

## Contents

Copyright Info

Acknowledgements

Personal Message from the Author

Start of Story

Personal Message from the Author

About the Author

Jake Hancock Private Investigator series

## Copyright Info

No Hitmen in Heaven

Dan Taylor

Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Taylor

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Bob Lamb is especially a work of fiction. I mean, come on...

## Acknowledgements

Thanks to the fine ladies who took their time to read early drafts of _No Hitmen in Heaven._ Your feedback helped mold the final draft more than you could ever know. Thanks to beta readers Victoria, Sandra, Beatrice, and Tammy. Your enthusiasm is much appreciated. And thanks to you, Elaine, you eagle-eyed proofreader you. But if you spot a comma in the wrong place, it's totally her fault.

And finally you, Siri, the person who read this book first and loved it. I need a confidence boost from time to time.

## Personal Message from the Author

I hope you enjoy this book or any other of my books as much as I love to write them! If you have, click this link and tell me. I personally respond to each email I receive, and love reading what fans of my books have to say.

I also keep in touch with my readers on my  Facebook page, informing them of my new releases and blog posts. Head on over and like it and say hi.

Alternatively, you can sign up for my newsletter to find out when new books are released. You'll also receive a discount on the latest release.

Thanks for taking a chance on my writing.

Dan Taylor

# 1.

It never surprises me how plain-looking the people are who hire me to kill. Take this guy, for instance. Peter Hammer. Looks like he might be an accountant, if we weren't sitting by his pool high up in the Hollywood Hills. Looks like he never punched another guy in the face, let alone come close to killing someone himself. But here he is, telling me he wants me to "whack" his aunt. His word.

There are just a few details to go over before he gives me the "green light." Again, his words.

"Will it hurt, Mr. Logan?" he asks.

I take a sip of the virgin cocktail he made me, thinking the view might be pretty if not for the leaves floating in the pool. Then I say, "Your aunt's death will be as painless as I can make it."

It isn't an answer at all, but he sits there, thinking about it. Or maybe he's thinking about something else. Like he needs to hire a new pool guy.

Then he looks at me, says, "How will you—you know—do it?"

"It's better for both parties if I divulge as little information as possible about the method."

"Right. So, I can look and sound surprised as possible when the police let me know."

I was thinking so that he doesn't back out. In my experience, which is plenty, a guy who makes sure said virgin cocktail sits on a coaster might be the type to back out if he can picture putting a bullet in his aunt's throat with a Beretta.

But instead, I say, "Yeah, sure. Good thinking. Act surprised."

He sits and thinks a second. Goes to say something. Hesitates. Then spits it out: "Mr. Logan, I want you to know that I love my aunt dearly. This is simply to be humane. Aunt Margaret dearest hasn't been herself the last five or so years. You know how it is."

I do a little background work on clients and their targets before we find ourselves sitting by their pools, discussing the ins and outs, and let me tell you, Mrs. Margaret Hammer is fresh enough after her sixty-seven years to try out for a varsity wrestling team. And mentally? She'd kick my ass in a spelling bee.

The humanity he alluded to can be measured in zeroes. Three. The number the equity for her apartment on Hollywood Boulevard has gone up by, the mortgage of which Peter pays like a good little boy every month.

Peter Hammer made a bad investment on a film that should've never been made in the first place. By all accounts _King's_ _Return_ was a hell of a film. The sequel, denoted by the addition of _2_ to the title, not so much. Movie goers, apart from the cult home-viewing crowd, don't appreciate ironic titles. At least my background work informed me.

But that wasn't the biggest mistake he made. He needed someone to go in on the investment with him.

Add in one wise guy trying to go straight by building property and making inadvisable movie investments, and two insistent, roided-up muscle heads to Peter Hammer's family dynamic, and suddenly he's talking of humanity.

But who am I to question the man's definition of the word?

I'm a hired gun. The best.

So, I say, "I understand. People get old, and sometimes someone has to make a brave decision."

"Right. A brave decision."

I have a few details of my own to acquire before I go through with it. I ask, "Your aunt, does she ever keep any firearms on her person?"

"No."

"Cans of mace, a knuckle duster?"

"I don't think so. I've never asked."

"What about in her apartment? A samurai sword, even if it looks solely decorative?"

"Oh, you won't be doing it in _her_ apartment. She comes to clean on Wednesdays. I figured you'd do it then."

I give him a look, but not in response to what he thinks, as he says, " _What_? Aunt Margaret enjoys the exercise."

I take a sip of my cocktail. It's disgusting.

Then I say, "Doing it in your apartment is a no-go."

"Why not?"

It's becoming clearer why Peter Hammer was one of the bozos who helped green light _King's Return 2_.

I say, "It's in my interest as your hired gun to keep your culpability as non-existent as possible."

"That's very kind of you."

"It's not kind, Mr. Hammer. I only think of myself, which for you, in this situation, just so happens to mean keeping you off the persons-of-interest list. Detectives, even of Dukes's caliber, tend to make connections between—I don't know...—the circumstances in which someone was killed and bad movie deals made by the victim's nephew, especially if said victim just so happened to be killed at her nephew's apartment coincidentally on the one day of the week she's scheduled to clean it."

He's taken aback. How do I know? He's taken his gaze off my glass's proximity to edge of the coaster for the first time during my turn to talk.

