Jack sat down with his backer to hash over some little details in the dimly lit, lesser-known jazz club. The whole affair must have been smaller than his flat, but he didn't mind; the wine was aged and the food was southern. A band was up on stage, cueing up for what must have been one of there final songs, due to the late -or early- hour. He chose a seat near the back door, half-sheathed in darkness, and sat down on the darker side. He motioned for drinks, then laid a little envelop on the table. There it was, his pride and joy. the work that had taken him months to accrue. His guest laid down a pistol on top of it.

"Goodbye, Jack."

His accomplice entered through the backdoor, and swiftly handled Jack. The club paused for a moment, then resumed as if nothing had happened; such was the business of Blues Alley.

Jack's guest took a sip of wine, and slipped out the door, envelop in hand.