Walking down 40th. Rain pounds the floor like a drum. Girls in garments and gowns scamper to find shelter and avoid the cold showers. I don't care, but then again when have I ever? I tip my hat and shimmy my long brown coat up my damp corpse of a body. I carry on.
 I approach the bar. The shiny shamrock, a small Irish bar at the heart of the big apple. I have gone there for twelve years. In fact exactly twelve years, not that I care. When you open the door you will spot many things, for instance the barman, Shamus. Shamus is an old, old fellow, large grey mutton chops and not a hair on his head, he wears a flat cap and a green waist coat every single day. A real catch to any ladies eyes. You will never find Shamus without a pint glass in his hand and a flannel in his other . Secondly you will see his ex-wife. She owns half the joint, not that she should, and she is there to make things run smoothly. That is what she says, she spends every waking hour by the bar on that stool in the corner, with a cigarette in her gob and bats her eyes. Don’t worry everyone gets a go. And most do. She is riddled with more virus than a hospital and by most part I can tell. The third things you will notice are the regulars. Half at the bar guzzling draught like they hadn’t seen water for a week. The rest were either fast out on the pool table or in a some sort of insult spouting war about a sport.
But why am I here? Neither for the service, nor to drown sorrows. I am there strictly for business, many people have a building to meet and do business. But the business I do, ain't quite the normal business that normal people would do. In fact, it isn’t the type of business that any one does, except for yours truly.  You see, I am the Rat. And I work for people.  People pay the Rat and they get all the information they need. I have notes on the coppers, the gangs and even the Mafia and I can get you anything you need within a twitch. And you will receive, said information, without me leaving a print.
 I am the bond between the truth and what the real truth is. My clients come in all shapes and sizes. Mickey the stick, stringy fellow, wanted me to follow his bird and make sure she wasn’t sticking her tits in another man’s business. So I do, I tell and I earn. That is my business, that is what I do and I do it well. I don’t care if the NYPD finds a 30 something lady chopped in half, left in a back alley, killed by her husband who caught her in the act of sin. That ain’t my business.  When a drug related gang war begins because release information shows that both gangs supply the distributor with the same product. That. Ain’t. My.Business.
 But less on them and more on me. I am the Rat. I am quick, sneaky and have teeth like tile grout. People don’t know me, I know people. When I do business I know who I am dealing with, they do not know who they are dealing with. Rat traps have been lane and exterminators have been called to find and kill the Rat but no luck. I am the man that meets in the small Irish bar to talk business, I and don’t care what it is.

Lying in bed. It is quite. I don't like the silence, It reminds me I am alone. It had come to the point where I get exited when I hear a car pass my window. How sad is that, I actually look forward to that. But now its three O'clock in the morning. I am awake. I am tired. I can not sleep. It's really quite odd. I am in a state of purgatory. Tired all day and night yet I can't rest. Maybe it is the cold, or the fact I am alone. It could be anything. When I get up in four hours, I will go to work and punch numbers from one column to another. I will get home for 10. Go to bed. And stare at the ceiling. What a great fucking life I have. I might just end it all. Tomorrow is the day I die. Tuesday the forth of October 2013, the day I die.

...What a great fucking life I have. I might just end it all. Tomorrow is the day I die. Wednesday the fifth of October 2013, the day I die.

...Tomorrow is the day I die. Thursday the sixth of October 2013, the day I die.

Tomorrow...

Tomorrow...

"Male. 6'2. Russian origin. Hammer and sickle tattoo on his chest. Notorious for working with the RCU' Chief began to go into more detail about this man.

 "He's our man" Chief says "we must get him behind bars, before its to late" 

Chase stood up. He he spread out his hands and smashed them on the table causing Chiefs pen cup to fall on the floor "It's all ready to late chief, the bomb went off people died" Chases voice began to get louder and he got loser to Chiefs face. "We can't turn back time so can we please just..."

"We have NO evidence" Chief stared Chase down till he was back in his seat "We cannot just go on our instinctive nature here Chase. This is a careful situation not just an ordinary chump. We need cold hard evidence. 

Chief looked over to me. I could see in his eyes he wanted backup, Chase mirrored this look.

"Jobbs" sighed Chase "got any imput?"

I got out of my dark corner, tipped my had up, walked up to the Chiefs wooden table, put out my cigarette on his empty ash tray and I looked chase straight in the eye.

"We. Ain't. Dirty. Cops."

Chase stood up, walked to the door.

"You two are making a HUGE mistake."

He walked out the door as me and the Chief shared a look of empathy.