He says, "How do you know—"

"About the bad movie deal? The same way I know about the decorative katana sword hanging on the wall above your bed. Which is weapon sharpened. I have sources, Mr. Hammer. And FYI, you should probably get a decent decorator to hang that thing with drywall screws."

Eyeing him above the rim of my glass, I watch him carefully. There it is. He's biting his nails. Ten minutes from now, I'll be riding in a cab, either with the Manila folder lying on his bed I also spotted while he went potty, or having wasted my time with another late-thirties male who flirted with the idea of having a family member "whacked" because of a bad investment.

He's thinking about humanity again.

When he's finished, he says, "I don't suppose I could just hire you to take out the goons that are pressing me for the cash, as well as that other goon?"

"There's a tiny, teeny problem with that scenario."

"What?"

"That other goon is my boss."

"Shit," he says, then gets back to thinking. Probably that my sitting here, as opposed to some other hired gun, isn't a coincidence. Then he says, "Her apartment won't work. She lives on the tenth floor."

"I'll make it work."

"How?"

"I'll take the elevator."

"Not that. I mean, won't you want to get in and out without anyone seeing you?"

"That's precisely why I'll take the elevator."

"I don't get it, Mr. Logan."

That's the fourth time he's referred to me as Mr. Logan, and it's irritating me—but clients tend to remember a name like Blake Elvis. How he says it—drawing out Logan—is grating on me. As is explaining the logistics of how I'm going to take out his aunt. But I understand he needs some reassurance. It's a good sign, as irritating as it is, as long as the reason behind it is not wanting to get caught, as opposed to looking for reasons to back out.

I take another sip of the cocktail, and wonder if Peter Hammer wouldn't mind my making a homeopathic remedy with it and the pool water.

Then I say, "On a day we're yet to decide next week, the scheduling of which will be your-aunt dependent, Mrs. Hammer will be getting a furniture delivery. You'll phone a couple days before, letting her know you've bought her a present. A cuckoo clock. Aunty like cuckoo clocks?"

"I guess."

"You guess?"

"Sure."

"You're sure she likes cuckoo clocks?"

"She's never owned one. But I don't think she'd mind having one in the apartment."

"Let's just say it's a cuckoo clock for now. A delivery guy, yours truly, will get buzzed in by the awaiting Mrs. Hammer. Like clockwork. I'll wheel that hunk of junk—which will be a shade over six-feet tall, my height—through the lobby, into the elevator, not allowing any of the residents to get a good look at me. And then after I've placed it 'in the corner over there,' I'll make all your problems go away with Mr. Balbone. Pending a police investigation, of course. But Mr. Balbone is a patient man, as long as he knows his money's coming."

"Right."

"Am I right in assuming Aunty Margaret has a jewelry box?"

"She does."

"Then that's what I'll take, to make it look like a robbery. Upon being asked by LA's finest, closest any of the residents will get to spotting anything suspicious is some delivery guy, which, in an apartment building, is about as noteworthy as going into a gas station and finding crap still floating in the toilet bowl."

We sit there for a minute, not saying anything. If I had to take a guess, I'd say Peter Hammer is seventy-percent convinced he's got the balls to go through with it, which will go up to ninety-nine when Phil and Gary come for their next scheduled visit, which is the day after tomorrow, the day I'll inform Mr. Hammer he's to make the call to Aunt Margaret.

As I said, like clockwork.

What he says next bumps my estimation up to seventy-five percent: "This jewelry box, will you keep it, or will I get it?"

"I think it's best for both parties if neither of us see that jewelry box ever again."

"Right. One last question."

"Shoot."

"When you know, do it, should I arrange to be out of town, on vacation?"

"You should be living your life exactly how you'd live it on any other day. Oh, and one last thing: You're to pay for the cuckoo clock yourself, with the credit card. It's a gift."

He looks at me a second, thinking, says right again, and then goes and gets the Manila folder that's lying under his bed.

After he's handed it to me, I stand up, don't shake his hand, and then tell him in advance I'm sorry for his loss.

# 2.

Am I bad man? It isn't black and white. I've made many cuckoo clock deliveries. And when one second Mrs. Hammer is looking at a kind, handsome man delivering her a cuckoo clock, and the next second she's lying on the floor, wondering why the small sound emitted from my suppressor-fitted Beretta resulted in a hole in her throat, sure, I'll be a bad man.

But what about tonight, when I'm running Sloppy Seconds, the soup kitchen I founded and manage three nights a week? When I use my spare time to hand Stinky Pete, Mangy Bob, and Dick-Eyed Bill a cup of steaming, rich, herby broth, making their evening, will I be a bad man then?

Bill would tell you I'm the kindest man to walk the face of the earth. Sure, you wouldn't be able to understand a word he said, but you'd see it in his smiling eyes.

I'm not telling you these things to make you think more of me. I don't want or need that. I'm just challenging your definition of good and bad in relation to a person, and how the validity of your judgment is timing-dependent. One day the running of a successful, tax-ethical charity could define a man, the next he could be defined by his being on trial for gunning down an African-American teenager because he felt intimidated by the clothes he was wearing. And his hotshot attorney is probably going to get him off with self-defense.

Are we to forget the good the man did, and label him bad for his latest character-defining behavior? Or on the flipside, are we to forgive him for his wrongdoing because of all the good he did before it?

I can't decide, so I'll let you do it.

I've made my peace with what I do for a living, and depending on when you make your judgment I can be both good _or_ bad.

