Burt shoved the gun against my forehead.
“Cute,” he said. “Very cute.”
“Thank you,” I stammered.
“Reese never mentioned you were funny.” He moved the gun to my chest and whispered in my ear. “I hate funny.”
“Me, too,” I said. “And clichés. I hate clichés.” Crap. Couldn’t stop myself.
Burt jammed the muzzle into my ribs.
“Are you saying I’m a cliché?”
“Just your dialogue,” I replied. “I mean, come on, ‘I hate funny.’ It’s like an episode of Rockford Files or something.”
“You want to see a cliché? I got a cliché for you. How about the dead guy with a big hole in his head?”
“You’re actually pointing at my heart right now.”
Ouch. He’d shouted that right into my ear.
“Listen,” I said. “Let’s just go back to Reese and talk to him. I’m sure he’ll understand if I can just explain it to him.”
“Explain it to me, funny man.” Burt took a step back, the gun still pointed at me. “Go ahead.”
“Well,” I began, casually stepping toward him, “it’s like this.”
Burt reflexively took another step back. And dropped into the open manhole.
“Whoopsie,” I said, grabbing Reese’s briefcase and heading off to the airport.
Turns out I’d lied to Burt. Actually, I love clichés.