The Butterfly Lanai

Mr. K's tough-guy talk trailed off and died like a chalk outline. A pug-nosed copstopper with a handle worn smooth from handling will do that to a body. The surprising killer emerging from a haze of cigar smoke was Mr. J. He came up from behind Mr K, and he was invisible unless where the smoke came from sprung to mind. The K was for Kum Tadd Lincoln. Only his Poppy called him that. To the rest of the world he was the guy with the free pass. But now, staring at the fallen KTL, Mr. J fancied having a go at an old free-standing garage, the kind that were eroding at the end of a farm's gravel road, with a two ton earthmover. To Mr. J, his only call in life had been demolition. Assassination kept him in fedoras. Men were too easy, the moment too quick. Something he could really mow down, that was in his stocking cap as he drifted off to sleep each night. Sown into its side was his real name, Gin Fitzwallah.