I—.
    “Hey,” the bartender said again. “You in there?”
    Klinger, recollecting himself to the present, blinked. The mug was still poised in front of his face, the balance of its contents warming him from within. The Chinese clock told him it was five minutes after one in the morning.
    “I’m here,” Klinger declared. “Where else would I be?”
    The bartender nodded. “Guy who’s been buying your drinks?”
    Klinger waited.
    “He’d like a word.”
    Klinger slid his eyes down the bar. Game in abeyance, the two mumblety-peg players leaned on the bar, talking. The third guy had his back to Klinger.
    “Sure,” Klinger said. “About what?”
    The bartender smiled. “I have no idea.” And he set about loading spent shot glasses into the little under-counter washing machine.
    Klinger roused himself to call down the bar. “Hey.” The three men looked his way. “Thanks.” Klinger raised his drink. “What’s up?”
    The guy seated on the stool gestured.
    Klinger took his drink down there.
    The guy was bigger than he had looked from the other end of the bar. So were his friends.
    “Klinger,” he said to the guy who might be thought of as generous.
    “Tommy,” the guy said. Tommy and Klinger shook hands, each clasping the other’s hand as if it were the handle on a stein of beer. The mumblety-peg players weren’t introduced.
    “I gotta piss,” one of them abruptly said. “Me too,” agreed the other. They made themselves scarce.
    Klinger watched them go.
    “You’re friend a Frankie Geeze,” Tommy said.
    Klinger didn’t freeze, exactly, but he assumed a mantle of caution. “That’s true,” he allowed. “Spent a little time with Frankie just this morning,” he added, “as it happens. We had breakfast.”
    “I seen ya,” Tommy said. “That’s why I asked Bruce, there,” he indicated the bartender, “to speak to ya. I got a little job. Real little.” Tommy squinted. “You need a little job?”
    “Depends,” Klinger lied by way of hedging. “I like little. Big stresses me out.”
    “Yeah,” Tommy smiled. “Stress sucks.”
    Klinger managed a smile, too. “How little?”
    Tommy shrugged. “Little cab ride, little delivery, another cab ride, a little payoff. Like that.”
    Klinger nodded.
    “I’m fronting cab fare.” Tommy produced a wad sufficiently fat that extracting its thickness from the side pocket of his leather jacket gave him an awkward moment. He peeled three twenties off it, laid them on the bar, and, not far away, he laid down a hundred-dollar bill. “When you get back, the C-note is yours.”
    Klinger glanced toward the clock. “It’s—.”
    “Not to worry,” Tommy told him. “The light’ll be off but the door will be open. Just knock.” He rapped the knuckles of the wad-burdened fist on the bar, one-two, one-two, one. “Bruce likes to have a couple of belts after hours.” He chucked Klinger lightly on the shoulder with the same knuckles. “He likes company, too.”
    “Occupational hazard,” Klinger nodded.
    “Wanna bump?” Tommy asked him.
    Klinger shook his head. “I can’t handle the crank,” he said, “Shit burns too much.”
    “Who said anything about fuckin’ crank?” Tommy spoke as if his feelings were hurt.
    “Oh, well,” Klinger said. “In that case …”
    “Wait’ll