“How do you know about that?”
The hot dog smell was still getting to me, so I picked up my basket and set it on the garbage behind out table.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Battery.”
He shrugged. “Domestic bullshit. Little bitch gets lippy sometimes.”
“Don't they all.”
I felt the hot dog coming back up, forced it to stay put. A sickening, flu-like heat washed over me.
“You okay, buddy?”
Sweat stung my eyes, and I noticed my hands were shaking. Another cramp hit, making me flinch.
“What are you, some kinda addict?”
“Cancer,” I said.
He didn't appear moved by my response.
“Can you still do this shit?”
“Yeah.”
“How long you got?”
Months? Weeks? The cancer had metastasized from my pancreas, questing for more of me to conquer. At this stage, treatment was bullshit. Only thing that helped was cocaine, tequila, and codeine. Being broke meant a lot of pain, plus withdrawal, which was almost as bad.
I had to get some money. Fast.
“Long enough,” I told him.
“You look like a little girl could kick your ass.”
I gave him my best tough-guy glare, then reached for the half-empty glass bottle of ketchup. Maintaining eye contact, I squeezed the bottle hard in my trembling hands. In one quick motion, I jerked my wrist to the side, breaking the top three inches of the bottle cleanly off.
“Jesus,” he said.
I dropped the piece on the table and he stared at it, mouth hanging open like a fish. I shoved my other hand into my pocket, because I cut my palm pretty deep. Happens sometimes. Glass isn't exactly predictable.
“You leave the door open,” I told him. “I come in around 2am. I break your wife's neck. Then I break your nose.”
He went from awed to pissed. “Fuck you, buddy.”
“Cops won't suspect you if you're hurt. I'll also leave some of my blood on the scene.”
I watched it bounce around behind his Neanderthal brow ridge. Waited for him to fill in all the blanks. Make the connections. Take it to the next level.
His thoughts were so obvious I could practically see them form pictures over his head.
“Yeah.” He nodded, slowly at first, then faster. “That DNA shit. Prove someone else was there. And you don't care if you leave any, cause you're a dead man anyway.”
I shrugged like it was no big deal. Like I'd fully accepted my fate.
“When do we do this?”
“When can you have the money ready?”
“Anytime.”
“How about tonight?”
The dull film over his eyes evaporated, revealing a much younger man. One who had dreams and hopes and unlimited possibilities.
“Tonight is great. Tonight is perfect. I can't believe I'm finally gonna be rid of the bitch.”
“Till death do you part. Which brings me to the original question. Why don't you just divorce her?”
He grinned, showing years of bad oral hygiene.
“Bitch ain't keeping half my paycheck for life.”
Ain't marriage grand?
He gave me his address, we agreed upon a time, and then I followed him outside, put on a baseball cap and some sunglasses, escorted him down a busy Chinatown sidewalk to the bank, and rammed a knife in his back the second after he punched his PIN into the enclosed ATM.
I managed to puncture his lung before piercing his heart, and he couldn't draw a breath, couldn't scream. I put my bleeding hand under his armpit so he didn't fall over, and again he gave me that look, the one of utter disbelief.
“Don't be surprised,” I told him, pressing his CHECKING ACCOUNT button. “You were planning on killing me tonight, after I did your wife. You didn't want to pay me the other half.”
I pressed WITHDRAW CASH and punched in a number a few times higher than our agreed upon figure.
He tried to say something, but bloody spit came out.
“Plus, a large ATM withdrawal a few hours before your wife gets killed? How stupid do you think the cops are?”
His knees gave out, and I couldn't hold him much longer. My injured palm was bleeding freely, soaking into his shirt. But leaving DNA was the least of my problems. This was a busy bank, and someone would be walking by any second.
I yanked out the knife, having to put my knee against his back to do so because of the suction; gravity knives don't have blood grooves. Then I wiped the blade on his shirt, and jammed it and the cash into my jacket pocket.
He collapsed onto the machine, and somehow managed to croak, “Please.”
“No sympathy here,” I told him, pushing open the security door. “Guys like me got no scruples.”
Pot Shot
A lot of my readers like Herb, but for some reason I don't enjoy using him in shorts as much as Jack, Harry, and Phin. This is a rare exception. I originally wrote this as a chapbook, to give away at writing conferences. It deals with Herb's retirement, a topic later covered in greater detail in my novel Dirty Martini.
“How did you know pot roast is my favorite?”
Detective First Class Herb Benedict stepped into the kitchen, following the aroma. He gave his wife Bernice a peck on the cheek and made a show of sniffing deeply, then sighing.
“I've been making pot roast every Friday night for the past twenty-two years, and you say that every time you come home.”
Herb grinned. “What happens next?”
“You pinch me on the bottom, change into your pajamas, and we eat in the family room while watching HBO.”
“Sounds pretty good so far.” He gently tugged Bernice away from the stove and placed his hands on her bottom, squeezing. “Then what?”
Bernice gave Herb's ample behind a pinch of its own.
“After HBO we go upstairs, and I force you to make love to me.”
Herb sighed. “A tough job, but I have to repay you for the pot roast.”
He leaned down, his head tilted to kiss her, just as the bullet plinked through the bay window. It hit the simmering pot with the sound of a gong, showering gravy skyward.
Herb reacted instinctively. His left hand grabbed Bernice and pulled her down to the linoleum while his right yanked the Sig Sauer from his hip holster and trained it on the window.
Silence, for several frantic heartbeats.
“Herb...”
“Shh.”
From the street came the roar of an engine and screaming tires. They quickly blended into Chicago traffic. Herb wanted to go have a look, but a burning sensation in his hip stopped him. He reached down with his free hand, feeling dampness.
“Herb! You're been shot!”
He brought the fingers to his mouth.
“No—it's juice from the pot roast. Leaked down the stove.”
Motioning for his wife to stay down, Herb crawled over to the window and peered out. The neighborhood was
