“I don’t like meeting down here,” says Richard, when Gordo turns out of the shadows.
“Mute point.”
“Huh?”
“The Senator says we meet down here, we do. You don’t like it, that’s a mute point.” Water dripped and echoed, a lonely sound in the tunnels. Ricky smirked.
“Moot point, moron. And the way the hearings are going, what the Senator wants, that might soon be moot, also.” He lit his pipe. “Strippers. Call girls. Cash in paper bags. Zoning laws appearing out of nowhere. The papers are ablaze, Gordo. The Internet fairly drips with glee. All those,” his voice quivered in mock horror, “nasty underworld ties.”
“Mute point. The newspapers don’t investigate the Senator, the sub-committee does. Starts with closed door testimony next Monday.”
“It’s ‘moot point’, muscle head, for the last time, ‘moot’.” Richard sighed. “I suppose I’ll be called.”
Gordo nodded. “Third. One of the Senator’s ladies got hold of a copy of the witness list. Those girls know a few tricks, even when they’re standing up.”
Richard came off his casual lean on the tunnel wall and straightened himself indignantly. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin at Gordo. “Well, assure the Senator that nothing I know will ever make it into testimony. I can keep my mouth shut.”
Gordo drew a Mauser automatic and shot him three times in the chest.
“Mute point.”
John Jasper Owens lives in the South, where he offers unpublished fiction and humor at low, low prices.
