The room went silent, the sound of a chirping cricket was ominously absent. The converted coil storage warehouse creaked as the wind buffeted the wooden roof, as did the chairs under the leather-clad butts of burly drunkards. The bartender took two glasses from underneath the bar and started cleaning one with a soiled cloth. “They’re not falling for it anymore, Matt.”

“Yeah!” Yelled a voice from one corner.

“Do you think we’re stupid?” Shouted another.

“You were.” Said a large man while pointing at his embarrassed friend.

A sinewy old geyser vibrated to his feet, muscles like pearls on a string stretched his bleak skin showing the muscle fibres underneath. His thinning grey beard muffled his words. “We’re not gonna hit you, Matt! Once we do, you lock us up and make us tell ya embarassin things we don’t want t’, or you send us to the mines… like old Smillie.”

A few men took off their caps and pressed them on their hearts, they muttered a collective “Poor Smillie”.

Matt waved Whitt inside. They walked to the bar. “To be fair,” Matt said. “Smillie killed two of your friends for sleeping with his wife, and you called me in to stop him from beating the rest of you with the very chairs you’re sitting on.” Matt winked at the bartender. “I could get him an early release if you guys want?”

“Said he liked it at the mines.” Yelled someone.

“Good for the soul out there.” Added a small man near the front door.

“Better for his wife as well…lovely woman.”

“Lovely woman.” They chorused.