But what I haven't made my peace with is what happened to my wife.

So after the deal with Peter Hammer is signed and sealed, I head over to Shady Acres Psychiatric Institution for my weekly visit, where Sandra is a resident.

Like usual, I make pleasant, cordial conversation with the nurses as I sign in at the front desk, and am escorted to the communal area, where, just as usual, I find Sandy playing backgammon with herself. She wins every time.

Which for Sandra, at least the one I knew just over a year ago, is a good thing.

I take the seat opposite her, and she notices me after ten or so seconds.

Today I've found her in a good mood, as she says, "I smelled you come in five minutes ago, but I didn't want to look up and see your pockmarked skin."

I smile warmly, reply, "Hey, Sandra. Is life treating you well?"

She grunts a response. And I go back to grinning like an idiot.

Sandra hasn't always been this angry, nor has she always thought backgammon is a one-player game.

Sandra suffers from extreme bipolar disorder, depression, schizophrenia, and a host of other undiagnosed psychiatric orders that affect her mood, behavior, and cognitive thinking.

And the reason she developed all these in the space of a year is because of a car accident in which she suffered irreparable brain trauma.

I was at the wheel.

I remember it like it was 385 days, eleven hours, and thirty-six minutes ago. It was a Friday night, and we'd been invited to a fund raiser for blind and deaf kids at billionaire philanthropist Dane Thompson's mansion.

Sandra had had a difficult week... Hell, we'd both had a difficult week, but she won the argument for who would be the designated driver. Back then, and still now, she had me wrapped around her little pinky toe, like some sort of weird blanket.

I drank sparkling water all night, and Sandra sipped champagne like Dane Thompson was paying for it. I had just loosened up into the evening, half enjoying a conversation with Cindy Bleckford about how her acting career was about to skyrocket, when I noticed the host of the party taking an interest in Sandra.

She was laughing at his jokes, grazing his forearm with her fingernails now and again in the way naturally flirtatious women do. I reacted like any self-assured married man would. I started laughing at anything Cindy Bleckford said that could be interpreted as humorous.

When she came back over five minutes later, she was acting like she hadn't noticed me, and I was trying my hardest to stop my eyebrow sassily reaching for my forehead.

As good as my poker face was, Sandra read me like a Disneyworld travel brochure. "What?" she asked breezily.

"Don't play dumb with me, Sandra. Dane Thompson's going to require a tetanus shot in his forearm after the way you just carried on with him."

She condescendingly lowered her voice, or maybe she just didn't want to cause a scene. "Blake, honey, I have no idea what you're talking about."

I could see it in her eyes. She liked him. I wanted to go over there, drag him into his billiards room, and strangle him until eyes bulged out of his head like a Chihuahua's.

But I decided to hit him where it hurts more instead. His jokes.

I asked her, "What was so funny?"

"What do you mean?"

"You laughed after practically everything he said. Care to share one of his jokes with me? I feel in the mood for a bit of comedy."

"You don't look like you're in the mood for it."

"Oh, I assure you I am. Go ahead. Tonight, I'm an easy crowd."

"Can't we just drop it, okay?"

"Drop what? I don't get it. Was that the punch line?"

We bickered like this the next ten minutes, and then I decided to do something that would change our lives forever: I decided that if I wasn't going to be given the opportunity by Sandra to criticize his jokes, I'd try to drink his party dry.

And I nearly did.

When it was time to go home, I dragged Sandra out of that party by her forearm, telling her I was fit to drive us home.

I was making a hell of an argument, until I turned and looked at the woman I was dragging to find that it wasn't Sandra at all.

I apologized, went back inside, and tried again.

I've replayed the following argument between Sandra and me many times in my head:

Me: "Get in the car."

Sandra: "No. You're drunk."

"Get in the car or I'm leaving without you."

"You just said 'wish out you.' That's all I need to hear. I'm calling a cab."

"You phone one of those Uber things and it's over, Sandra. I mean it."

"Feel free to get in there yourself. But I'm not sitting in that car a second with you at the wheel."

I took her up on her offer, and I've never been able to explain what happened next. Instead of letting me drive off alone, Sandra got in with me. Maybe I'd won an argument for a change. Maybe she loved me so much she couldn't bear to see me drive off alone, and thought she could save me from driving straight into a lamppost. Or maybe her cell had run out of battery.

It was raining that night, and while the details are a blur, I found out the next morning I'd skidded off the road the second turn I made, careering myself and Sandra into a dairy cow that had gotten loose.

I stumbled away with only scratches and bruises. The rest you know.

I haven't touched a drop since.

Sitting opposite Sandra, I'm reminded of that night by a hideous scar that runs from the back of her neck to her forehead. But she's still beautiful. Always will be.

Looking up from her backgammon board, she catches me looking at her. Says, "What are you staring at, Mike?"

I don't know how much she remembers of that night; I can't bring myself to ask her. But what I do know is that she thinks I'm a bully from her high school. Mike Rutherford, a zit-riddled kid who terrorized her and her friends before being kicked out of school.

I say, "I'm not Mike, honey. I'm Blake, your husband."

"I'm not _married_."

"You are. To me. Next week it's our ten-year anniversary."

"You're just saying that, Mike, so that you can stuff daisies into my panties like you did the other girls."

I show her my wedding band. "See? You picked it out especially."

"I've never seen that thing in my life."

Jesus, it stings the same each time.

