The jail cell, all told, was not exactly uncomfortable. It was not accommodating to be sure, but it lacked the more defining features of the jails seen in the movies. The bench he sat on was hard, but if he balled his tie up in just the right way, he could make a pillow and lie down a little.

After having been booked on Assault (one count) and Trespassing (one count) he was taken to have his fingerprints done. The ink was thick and did not easily remove its self from his fingers, a fact to which his pants could attest. His mug shot, not to anyone's surprise, was not a becoming photo of the actually quite good looking, if not just a tad thin, man. He looked as though he belonged on the side of a milk carton as the dastardly villain who made off with his neighbors head.

Jack, no matter, found all of this to be unfathomably amusing. He had separated himself from the reality of the situation and instead found himself immersed in a book based on his life, acting out the part of the main character. The detail of the author was amazing as he watched a fly perched on the edge of the bench inches from his face.

Jack's cell mates, there were four of them, were not bad guys all said. They all sat calmly, two of them knowing each other and quietly conversing, while the other three sat and read month old copies of Newsweek or Time. And while it was all very boring, not to mention reminiscent of a doctor's waiting room, it was the sheer knowledge of where he was that kept Jack interested. He knew he would be in jail only that night, and part of the next day, until his lawyer, a man picked out of phone book whose name Jack liked, came to get him and take him to his bail hearing. The man promised that he would not let Jack sit in jail any longer than one night or he'd "give up being a lawyer and become a midtown stripper." Jack thought it was at least a semi-clever turn of a phrase and thanked him.

The night passed slowly since he was not quite comfortable enough to sleep and trust his fellow cellmates to not rob him of the few things not confiscated by the police. His eyes hung in mid blink while he tried to think about what he'd do as soon as he got out. Several things came to mind, not the least of which was to find his escort and finish the job he started, but that seemed a little too much like a self destructive act to actually follow through with.

It was some time after two when one of the guys reading Newsweek came over and sat down on the bench next to Jack's head. Jack looked up at the guy who was huge. The man wore a clean white tank top out of which is arms and chest bulged and a pair of black Dickie work pants and boots. Jack sat up and saw that on his head he wore a white handkerchief that was neatly tied in the back that covered his bald head.

"What in god's name are you in here for boy," Jack was asked.

"Impersonating a police officer."

"Bullshit. Your hand's all fucked up. You kicked someone's ass."

"I might have gotten my ass kicked," Jack tried. He felt the tremolo in his voice and hoped it wasn't as apparent to his conversational partner.

"I'd say you made pretty well then boy. There are no other marks on you." He paused as he looked Jack over. Jack's oxford shirt was wrinkled and his tie was hopelessly so. He looked like a mess and even more so since it was apparent how cheap his office uniform really was. "Did he deserve it?"

Jack thought that one over slowly. "Not really. I should have gone after his boss, but he wasn't around."

"He a rich guy?"

"The guy I decked?"

"No. His boss."

"Yeah," He said. Then with a smile. "Yeah, he's pretty damn rich."

"Look, I'm Tyrone." He held out his hand, which Jack shook. "I'm in here for some motherfuck'n bullshit, but I'll be out in the morning. Why don't we meet up tomorrow afternoon at Mars bar. You know where that is?"

"Yeah. Like first street and second ave."

"Yeah. Meet me there tomorrow afternoon, I'm there all the time, and we'll talk about some payback. You interested in payback?"

"I guess as interested as you are in loading vans."

"See. That's what I'm talking about."

Jack laid back down on his tie as Tyrone made his way back over to his magazine which he left on the floor. What would his boss, ex-boss, think about coming home to find his Westchester home empty save for thank you note on the breakfast bar. The possibilities were intriguing.