The Early 1900's in New York City have been littered with all kinds of outlaws, gangsters, and all around miscreants. Honestly, more then I could keep track of. However, of all the many names and faces over the last few years, one name has been embedded in my memory. A young man named Tommy Tornelli. Although, most people don't remember Tommy by his family name. In those times, everyone had a nickname.

.::????::.
I'm tired of seeing his ugly mug all over the papers.

A short, fat man, sporting a handlebar mustache says as he pounds his heavy fist on the table in front of him.

.::????::.
Tell 'The Whisperer' I have some work for him.

There it was. Tommy's nickname. Now there's a world of story behind that, but we'll get into that a little later.

Tommy was quite the character. My best friend up until the day he died. He never talked business, and I never asked. But he knew that I knew what he did. Didn't matter to me though. He paid his share of the bills on time, and I bandaged more bullet wounds then a hospital. Mostly grazings, but Tommy was always lucky that way.

.::????::.
Dammit Tommy! Another one?

.::Tommy::.
Just a flesh wound. It'll need stitches though Gino.

That's me. Gino Tornelli. Tommy's brother. We shared a gift Tommy and I, but he took it his way, using it to gain a reputation, while I kept mine bottled up. See, Tommy and I were a rare breed. Very rare in fact. We had this strange way of offing people without even pulling a weapon. Hell, that's how Tommy got his nickname. It's kinda tricky to explain, and even harder to believe, but we could kill with words. One word to be exact. Don't ask me how or why, but it's true. "Goodnight." That's the magic word. We whisper that word in someone's ear, and the next thing you know, they're pushing up daisies. Like I said though. Tommy used it to build a name. It got him into a lot of shit, but the people he'd be working for usually covered his ass.

.::????::.
~It's done?~

.::Tommy::.
He's dead.

.::????::.
~Good, good.~

.::Tommy::.
I have company.

.::????::.
~How many?~

.::Tommy::.
More then the amount of fingers on my hand.

.::????::.
~How far from 16th are you?~

.::Tommy::.
A few blocks.

.::????::.
~Can you make it?~

.::Tommy::.
If I run.

.::????::.
~Then run.~

Those were always the nights I played clean-up. When Tommy had to run. It wasn't always like that. Most of the jobs happened in people's houses, or on the streets. Sometimes though, his employers liked to test him. A crowded resturant, a night club, any place where they knew that their enemies would be gathered. A lot of his employers were good people in some respects, but most were total bastards. These were the nights I played clean-up.

.::Gino::.
How many tonight?

.::Tommy::.
If God was watching, only he'd know.

.::Gino::.
God's always watching Tommy.

.::Tommy::.
Not on the nights when I get phone calls.

.::Gino::.
God's always watching.

.::Tommy::.
You know, your God fixation is almost depressing.

.::Gino::.
It's enlightening.

.::Tommy::.
If you're dying maybe.

.::Gino::.
That's one way of looking at it.

Tommy snickers to himself.

.::Tommy::.
Everyone's a christian when deaths staring them in the face.

.::Gino::.
Too true.

Gino pulls the needle through the soft flesh of Tommy' upper shoulder. He ties a tight knot, then pats Tommy on the back.

.::Gino::.
All done.

Tommy runs his hand gently over the stitches.

.::Tommy::.
You should have been a doctor.

.::Gino::.
In another life.

.::Tommy::.
Maybe.

Tommy was never big on religion. Hell, Tommy wasn't big on much. He normally talked about me. Nothing bad mind you. Mostly things like, "You should have been a doctor", stuff like that. He always felt that I should have made more out of myself. I work in a library. I read. A lot. Tommy calls it a sickening addiction. That I'm a bookworm that is. But I think..."Hey, if it wasn't for those books, you'd have one hell of a hospital bill."

.::Waiter::.
Sir, there's a man at the door requesting a word with you.

.::????::.
Who is it?

.::Waiter::.
No idea sir.

.::????::.
Well God damn it! Get me a name!

.::Waiter::.
He said it was urgent. It's about your brother.

.::????::.
Shit! Jimmy, watch the table. I'll be right back.

.::Jimmy::.
You sure you don't want me...

.::????::.
I said watch the table!

.::Jimmy::.
Ok! Ok!

The large man rises from the table, brushing off the droppings from the evenings dinner. He hurridly waddles over to the front door, where a man in a long black trenchcoat, and a large brimmed black hat is standing.

.::????::.
Don't you know it's not polite to wear a hat indoors?

.::Tommy::.
Mr. Marcozi I presume?

.::Mr. Marcozi::.
That's me So what about my brother?

.::Tommy::.
Your brothers fine. But he wanted me to deliver you a message.

.::Mr. Marcozi::.
Oh yeah? What's that?

Tommy leans in close, placing his hand on the mans shoulder.

.::Tommy::.
Goodnight.

"These were always the nights I played clean-up."