I reach out to try to grab her hand, to point out the ring she has on her hand, but she reacts badly, stands up from the table, and puts her hands over her ears and screams at the top of her lungs, so that she doesn't have to listen to what mean things Spotty Mike is saying to her in her head.

One of the nurses rushes over after seeing the commotion, escorting Sandy away, who'll take some time to calm down. My visit is over for this week.

Am I a bad man? I know I'll always feel like one.

# 3.

When visits don't go well, afterwards I find myself sitting in my old haunt on the westside of Hollywood, not knowing how I got here. Wild Jim's Bar and Grill. It was Sandra's favorite place, at least she said it was, but I suspected she was being ironic when she said so. Or maybe, like as was so often in our relationship, she was pleasing me without letting me know she was putting the effort in to make things perfect.

Past tense. I'm using it again.

Truth is, I hate the place too.

But here seems like as good a place as any to stare at a glass of whisky, thinking about getting off the wagon.

My phone rings and I press the REJECT CALL button.

I'm not in the mood to speak to anyone, let alone the barman, who's just finishing up telling me a story about how an escaped convict managed to stay on the run by dressing in a Mickey Mouse costume and hiding out at Disneyland.

"It was the damndest thing. Guy went around posing for photos with kiddies, grabbing moms' asses, flirting with them, that sort of thing. He would've gotten away with it for longer, too, if the guy at the kiosk hadn't noticed all the giant pretzels that went missing. But a man's got to eat, right? You gonna drink that or should I use it to clean the windows?"

I look up at him, staring at me as he polishes a glass with a rag. "I was thinking about it."

"Hey, you're not an alcoholic, are you? Thinking of getting off the wagon? My brother's one of those. Says if he ever touched a drink again, just one, we'd find him in Las Vegas ten days later, drunk out of his mind, a hooker on each arm, his lifesavings now lining the pockets of some casino owner—"

My phone starts ringing again, and this time I answer it, so I can interrupt the barman's story.

"Blake here."

No one replies for two or three seconds. Then a voice I recognize says, "Blake, it's Julius. Pick up your drink and hand it to the barman."

It's Julius Godfrey, my AA sponsor. He's a hippy-looking type with a loose ponytail, a penchant for flea market clothing, and he's a real pain in the ass. But he's a good guy.

"What number are you phoning on? I didn't recognize the number," I ask.

"Never mind that. Take your drink, hand it to the barman, and tell him no thank you."

"I'm just sitting at home, relaxing."

"Blake, how long have we known each other?"

"Almost a year."

"Right."

"And?"

"That's long enough to know that you don't relax at home while listening to ZZ Top. Give me a little credit and don't bullshit me."

"Okay, you got me. I'm at a bar."

"Of course you are; you're an alcoholic. That's like a bird flying south for the winter. Where you at?" There's a pause. "Not going to tell me? Let me see, ZZ Top... And what day is it? That's right you went to see Sandra today, who is just north of Ventura Freeway. I'm betting you went straight there in a cab. Wild Jim's? Don't tell me I'm right because I just had it confirmed by your nose breathing. If I don't hear you in the next ten seconds tell the barman he can use your drink to flush the toilet I'm coming down there. If you make me leave work, I'll be extra pissed."

"Okay, okay. I'm doing it."

I hand the drink back to the barman and, knowing how seriously Julius takes his instructions, tell him deadpan he can flush the toilet with it.

When I put the phone back to my ear, Julius says, "From now on, after every time you visit Sandra, you're to check in with me. Even if it went well and Sandra gave you a peck on the cheek. I'm not going to advise you don't go see her, even though she's a trigger, because, well, she's your wife and all. But if I don't hear from you the moment you step out of that dump I'm driving around Hollywood, comin' looking for you. And I'll do more than drag you out of the bar by your ear, Mister. Now stand up."

If anyone talked to me the way Julius does—a client, the postman, or even Jimmy Balbone—I'd tear his nose off and churn it up in my garbage disposal. But for some reason I'm putty in Julius's hands. So I stand up, feeling like an overgrown school kid.

"You standing?" Julius asks.

"I am."

"Now put one foot in front of the other and walk out of that place. And Jesus, _Wild Jim's_? I thought to myself the other day: If my guy Blake goes runnin' after the ice cream van like the other twenty-six losers before him, he'll do so in a classy place, in style. I thought better of you. Let me know when you're outside."

"I am now."

"Congratulations. And I mean it. You succeeded in not F-ing up my day. Now take a cab home. Take a bubble bath. Eat a gallon of ice cream. Whatever it is you do to relax without a drink in your hand."

"Will do, Julius. And thanks."

" _What_? No problem. That's what I'm here for. And remember, as soon as one of my guys' feet grazes the threshold of a bar, or his eyes linger on a bottle of scotch at the grocery store, my spidey sense starts tingling, my friend."

"I'll remember that."

"Just before I go and get my ass chewed out by my boss for making a 'non-work-related call during office hours,' have you thought about what you're going to share next Thursday?"

Next Thursday I'll be finishing up the twelve-step program, and part of being one of Julius's guys means sharing with the rest of the group the worst thing I've ever done. In his words, "It doesn't matter how morally reprehensible it is, we're all friends here. You want to give up the bottle for good, then you need to unload the baggage."

I tell him, "I'm still thinking about that one."

"Don't think about it for too long, or you'll back out. And whatever you do, don't try to fob us with some shit about running over your neighbor's cat and not leaving a note. I've already seen what's in your soul, even if I don't know the details, and I've decided I like you anyway. But it's important for you—not me or anyone else in our group—to do this. When you're done, you'll feel like you've been bathed by a horde of virgins. I've gotta run. My boss just pointed at his watch and raised both his eyebrows, which is his way of telling people he's an a-hole."

Julius hangs up and I flag down a cab. I look back and take one last look at Wild Jim's before I get in, hoping I'll never be back here.

# 4.

My dad had a dream. He worked a modest job, was never late, never phoned in sick when he was able to get out of bed on a morning, and saved up every penny that he didn't use to give Mom a decent life. His dream was to travel the world with Mom in his retirement, and he would've done it. Apart from the day before his final day at work, Mom up and left him for the guy that tended to her dog every Wednesday. Lorenzo. And the crazy thing is she didn't take the dog with her, after all the preening she'd paid for with dad's money.

We never heard from her again.

Now instead of using his savings to travel to India to develop his spiritual side or to stand on the top of the Great Wall of China to think poignantly about how big the world is, he uses that money and all his time to drink away the hours, occasionally using the computer to check if anyone has replied to his messages on some dating website. Which, at least to my knowledge, hasn't happened yet

I know what you're thinking. What happened to the dog?

She still gets her manicure and whatnot from some new dog care guy. Dad couldn't bring himself to get rid of her, even though Mom did a piss-poor job of house-training her.

I tell this story to Cherry now and again, who's been Sandra's stand-in ever since she whacked her noggin in the car accident.

Cherry is my relaxation that doesn't involve a drink in my hand. She's healthier than a gallon of ice cream, though she's more expensive. Right after I knocked off from the soup kitchen early tonight, I arranged a date with her.

I've just finished up telling her that story for the umpteenth time while we ate our entrées at Basil Bush, my favorite Italian restaurant.

Cherry isn't like most call girls I've encountered, which is the reason she got the gig over five other unknowing applicants. Although I know she's bored by that story, she does a hell of a job of feigning interest, asking the right questions, and acting sympathetic; although she knows I don't need her sympathy, she knows it's part of being polite company to offer it.

This time I intend to take the discussion about the story in a different direction.

"That's so sad," Cherry says. "You ever hear from your mom again?"

"I received a postcard once. It said to not come looking for her and that she was happy."

"That's something, I guess. Will you...? Go looking for her, I mean?"

"I've thought about hiring someone to find her."

"What would you do if you managed to find her?"

Here goes. I lean in close, lower my voice. "I'd put a bullet in her lover's head, so she knew what it's like to lose someone you love. Then I'd let her experience that for a while before I put a bullet in her head too, for Dad."

"Oh, David, you're so funny."

Sandra never knew about my profession. She thought I sold vacuum cleaners door-to-door, like Willy Loman.

If Sandra ever recovers, I want our relationship to be fully transparent. Even if it means losing her, I'll tell her I work as a hired gun and about every single man, woman, child, and elderly person I've killed in the name of creating a profession for myself.

As well as providing a "full wife experience," Cherry, unknowingly, is my practice subject for being completely transparent in an intimate relationship.

Cherry would never snitch on me, but just in case, I've told her my name's David Brinkbottom.

The downside of using that alias is Cherry thinks I'm joking every time I try to reveal my dark side to her.

"It's true," I say. "I'd put a bullet right between her eyes."

She giggles. Says, "Sometimes you make me laugh so hard, David."

I take her by the hand, look at her seriously. "I'm not joking around with you, Terry," I say, referring to her as Terry Brinkbottom, the role I've cast her in, my wife. "I know we've known each other for a long time, but the truth is, being a business executive isn't my real gig. I've done bad things, Terry. Real bad things."

Cherry must sense I'm being genuine, or maybe she's just a hell of an actress tonight, as she swallows hard, looks genuinely uncomfortable, and says, in the cracked voice I expect to hear from Sandra someday, "David, I don't like this conversation."

"I know you don't. I don't like it either. But I thought it time I was totally honest with you."

She takes her hand away from mine. Looks at me wide-eyed. Breaks character. "Wait a minute. Let's back up a little. In this conversation, are you talking to me, Cherry, or your 'wife,' Terry?"

"I'm talking to you, Terry. My wife of nearly ten years."

"Phew. You had me worried for a second there, David."

She takes my hand again, no longer looking uncomfortable.

That didn't go as planned.

My cell phone starts to ring. I take it out and see it's Jimmy Balbone.

Then I say to Terry, "It's a notorious crime boss who I can't name for obvious reasons. He probably wants to discuss a job I'm doing for him next week. I better take this."

Terry suppresses laughter. "You're too much, David."

On my way to the men's room, I answer. "Blake."

"How'd it go with Mr. Can't Read Scripts For Shit today?"

"Peter Hammer?"

"Course Peter Hammer. Who the hell else would I have meant?"

"Just give me a second to get to the bathroom."

"Take as long as you want. It's not like I have more pressing matters than getting the money back I shouldn't be running 'round to get back in the first place. Going straight, I tell ya..."

I ignore him until I've confirmed that no one's in the bathroom, and until I've hung a sign on the outside of the door informing customers that it's temporarily closed for cleaning.

"Secure," I say.

"You wanna check if there's a full roll before we start talking?"

"I don't think that's necessary."

"Give me a yes or no answer to the following question: Peter Hammer?"

