“This him?”

       “Yeah, that’s him alright.”  The words were lazy, scornful.

       Bugsy stared ahead, eyes fixed upon a shadow cowering in a corner of the dock.  He beckoned the man forward with a curl of his left pinky and brushed a speck of lint off his immaculate charcoal suit.

        “My boys tell me you been causing some trouble.” 

        “No, no,” the little man stammered.  “Not me, Mr. Siegel.  I swear, it ain’t true.”

Bugsy sighed theatrically.  “Joey, have I not been good to you?  Have I not protected you from all them thugs and thieves out there?”

“Yes, Mr. Siegel. You been real good to me.”  The words tumbled out of his trembling mouth.

“So this is how you repay me?  Stealing from me, messing with the books?”  Bugsy snapped his fingers and a damning stack of account books appeared.

Joey dropped his head low.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Siegel.  I needed the money.  My wife, the kids…” He was sobbing now.  It was pathetic.

I felt sorry for him.  How much had he stolen and what did he need the money for?  Not that it mattered, not to Bugsy at any rate.  I opened my mouth to say something nice, a whisper of comfort for the poor fool.  But I didn’t.  He wouldn’t have heard me anyway.

I slithered down the wooden planks, to the other side of Bugsy.  I didn’t need to see what would happen next -- a warning, some threats, a broken bone or two.  I could hear it now, the pummeling of fists into Joey’s soft flesh, the sickening crack of an arm or a leg.  Whatever was handy.  They would leave him gasping, his body purpled by their knuckles and his mind crushed by their threats.

I’d seen it so often I was numb to their pain, a silent witness to Bugsy’s justice.  And yet sometimes the casualties moved me and I grumbled a smothered protest.  Bugsy never paid attention, just marched right past me like I wasn’t even there.

Sometimes I think he forgot I existed.

They were getting to the end.  The punches were growing lighter, less frequent.  Bugsy must be getting bored.  It would be time to leave soon.  But no, he surprised me, spoke again in his throaty voice.

“Aaah Joey.  I wish I could believe you, you and your promises.  But your dishonesty, it hurts me.  So I don’t got any other choice.”

I gasped at the familiar words.  Not him, I implored.  He’s weak, no match for you.  Leave him be, give him another chance.

No one heard me.  Joey’s shrieking pleas murdered all other noise.

Bugsy lumbered forward, hauling me along like an unwilling puppet.  I dragged my feet, tried to slow him down.  I was too weak to hold him back.  He stalked ahead in slow steps, smearing my face against wet wooden pillars wrapped with rusty metal chains. 

The indifference hurt.

I reached out my silhouette to touch him, out of concern, or maybe pity.  Bugsy stepped ahead to eclipse me.  I tried once more, ran along the walls, threw myself in front of his poor victim.  Bugsy never batted an eye, just nodded once.  The bullet exploded into the air.

Joey’s blood splattered like a geyser.  Hot and runny, it seeped into me.  Then it was time to clean up, dispose of the evidence.  The blood was mopped, the body wrapped, shrouded in a sad bundle of old blankets.  A tuft of black hair poked out from a tear in the fabric.

Into the water it plunged, a splash and it disappeared, deep into the murky abyss.  They wiped the gun free of prints, tossed it in without a thought.  No loss, they had plenty more.

No one minded me.  Shunted into the corner, I cried a silent threnody.  The cold ground soothed me like the touch of an old friend.  It had become a ritual, this horror.  I’d given up hope it would ever end.  Oh, maybe someday they’d catch him, put him on trial for all his crimes.  Then he’d be condemned for life, imprisoned in a dungy cell.  Not that it’d matter.  Bugsy was Bugsy, no matter where he happened to be.  I should know, I was always with him.  We were bound for life, him and me.  If Bugsy went to jail, then of course I would follow.  

It wasn't easy, being his shadow.