The door slammed shut as PI Rick Smith sauntered into the black gray and rather empty room. “Alright, Scott, who put ya’ up to this?” He pressed with a heavy New York accent as he reached into his pocket and slipped a cigarette into his mouth.

Scott’s limbs shook uncontrollably as a cold sweat drenched his face. He cupped his hands on the table and pleaded “I-I- really don’t know, a note slipped under tha’ door and I- I didn’t question it”.

Rick took a long draw from his cigarette as he slowly positioned his hand over the holster that sat loosely on his right hip.

“I s-swear I never knew nothin’.”

The quiet room was filled with a loud smack as the end of Ricks pistol struck Scott’s forehead. “Nothin? Let me take a second to remind you exactly who I am. Rick Smith, biggest name in PI, and you, Scotty, are at my-“ he wound back his arm hoisting the butt of his gun high in the air, throwing it directly upon Scotts wrist, “Mercy,” he finished.

Scott’s face flourished into a vibrant red as he desperately tried to suppress his screams. The only sound that escaped the iron clasp of his lips was a short whimper, “P-p-please…”

“Let me ask you again: Who put you up to this?”

“B-b-bi…” he stuttered, cupping his bleeding hand with a tear streaming down his face.

“Big Tommy.”

Scott shuddered at the presence of the name within the interrogation room. “Don’t tell em’ Smith, please. Don’t tell em’ I told ya’. He’ll kill me for sure. The last guy that sold him out-“

“Was thrown into the Hudson chained to cinderblocks. Yeah, I remember. You just better hope he doesn’t catch you. Or you’ll be…” He smoothly turned and pressed the barrel of his gun at Scott’s head and pulled the trigger. Scott, horrified, flinched as the firing mechanism let out a quiet click. “Toast.” A slight grin cracked across Ricks face as he turned towards the door from where he entered.

Scott took in deep, heaving breaths gasping for air as his hands frantically examined where the gun was aimed. It took him a lifetime to realize he wasn’t dead. With defeated, pitiful, bloodshot eyes, Scott peered up at Rick, praying for salvation.

Rick reached within his coat and unveiled a glistening silver flask and guided it to the table, sliding it across directly into Scott’s hands. He reached into his pocket and slipped another cigarette into his mouth before walking towards the window, “You know, Scotty,” he paused to light his cigarette, “Its hard to see things like this. So many guns, so much violence destroying the streets of my New York.”

Quivering, he lifted the flask to his lips, letting the warmth of the drink fill his chest. It was the only comfort he’d had in the last 48 hours. “Do ya’ think I did it because I'm a bad guy?” Scott graced his lips with the flask once again.

Taking a draw from his cigarette, Rick filled the air with a thick musk of his smoke once more. “Why else would ya do it Scotty? You’ve got to fix yourself, get a job, a wife, a few kids while you’re at it, let em’ play sports, draw, sing” he ranted as he placed his right arm on the table where Scott rested.

Filled with witless courage, Scott stood from his seat and snapped back, “Is that what you did? You had yourself a hot wife and a couple of good lookin’ kids. And how’d that all work out for ya’? You got ‘em all killed.” Wide-eyed and furious, Scott took a step towards Rick. “They’re all dead and there’s no one to blame but you. No one. You’re no better than me, or even Big Tommy” he ripped from the top of his lungs, burning holes in Rick with his enraged eyes.

Rick took a deep breath and spat the cigarette from his mouth. He cocked back his gun and pressed it against Scott’s forehead, the momentarily silent room was filled with a crack of thunder that echoed as Scott’s limp body fell against the cold concrete floor.

“You’re right, maybe I'm