are you?" he shrieked over his shoulder at me.
"Your grim reaper," I replied.
"Huh? Grim reaper. Why?"
"Gwen Ogg."
"That bitch? She's crazy, dude. Psycho-crazy."
"You did her bad."
"What? No. She jumped me."
"Nice speech."
"I tell you, she's crazy. Totally."
At the time, I thought he was just venting hot air. But now, Gwen girl, sitting here in this hearse with you, I'm not as sure. He'd seen my face, and that was the kiss of death if he slipped away and ratted me out to the authorities. I couldn't let him escape. I don't know for how long I gave chase.
I was left sweating and chuffing for breath, and he tired out, too. When he staggered over a stray skate, I almost plowed into his spilled body. Somehow I braked a step away from him, lowered the .22's steel sights, and popped him twice in the skull. He didn't convulse or register a pulse, and it was another carved notch.
I cleaned up whatever evidence might hang me, including my prints, at the ice arena, and I hustled out the same door I'd entered. Nobody lurked in the parking lot, and I melted into the city night. It took me awhile until I got to a public phone outside a billiards parlor to deliver the news. You didn't pick up, and I left you a voice mail.
Still it puzzles me a little why I never heard right back from you. Can you tell me, Gwen girl, why that is? No, I suppose you can't, now can you? You're decked flat out wearing a pale blue dress inside this flame mahogany coffin, and you're dead as lead. Meanwhile, I'm left in the lurch. That can't be. I'm not going to take the weight for murdering you because that's the one I never did.
Irony of ironies, I'm an innocent man this time.
Chapter 15
M y ploy to masquerade as a hearse's wheelman fell flat after my one-sided talk with Gwen ended. It felt satisfying in that I got a lot off of my chest, but I wanted to slap off her Mona Lisa smirk. I lowered the coffin lid, scooted out from the hearse, and left in the coupé. Fresh out of brilliant ideas, I stopped off at a diner I'd used before and ordered a cup of coffee and Danish.
It tasted a notch better than most diner coffee and Danish. The refill coffee tasted better, but I refused the third cup when my cheery server offered it. Why ruin a good streak? I paid my tab plus a twenty percent tip and hit the streets driving again.
I mulled over taking my retirement from the paid assassin ranks. I knew cops and firemen in their high stress jobs took early outs. My chief obstacle was a light wallet. So, I sorted through the different windfalls—lottery, inheritance, gift—but nothing that rich gleamed on my horizon. My most approachable idea to attend a gentleman's charm school and marry a rich widow who then met with a tragic accident was a long shot at best.
Violence had taken its stranglehold on my life early. My birth father Bradford had been an ingenious fellow as demonstrated by the manner in which he'd died. I was six. One Wednesday afternoon, he arrived home early from his plumber's job, cleaned his 12-gauge's bore, and chambered it with 00-buckshot. He doffed his work boots and laid down on his left side in the middle of the living room carpet. An acrobatic marvel ensued next. Clutching the 12-gauge perpendicular to him, he steadied its barrel in both hands and braced its muzzle to abut his sternum. He pulled the 12-gauge's trigger by hooking his big toe in it just so and pressing to squeeze away. The booming out 00-buckshot pellets cleaved apart his chest, smashing his heart. It was curtains for Dad.
The local sheriff couldn't determine the reason for Bradford 's suicide. He wasn't in debt. He wasn't mired in a funk or regarded as unstable. No homewrecker had blackmailed him. He'd done nothing the law frowned on. My stoic mom Nella took it in stride, her chin held up at his funeral and laying him to rest. After the uproar settled down, we slotted back into our respective grooves. I was back at school, while she waited booths at a Tex-Mex joint
"Your grim reaper," I replied.
"Huh? Grim reaper. Why?"
"Gwen Ogg."
"That bitch? She's crazy, dude. Psycho-crazy."
"You did her bad."
"What? No. She jumped me."
"Nice speech."
"I tell you, she's crazy. Totally."
At the time, I thought he was just venting hot air. But now, Gwen girl, sitting here in this hearse with you, I'm not as sure. He'd seen my face, and that was the kiss of death if he slipped away and ratted me out to the authorities. I couldn't let him escape. I don't know for how long I gave chase.
I was left sweating and chuffing for breath, and he tired out, too. When he staggered over a stray skate, I almost plowed into his spilled body. Somehow I braked a step away from him, lowered the .22's steel sights, and popped him twice in the skull. He didn't convulse or register a pulse, and it was another carved notch.
I cleaned up whatever evidence might hang me, including my prints, at the ice arena, and I hustled out the same door I'd entered. Nobody lurked in the parking lot, and I melted into the city night. It took me awhile until I got to a public phone outside a billiards parlor to deliver the news. You didn't pick up, and I left you a voice mail.
Still it puzzles me a little why I never heard right back from you. Can you tell me, Gwen girl, why that is? No, I suppose you can't, now can you? You're decked flat out wearing a pale blue dress inside this flame mahogany coffin, and you're dead as lead. Meanwhile, I'm left in the lurch. That can't be. I'm not going to take the weight for murdering you because that's the one I never did.
Irony of ironies, I'm an innocent man this time.
Chapter 15
M y ploy to masquerade as a hearse's wheelman fell flat after my one-sided talk with Gwen ended. It felt satisfying in that I got a lot off of my chest, but I wanted to slap off her Mona Lisa smirk. I lowered the coffin lid, scooted out from the hearse, and left in the coupé. Fresh out of brilliant ideas, I stopped off at a diner I'd used before and ordered a cup of coffee and Danish.
It tasted a notch better than most diner coffee and Danish. The refill coffee tasted better, but I refused the third cup when my cheery server offered it. Why ruin a good streak? I paid my tab plus a twenty percent tip and hit the streets driving again.
I mulled over taking my retirement from the paid assassin ranks. I knew cops and firemen in their high stress jobs took early outs. My chief obstacle was a light wallet. So, I sorted through the different windfalls—lottery, inheritance, gift—but nothing that rich gleamed on my horizon. My most approachable idea to attend a gentleman's charm school and marry a rich widow who then met with a tragic accident was a long shot at best.
Violence had taken its stranglehold on my life early. My birth father Bradford had been an ingenious fellow as demonstrated by the manner in which he'd died. I was six. One Wednesday afternoon, he arrived home early from his plumber's job, cleaned his 12-gauge's bore, and chambered it with 00-buckshot. He doffed his work boots and laid down on his left side in the middle of the living room carpet. An acrobatic marvel ensued next. Clutching the 12-gauge perpendicular to him, he steadied its barrel in both hands and braced its muzzle to abut his sternum. He pulled the 12-gauge's trigger by hooking his big toe in it just so and pressing to squeeze away. The booming out 00-buckshot pellets cleaved apart his chest, smashing his heart. It was curtains for Dad.
The local sheriff couldn't determine the reason for Bradford 's suicide. He wasn't in debt. He wasn't mired in a funk or regarded as unstable. No homewrecker had blackmailed him. He'd done nothing the law frowned on. My stoic mom Nella took it in stride, her chin held up at his funeral and laying him to rest. After the uproar settled down, we slotted back into our respective grooves. I was back at school, while she waited booths at a Tex-Mex joint
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