The man’s pile of newspapers were soggy and he wasn’t waking up. I reached for the bottle and grabbed it. His fingers tightened.
“Wha da ‘ell do you wan’?” The words came out garbled. He cracked open his eyes and looked around at the thirty or so people, all with guns pointed at him. He shrugged, picked up another bottle and drank down several gulps, then closed his eyes and lay back down.
“If your goin’ da kill me, do it now, you blockin’ da light,” he muttered.
“Are you Benjamin Bailey?” Zacharias asked. The man opened his eyes again. He looked up at Zacharias and saw what he was. He shrugged and closed his eyes.
“I ain’t goin to do it, kill me or not. I don’ care,” he muttered. I leaned down.
“We’re not here to kill you Ben, we need your help,” I said. The guy shrugged.
“Help ain’t for free, see dat bottle o’ fine champagne right dere, can you get it to me?” he asked. There was a bottle of champagne about half an inch from his outstretched fingers. He was too lazy to even reach for it. I thrust it into his wobbly hands.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish