Shaking uncontrollably, leather-soled shoes slipping along the Formica top of the rickety pressed-wood table, the old man fought to keep his balance, to keep the electrical wire from drawing tighter around his neck.

     “Hey, you worry too much,” said the tall, dark killer in a quiet voice.

     Choking, the old man cursed him.

     In response, the tall man bumped the table, shaking it, making the old man slip, wire tightening on his windpipe, the old man sputtering and gagging.

     “Sorry,” whispered the tall killer in false concern. “You’re okay. Right?”

     “Who sent you?” growled the old man, after he caught his breath.

     “I distinctly remember telling you I ask the questions.”

     With some ceremony, the tall killer unfolded a page for a look at the photo printed on the front, a name scrawled underneath. It was a picture of the old man, and the killer showed him the page. So… this your name?”

     “What of it?”

     A knock came at the door. “Boss? You okay?” said a husky voice through the thin plywood.  Someone tried the knob. The door was locked.

     “Shhh,” soothed the tall man. “Tell him you’re all right.”

     “Take this off my neck, I can.”

     “Now!” The tall man had a suppressed 9mm handgun right up against the old man’s ear. It was the same gun he’d used to prompt the man to climb up onto the table in the first place.

     “I’m okay, Freddie!” called the old man, a slight choke in his voice. “Just movin’ the table.”

     “Okay. Cool.”

     “Good,” said the tall killer soothingly. Sliding his gun in his shoulder holster, he asked a few more questions, holding up the phone to record the answers on video, even as the wire cut deeper into the skin of the old man’s throat. Smiling, the tall killer finally clicked off the phone and headed for the window. “Thanks for the help.”

     Then he gave the table a good kick.