Truth

A silhouette in an old fashioned hat leaned outside the brightly lit window, smoking an obscure brand of cigarette. The man's nonchalance was remarkable, considering the climb he'd had to make to attain the seventh story fire escape. Within, his reward seemed to be in the offing.

"The job on Mark Cedars went off like a charm. We just went with your plan and it was smooth as a baby's bottom."

A cough followed. These brainy types do not object to the cash of their inferiors, but talking to them was often a burden.

"Of course it went well, moja podruja, my plans always do." He could almost picture the uplifted eyebrow of the man within. One man wondering whether "moja podruja" qualified as fighting words, and the other wondering at his own patience.

"Well Professor, your money will be deposited as planned. Seeya around!"

The door slammed loudly. There was the tinkle of beverage preparation and a sigh or two from the lone man within.

"I wonder," the professor began, talking to himself as he often did (finding himself the most intelligent and remarkable man of his acquaintance), "when I should do away with that little man."

The silhouette finally stirred, shaking out the match of second cigarette, and spoke. "Perhaps another day, Professor. I believe much of your calendar will be filled for the coming years."

A gasp, a smash, and the splash of displaced alcohol. A scramble for a a gun, perhaps.

He stepped into full view and tapped his cigarette on the intellectual's windowsill, the ashes fluttering down to the rich carpet inside. "You pull that gun and I'll give me an excuse to drill you right between the eyes."

The drawer closed and he flopped back into his chair, a beaten man.