“Life goes on,” Jonathan said as they left the pub, walking out into the cold dark. He took a smoke from his pack and handed it to Jim, who hesitated a moment before drawing one out and placing it between his lips. Jonathan took out his Zippo and lit his brother’s smoke before his own, inhaling as the leaves caught aflame. “Life goes on, and there’s work to do.”

“What sort of work?” Jim asked.

“Debt collection,” Nigel, who had joined them as they left the pub, said with a grin plastered over his lopsided face; a scar on his right side where the ear should be, his nose crooked, a faded scar at the corner of his mouth from being fish hooked.

“Debt collection?”

“Martin Blake owes us a good bit of money, and he’s not paid up yet,” Jonathan adds.

“So, we’re going to force the issue?”

“That’s my boy.” And they’re off, walking and talking and smoking through a residential area, expensive cars and apartments with million pound leases. They find what may be the most costly townhouse there and Jonathan knocks on the door before taking a step back. A couple beats and a woman, blonde hair and too much surgery, opens the door.

“Yes?” She says, the subtext being that it’s late and why the fuck are you hoods here?

“Is Mister Blake in?” Jonathan asks in a faux-Cockney accent that is surprisingly menacing.

“Martin,” she yells and there he is, tall but thin in every sense: thinning hair, thin build, thin features.

“Go back to bed, sweetie,” he says, not moving his eyes from the four of them, his voice distant.

“Martin?”

“Go back to bed,” and it’s an order she’s not willing to deny.

“Evening, gov’na,” Jonathan says.

“What do you want?”

“You fucking well know what I want, Blake,” Jonathan said, dropping the accent. “Take a walk with us.” Bill grabs the man’s shoulders and leads him out so he can’t refuse. Nigel closes the door and they set off down the block, Blake flanked by Bill and Nigel, Jonathan ahead, leading, and Jim to the rear, his hand in his pocket, idly tracing the knuckle duster's outline.

Jim, he knows where this is heading. This guy is old money, bored with his life, drugs are beneath him, women of the night too risky, so he goes to Jonathan and bets money that doesn’t just belong to him, but his wife, kids, whole family, bets the money on rugby and football matches, hoping for one big score, for a thrill to liven the ennui. And so he comes into Jonathan’s world.  Jim's heart is racing just thinking about what's to come.

* * *

Karen’s stirring. Murmurings from her dream’s aftermath. Coughing, moaning once she’s aware enough of her body to feel that pain in her head, sharp, electric. The cotton she must have swallowed as she slept. Pam was drinking her fourth cup of tea when she noticed.

Dawn.

* * *

“Marty, dear Marty, you, of all fucking people, should know how this works,” Jonathan said as he paced back and forth before the shaking and sobbing Blake. “The shake-down, it’s a time-honored ritual, and we’ve been through this before. We threaten you, rough you up if that doesn’t work, and in the end, you give us the money, and that’s that. So, you want to get down to the paying up or shall we go through the motions?”

“I just-”

“Just need some more time? That it?”

“Yeah, Johnny, just a bit more.”

“Hey, Jim,” Jonathan said.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you and Mister Blake here have some fun.”

* * *

“God in heaven, how much did I have to drink last night?” Karen asked when she finally came too and joined Pam at her kitchen table, one cup of coffee at the ready.

“I think we went through two bottles of wine last night, so you had at least one to yourself,” Pam said before blowing on her steaming up of tea and taking a sip.

“And how the hell are you so bright and cheery?”

“Didn’t actually get to sleep last night.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, just-”

“Some stuff on your mind?” Karen interrupted.

“I guess.”

“Just remember what I said last night.”

“Do you remember what you said last night?”

“I remember the gist of it. What I wanted to say. Follow your gut, and you’ll be golden. Just remember what I told you.”

“Thanks, Karen.”

“Of course.”

With a begrudged smile, Karen leaves for home, to bathe and sleep away the hangover. When she’s alone, Pam turns on a radio to classical music, soft strings and piano

* * *

“Look at you, man,” Jim said, pointing to the crying Blake. “You’re fucking pathetic. I just want to have a word with you real quick. You be cool, you’ll be fine. Where do you work?”

This was the game, the rush Jim got on the rare occasion at Dunder-Mifflin when he got a great sale, when the mark didn’t want to buy, didn’t want to consider buying, but Jim just worked up the mark and made him sign on the dotted line.

“I don-” Blake mumbled.

“I asked you a question, Martin,” Jim said in a soft tone that was also forceful.

Blake mumbled another half answer. With speed that impressed both Bill and Nigel, Jim smacked Blake with the back of his hand. A slight trickle of blood came forth from his lips.

“I work under the Minister of Constitutional Affairs. Please, don’t hit me again.”

“I wouldn’t have had to hit you the first time had you just answered the fucking question,” Jim yelled, before taking a quick breath and calming. “You hear that, Johnny?”

“Buddy works in the government. Nice job, few responsibilities, probably.”

“Yeah, but you remember what our Pop used to say.”

“What’s that?”

“A favor can be more valuable than gold.”

“I believe he did say something like that.”

“Yeah. Now, you’ve got yourself here at bonefide government employee. There has to be someway this pathetic piece of trash can do something for you. That is, if you were to decide and give him an extension on his debt.”

“I don’t know about that, Jimmy-boy. He owes us a good bit of money, and he’s already behind on payments.”

“No doubt. Fucker probably has to lie to his wife and tell her it’s for his mistress, but just think about it. This guy is relatively high-up. There’s a wealth of things you could get him to do for you.”

“You know, I think you’re right. What do you think, Marty? Two week extension for a favor payable at some unidentified point in the future?”

“Yeah,” he said in a rush, “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Of course, Johnny. Anything.”

“Alright then,” Jonathan said, holding out his hand. Blake eagerly took it and shook vigorously. “Good, now. Run on home.”

Blake complied.

* * *

Some more drink in him, Jim spent the majority of the flight asleep, his head against the cold window, the hum of the engines and fellow passengers and he dreams of a girl with curly hair and red cheeks and not the girl he might have broke up with some hours before. The dream is him and her in a club, dark like an opium den, smoke curling under the dim lights, and Charles Chinaski is on stage, playing softly on his trumpet. That’s the dream, and he’s not too sure about it’s meaning, if it has one, but then there’s the pain in his side and it’s Jonathan and he’s bleary-eyed and he’s saying, “Time to buckle-up.” Bill and Nigel are across the aisle, calm and they’ve both just woken up.

“Captain says we’ll be landing in just a bit.”