Free Wet Work - A Greg Kelton Short Story by Brian Springer Page A

his
chest, palms out. He was breathing in ragged spurts and his face
was a dark shade of crimson. His eyes held equal parts fear and
hatred.
    Kelton relaxed the pressure slightly but
didn’t release his grip. He reached around Henry’s waist with his
free hand. With a quick tug, he pulled a six-inch SpyderCo knife
with a serrated edge from the waist of Henry’s sagging jeans and
tossed it on the roof of the library.
    Kelton was just about to release Henry
without harming him further when he felt the young man’s body tense
in anticipation of some sort of an attack.
    Shaking his head slightly, Kelton released
Henry’s throat and kicked him in front of the knee with the tip of
his heavy work boot. Henry’s upper body leaned forward just a bit,
and Kelton hit him in the center of the chest with a closed
fist.
    Henry stumbled backwards a few steps before
slamming into the side of his car. He sat down heavily and held an
arm to his chest. He had a pained look on his face that grew more
intense every time he took a breath.
    Kelton waited to see what Henry’s cronies
would do before making his next move. After a few seconds of
silently glancing at one another, one of the three kids turned and
walked over to Henry. The other two soon followed. Kelton relaxed
his guard.
    Kelton held his ground as the three friends
helped Henry into the car and sped off, shouting curses as they
left. Only after they disappeared around the corner did he turn and
start walking.

 
     
    2
    Kelton stopped at his regular haunt, a bar
called The Garage, for a couple of drinks before heading back home.
The place was nearly empty, as usual, with just a couple of locals
minding their own business at the bar, drowning away their sorrows.
Kelton ordered a pitcher of Guinness and headed for a table near
the rear of the bar, right next to the emergency exit, giving him a
clear view of the entire room. He didn’t expect any trouble but had
long ago conditioned himself to not take any unnecessary
chances.
    Kelton had just started on his first glass
of beer when an unfamiliar man dressed in an expensive suit stepped
into the bar and headed back towards Kelton without so much as a
pause. He was smoking a cigarette and carrying himself as though he
had a specific purpose in mind. His haggard, wrinkled face pegged
him at around 65 years old but he carried himself like a much
younger man. And his eyes shone like those of a teenager, full of
mischief, like you were the punchline of some joke only he
knew.
    Kelton just sat there, instinctively
knowing that the man was here to see him. He wasn’t concerned—there
was no threatening vibes coming from the old man—but he was curious. He wasn’t a man that
got approached often, and never without a legitimate
reason.
    The old man took one final hit of his
cigarette, dropped it on the floor, and stepped on it. He blew the
smoke out and covered the final couple of steps to Kelton’s
table.
    “ Hello,” the old man said pleasantly.
“How are you doing tonight?”
    “ Better than you,” Kelton said, not
missing a beat. It was his standard greeting whenever someone asked
him that question. Normally it was someone he already knew. But he
saw no need to change things up just because he was talking to a
stranger.
    Walter looked glanced at the surroundings.
“Oh, I beg to differ.”
    “ Beg all you want,” Kelton said. “It
won’t change anything.”
    The old man laughed.
    “ What’s so funny?” Kelton
said.
    “ You are, Mr. Kelton. I mean, I’d
heard you were a bit of a callous man, but to be able to pull an
exchange like that off so adroitly . . . I must say I’m impressed.
And that doesn’t happen often, I assure you.”
    Kelton felt a tickle of concern that the old
man knew his name but didn’t let it show. There was no reason to
admit weakness. Ever. Better to feign strength. Or at least
belligerence. “Who are you and what do you want from me?”
    “ My name is Walter and I would like to
inquire as