big idea

Pauly Fitzpatrick stepped out into the stunning light of 116th Street.
Nothing was more amazing to Pauly than the quality of daylight after emerging from a darkened bar in mid afternoon. Today was no different. All seemed right to Pauly.
He walked the half block to Rubin's and pushed open the glass door. At once the smell of pickles and pastrami hit him.
"Jesus Christ, Maxie, it smells some frickin' good in here." Pauly announced loosely. "You cookin' brisket?"
Max Rubin was fishing a large dill pickle from a barrel behind the counter. He looked up, placed the pickle on a sheet of waxed paper, and wiped his hands on a long white apron.
"You kiss your mother with that mouth Mr. Fitzpatrick? What does your priest say about how you talk?"
"So many difficult questions, Max," Pauly said in a mock pensive tone. "Did you notice the beautiful light out there today Max?"
"You're like a regular artist or something today Pauly? I should notice the light? I'm working in here Pauly. I got no time to think about light. You want I should paint pictures or cook good food?"
Max moved sideways to the cash register and opened the drawer. He pulled out a handful of twenties, counted out ten of them, and then wrapped them in white paper. Pauly Fitzpatrick approached and placed his sizable palms down on the white marble counter. Max slid the neatly wrapped twenties toward him and watched as Pauly placed the bundle inside his leather jacket, next to his service revolver.
"Nice work being a detective Mr. Fitzpatrick," Max said dryly.
"It beats slicin' pastrami Max."
Max turned and hissed something in Yiddish under his breath.
Pauly didn't hear it, but walked through the door at Rubin's, and back to the bar where his bottle of Budweiser was waiting for him in the neon tinged indoor light.