"Yes."

"How sure are you?"

"Guy wanted to know if he'd get back his aunt's jewelry box I'll steal to make it look like a robbery."

"Son of a bitch. Didn't think he'd have it in him. One day that weasel might make me proud."

"By the time Gary and Phil have visited him, he'll be practically begging me to take his aunt's lifesavings."

"So it's a go?"

"Guy's desperate. You want to know how desperate?"

"Don't leave me hanging. Just tell me. Who do ya think I am, with this question-and-answer bullshit?"

"Hundred dollars desperate."

"Son of a bitch."

Before I went to see Peter Hammer, I bet Jimmy he would try to hire me to take _Jimmy_ out. Jimmy thought it was easy money, with his reputation and all. But looks like Jimmy hadn't read the script for _King's Return 2_ either.

He says, "I oughta kill that guy myself, when all this is done. But you know what they say. A dead man can't even pay to take a dump in the toilet."

"Relax. There's not a hired gun in the state of California that'd take that gig."

"Do I sound like I'm worried? Who ya think I am, worried over some guy who can barely read."

"Anyway, I better go. I'm on a date."

"I thought your wife was in the loony bin. She on day release?"

"My wife is not on day release."

"Say no more. I shouldn't have asked. Go nuts, kid."

Jimmy hangs up.

And I go back to Cherry.

As I walk past her, she's consulting a napkin on which she's written a number of conversation topics. When she spots me, she folds it in two, hiding the text.

When I've sat down, she waits for what would seem like a natural pause if I hadn't seen the napkin, then says, "So, tell me about how you see your retirement going."

# 5.

Cherry gets the David Brinkbottom version, which is to say I backed out of revealing my profession to her, in practice for revealing it to my real wife Sandra.

David Brinkbottom, I imagine, would work until he's in his late-fifties, early sixties. He'd join a golf club, get white balled, because the worst thing he's ever done in his life is be late for paying a parking ticket. He'd take six vacations a year, have two affairs a year, and he'd rarely eat in.

He'd feel strong for a few years, and it would seem like he's got his best years ahead of him, with all the time he has now he doesn't work sixty hours a week.

But when he started to creep towards his mid-to-late sixties, he'd start to get a little forgetful, and maybe his golf swing would start to feel a little stiffer. He'd go to all the right physicians and specialists, and they'd do what they could. Maybe he'd have good periods, when it felt like old age would never catch up to him, but at some point, like when he developed arthritis in his golf grip, or his check up with his primary care physician revealed his cholesterol is off the charts, he'd realize that he'd spent all his good years working himself into an early grave. And that honeymoon period of retirement, those first couple years when he slept in until ten and ate bacon and eggs for breakfast each morning, was too little too late in his quest to make up for lost time until he would have one foot in the grave and one foot on a banana skin.

Cherry being Terry, laughed along like a good little wifey, thinking I was being ironic and that I looked too strong and healthy for that prognostication to ever come true.

And it won't, at least for me, Blake Elvis.

What would I have said had Sandra being sitting there, not ignoring me as she played against herself in a game of backgammon?

There's a small island off the coast of Thailand. Mu Ko Ang Thong. There's a spot waiting for me. When I get there, I'll have worked just enough to appreciate it, but not enough so that I feel like I should have gotten there earlier.

By day, I'll run a small business, doing the occasional charter boat trip for game fisherman. Because a man is never truly happy when completely at rest.

I'll never wear something as restrictive as a suit ever again, choosing instead to wear flip-flops, cargo shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. But unlike a tourist, mine will look worn, and I'll wear them like they belong on me. Like I earned it. Especially when one of the locals wanders past me when I'm working on my boat, waves from a distance and talks to me in the native tongue, which I'll both understand and talk enough of to shout over that the weather's good.

Pieces of shit like Jimmy Balbone and Peter Hammer will belong to the history of a different man. A man that didn't hang around too long before he started afresh.

Even if Sandra doesn't recover, I'll take her with me, and she'll have five Thai helpers who I'll pay good wages to make sure she's as comfortable as possible. By then, Sandra might experience periods of lucidity and be able to appreciate the sunset. And even when she's going ape-shit, spitting at me, clawing at my forearms as I hold her tight, she calling me Mike, I'll never think that the paradise we'll live in might be better without her.

I think about these things as I cross off another day on my deserted island calendar. The day I'm crossing off is the day I make a cuckoo clock delivery to a Mrs. Margaret Hammer, apartment 5J, Drexler building, Hollywood Boulevard.

Barring some economic meltdown, I already have the cash to make my dream a reality. I'm just buying time, keeping busy, until I see either A) some progress in Sandra's condition to make me think it might be worth keeping her in Shady Acres, where she can receive treatment, or B) no progress at all in the next couple months, which will convince me I'm just going to have to be pragmatic about the prognosis I've received from six different doctors.

As I sit and drink my coffee, I think about what it'll be like to sit on the beach for the first time, until my phone starts to ring.

# 6.

Behind every man's dream is someone wanting to fuck it up for him. Who's mine?

It's the guy who's phoning. Retired FBI agent Bob Lamb.

When I answer, it sounds like he might have butt-dialed me, or that he's drunk, or both, as he's seemingly in the middle of a conversation. Like now, when the first thing he says is, "Easy work."

" _Bob_? Are you talking to me?" I ask.

"Damn right I'm talking to you, Clive."

