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The letter had no return address. That’s what first gave him pause, made him put the phone down with a clank onto the receiver, made the blood rush cool through his veins. He remembered the last obscure piece of mail he had received, the inky stamp inside of it, the mark of death. He saw John, in his mind’s eye, blue in the morgue. On the front of the parchment, it read TO THE GYPSY KING in a tight, printed font. He sat in the leather chair, slit the letter open with the knife in his pocket. And he recognized the writing before he made out the words.
Tommy,
Here’s the thing, right, and you might have guessed it by now. Hope you’ve done, seeing as I’m the one with the new orifice they had to sew up like a child’s ravaged ragdoll and if anyone in this particular situation has an excuse for not picking up on subtleties best bet would be on me: I aren’t fucking dead. You scraped your shot, you bloody Bum bastard, and now thanks to your slippery fingers I’ve got meself significantly reduced vision and you know what? I'd still make that fucking shot. A bloke’s gotta do every fucking thing hisself if he want’s it done right, isn’t that the truth of it. That was my mistake, putting faith in a specky little tosser like yourself, just figured, well, the fucker got Sabini between the eyes with a bullet in his chest, can’t imagine he’d fail to follow through- the fuck was that about, anyway, Tommy? Cat’s got your trigger now, as well as your tongue? Sentiment is for fools and children, boy.
Your mistake was not upholding your end of our deal, which was a simple one at that, difficult to fucking misinterpret. You shoot me in the head, right, and then take care of my dog, which is the least a man can do. It’s fucking code, isn’t it. Forgot too that you gypsies don’t hold nothing sacred. Mine other mistake. I’m assuming the worst of you per previous experience (really, you should be fucking practicing your aim or summat instead of spending all your time piddling your money away on fancy things) I’d say not to take it personally, but you really ought to, mate.
I’ve spent quite a lot of time considering whether I should send some men round for you, but I will admit, there is one looming doubt, and I’ll tell you what it is. It is a very slim chance, right, I’d wager there’s a higher probability of me having already descended and actually sat here stewing over possible revenge in the underworld, that you do actually have my dog. But if I’m not yet in hell and I didn’t want to be even more fucking certain that I was headed there, I can’t very well do that, can I, on accounts of you being such a poor fucking shot, because you might likely end up hitting my fucking dog instead, and then his blood would be on mine hands. I’d say we have enough of that already, you and me, Tommy. Wouldn’t you?
Look after my dog. Go and fucking find him if needs be. You owe me an eye, and the moment I can rise from this godforsaken bed, I expect you to come and deliver it. And tell my nurse I despise chamomile, vile shit, that is, makes a man wish you’d shot out his tongue instead. If you’re dead by now, punch my father in the nose, from me. Or hit him with something you don’t have to aim too much. A plank or summat, if they have those down below.
Not entirely kind regards,
Solomons
P.s- even if it is hell I’m in, I awoke on home’s doorstep.
P.s.s- Cyril is partial to black pudding.
Tommy read the letter twice, had to, because he was so stunned. He had shot Solomons through the fucking face, whatever criticisms the ghost had thrown at him, it was simply… impossible. It was impossible. He read it once more, let out a short huff of breath as he reached the end. Then he shook his head, rustling the letter in his hands like that would tell him what to do with it.
“Fucking Alfie,” he muttered, under his breath, half a curse and half admiration, and shut the letter in a drawer.