“Did you get the information I wanted, Norris?”
“N-no. Not yet.” He was trying very hard not to perspire, show fear. But Casey drew it out of him. He *fed* off of it. “I guess… you heard about the beaver?”
“The beaver is not of my concern,” Casey said mechanically. His whole tone of voice was drained of emotion. Casey knew that Jeffrie Phillips would soon be reading this blog post and catching up with him. He needed to stay one, preferably several steps ahead in the game. And we’re not talking about Grand Theft Auto here, ridiculous bank heists and shite.
Norris continued to stare forward into the red curtains. He’d been doing this for as long as he could remember. Weeks, maybe months. Years, even. He had *hoped* that Casey would stare straight ahead as well and not at him. But he could repeatedly sense what felt like two laser beams burning into the back of his head. Cheater! Trying to extract the needed information that, yes indeed, he had. Prison schematics.
But Casey already knew this.
The suspiciously tanned man moves forward on his couch and leans toward Norris’ head, his mouth not half a foot from an ear now. “There’s a par three at the back nine of my club,” Casey hisses menacingly, “where the flag pole sometimes goes missing when I make my holes in one.” He withdraws from Norris and gets up to take his leave. “You think about that over the next several days.”
Norris finally couldn’t help himself. “Don’t… *look* at me,” he said weakly.
“You have until Monday to get me that information, Norris. ” Then he was gone, silent as a cat.
Karoz Blogger was next for a visit.