In his retirement, Bob Lamb is using his time to obsess over the apprehending of a serial killer who evaded him when he was a lawman and who he thinks is called Clive Nuttree, an alias I used for a time.

I don't know how he got this number, but it's encrypted, meaning he can't locate me using its signal, tap it, or track down my cellular phone service provider. Not that he'd get anywhere with them if he could; I, the customer, have a hard-enough time getting information out of them.

The encrypting was put in there by lowlife, Scottish technology expert and hacker Scottie McDougray, an associate of Jimmy Balbone.

Now and again, Bob likes to phone up and have a chat. This time he sounds extra drunk.

"Now's not a good time, Bob. I'd love to talk but I'm on vacation," I say.

"Yeah, well, where are you?"

"A beach in England, Bob."

"Nice try. I know you wouldn't vacation in no beach in England."

"I am, and it's surprisingly warm."

"I'm close, you know."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The fuck you don't, Nuttree. Remember Hank Waterton, the guy you whacked in Goosetown, Florida?"

"Never heard of the place."

"Yeah, well, it's a place, smart guy. His neighbor, Guy something or other, he says he saw a delivery man come to Hank's door that day, carrying a... wait for it."

I wait for it, for what seems like a minute.

Then he says, "A _cuckoo_ clock!"

"What's a cuckoo clock?"

Bob shouts down the phone, then calms enough to order himself another whisky from the bar he's at. I hear the barman trying to refuse him, probably on account of Bob seemingly randomly shouting the word cuckoo clock.

On the occasions I play dumb, which is on each occasion, Bob doesn't appreciate it.

When he comes back on the line, he says, "You know what one is."

"Sincerely, I don't. Is that like a wristwatch, but tied around a cuckoo's neck?"

He sighs. "I catch you, and I will, I'll wrap my hands around _your_ neck and strangle the last breath out of you. You won't do any time, Cuckoo. It's too good for you."

"Bob, I know we've been friends for a couple years, but I sense you're being a _tad_ hostile. That's British English for a slight amount. I'm really picking up the lingo while I'm over here."

"Yeah, then what's the capital of England?"

I level with him. "What would my knowledge or lack of knowledge about England's geography _prove_ , Bob?"

"London, smart guy. That's the capital. I _knew_ you weren't over there."

"Tell me more about these cuckoo clocks."

"Just say it, God damn it. Say you're not on vacation."

"I'm not on vacation."

"Aha! I knew it."

"Oops, my sandy toes were crossed, Bob. Sorry."

He sighs again, and then I hear him slurp down some of his whisky, afterwards chewing on an ice cube right next to the mouthpiece. Then he says, "You know what really eats away at me at night, Clive."

"I don't, Bob."

"How's a killer like you—meticulous, whip smart, never leaves a shred of evidence—how's a killer like that be so _dumb_ to leave his calling card at every crime scene? That's what I've never been able to get my head around all these years."

I pause a moment, then say, "These cuckoo clocks, do they come in different shapes and sizes? If they're as good as your obsession with them suggests, I think I might have a spot in my living room for one."

# 7.

The rest of the conversation goes as usual. Bob gets so pissed he becomes unintelligible apart from the odd curse word, I diplomatically suggest that's not the way old buddies speak to one another, and then Bob tries his usual spiel. That of telling me one of his sources in the FBI knows for a fact I'll be delivering a cuckoo clock on the day he's phoning, and when and where I'll be delivering it.

My response this time?

"Do these cuckoo clocks tell the time in different cities, like those rows of clocks in banks?"

Bob was clearly trying to put the heebie-jeebies into me, in some vain attempt to stop me from going through with it, if I just so happened to have a job lined up for today.

Bob's a hoot, especially when considering the logic of it. If he did know, then would he provide me, the person he's identified as being a serial killer, with that information, thus letting me evade the FBI's slippery grip yet again?

Even Bob, as drunk as he was, knows better than that.

Why is Bob, because of his lack of physical evidence, clutching at straws every time he phones?

I'm meticulous when it comes to preparing for deliveries.

After I've finished my coffee, I shower, dry myself off really well with a freshly washed towel, and then apply a generous amount of wet-look hair gel to my hair, and part it on the side. Then I shave every single hair off my body apart from my eyebrows, head hair, eyelashes, and a tuft of hair in my nether regions that's a pain to get to. With my body hairless, I apply a layer of industrial strength antiperspirant to the whole of my body. When that's dry, I apply an invisible layer of glue to my eyebrows, ensuring each hair sticks to at least one other, just in case one of those hairs is at the end of its telogen phase and is pushed out by the new hair growing underneath it while I'm in Margaret Hammer's building or apartment.

On my hands, I wear typical workman's gloves. I have pairs of bespoke ones with no ventilation holes. Unlike a temp at a building site's pair, mine fit like a glove should, ensuring my trigger finger can without problem or delay gain access to the trigger of my Beretta, which has an increased-diameter trigger guard compared to regular versions of the weapon.

On my feet, I'll wear tread-less shoes which I'll put on in the delivery truck just before I enter her building. To make up for the lack of grip provided by a tread, the soles are made of the same type of rubber on the surface of table tennis rackets. The last thing you want to happen is to slip at the point of discharging the weapon into your target, non-fatally wounding him or her. People who have been winged or scalped or had their ear blown off tend to make a little noise.

Again, the shoes are bespoke, as no person in their right mind would want to wear a pair that only lasts a day and a half of average use.

