F3 Tough Guy

     Any moron can get himself a gat. Toting about a gun doesn't make someone tough. It certainly doesn't make someone smart. More often than not,
people who get their hands on guns start thinking with their fingers instead of their noggins.
     Sometimes that's trouble.
     Sometimes it's what I want.
     Guys with guns like to think they're in charge.
     The goon standing in the rain next to the black sedan was no exception.
     I put on a pair of wire reading glasses, and rolled the brim of my hat up, looking like quite the mousy bookworm, enhanced by my thin frame. I did my best to edge obviously toward the alley that ran next to the building the mook parked in front of.
     Sure enough, the guy eventually noticed my amateur sneaking technique.
     "Hey, you!"
     I gave a squeak, trembled, and tried to quick-walk away.
     He caught me up in just a few steps, and seized me by the jacket, close enough that I got a noseful of the catch of the day.
     "You're the guy we're looking for."
     "No," I said nasally, "you're quite mistaken, sir. I'm the proprietor of the Ace Bookstore, and I was merely on my way home up the block." I pointed past the building.
     "Naw, you're the guy. Elsewise you wouldn't be sneaking about. Mr. Vendetti's gonna be happy with me. C'mon, genius. You're gonna wait in the car until he comes to talk to ya."
     I held in my smile as he shoved me into the backseat of the sedan. I was exactly where I wanted to be, and the guy hadn't even frisked me.