There's no such thing as a non-fiber-shedding cloth. Believe me, I've googled it. The next best thing is rayon, the type of material used to line suits, upholster furniture, and make bingo-hall blouses. I won't be wearing a blouse or be dressing as a chaise lounge, but I will be wearing a regular-looking workman's overalls made of rayon cloth, but treated so that it looks like the sort of hard-wearing material some regular Joe would wear on any day of any delivery job.

I have a row of these in my walk-in wardrobe, like Batsuits. To the naked eye, they're identical. But I know better than to enter various targets' apartment buildings, homes, and bathrooms, or anywhere else I have a job, wearing the exact same fibers. Each one-piece is comprised of varying thicknesses of fiber—ranging from ten to fifty microns. I also vary the coarseness of the fibers, making each overall unique, at least when examined under a high-powered microscope.

Walk into someone's home carrying a cuckoo clock and wearing a pristine, never-been-worn workman's overalls, and your more observant target may smell a rat. If I were younger, I might look like a temp, or like it's my first day on the job, but I'm not, which calls for signs of use, such as crinkles, stains, and the odd shiny patch from when my wife, tired from raising her regular Joe's two children, left the iron on a little too long.

The right stain and how it's applied are essential too. Sawdust and wood splinters would be the obvious embellishment, but they're loose. Can't work with them. People trust the smell of motor oil. It doesn't make sense that a guy delivering a cuckoo clock would have such stains on his overalls, but I find the smell it lends the garment has an air of authenticity. Each stain is acquired 'accidentally,' which means at night I go out and crawl under other people's cars, spend a few minutes twisting, prodding, and handling oil-covered surfaces, as to get _their_ motor oil on my garments, not my own, which has its own unique composition. This may seem pedantic, or at worst risky, behavior, but go and get your favorite shirt, and apply a motor oil stain to it. That stain will look like when you take your kid home from kindergarten and look at the painting or drawing he has with him to find that certain areas of the _art_ have obviously been applied by an adult. Which is to say if I were to do the same thing, just splash some oil on there, it would have the same contrived look.

This could result in a skeptical target, which is a difficult target.

Good old navy blue is the workman's favorite color. This, not by accident, is the color I wear.

Parked in a warehouse on some part of brownfield land outside of town is my delivery truck. I drive my car there, and park inside. Stored in a hidden recess in the floor is my Beretta. There's also a Smith and Wesson M&P Series semi-auto pistol. They're known to have accuracy issues, and it's not my weapon of choice. But despite this model's potential accuracy issue, it's one of the most common pistols used in the States.

I take it into my mini sound-proof firing range and fire off rounds into various surfaces: a dry wall, behind which is concrete; a plate of BoneSim 1800 series, a material which provides similar toughness, hardness, density, and mechanical properties as human cortical bone; and various hard and soft wood types.

Then I dig the slugs out with a rubber-tipped instrument and place them in separate Ziploc bags.

I'm a crack shot, but I don't want to seem like one to the crime scene analysts. Preferably, I want to shoot Margaret head-on, not execution style. I want the hit to look unprofessional, like some string-limbed junkie came in off the street, found his way into the Drexler apartment building, and just so happened to find Margaret Hammer's door unlocked.

He caught her browsing her DVD or book collection, stood there looking at her a second, as surprised about seeing her as she was him. He wiped snot from his nose, and then reached for his weapon. I'll finish the job with the first slug, but our thief-come-killer won't. He pressed the trigger a fraction too late, sent one into the dry wall behind her. Second shot was just as inaccurate. He sent it into the bookshelf. Silly him.

Third one, my first, is a killer. Through the throat. Messy angle. The work of someone who can't hold a gun steady, never mind a hired gun. There's no more vulnerable place on the human body apart from the head. Mortality rate for gunshot wounds to the head is ninety percent. The throat is on heels of that, up in the 80s. If I miss the spine, I'll hit one of the carotid arteries, which supply blood to the brain. Best way to kill the brain without targeting it execution style is to go for the throat.

Not even a medic on standby at the crime scene would have a reasonable chance of saving her if the blood flow to her brain is sub sixty percent.

Not gonna happen.

Targeting the throat also has one major advantage, even over the head. Margaret Hammer won't be able to scream.

Bob was right to question my leaving of the cuckoo clock at each crime scene. Even to Bob, who has been following my career for a good seven few years, hasn't worked it out.

As mentioned, the cuckoo clock helps me get in the apartment building or go up the target's house without raising suspicion. But there's more to it than that.

The cuckoo clock is my leverage over my client. I briefed Peter Hammer yesterday on what to say to the cops when they ask, inevitably, about the presence of the cuckoo clock in the home. He's to say she mentioned it a couple weeks ago, said she was getting it delivered a couple days before I visit her.

He backs out of our arrangement, decides he wants to take me down without incriminating himself, which is the way they tend to do it, instead of confessing to the whole arrangement, then I'll threaten to take him down with me, using the cuckoo clock—for which he has paid, with his credit card, no less—to incriminate him.

Clients tend to rethink their guilt when they start thinking about all that time they'll have to think about what they did when they're in prison for the rest of their lives. Conspiracy to kill... He may as well have pulled the trigger himself, for all the good it'll do him in front of a judge.

He keeps his mouth shut, eyewitnesses may have seen it delivered that day, but they could just as well have seen it being delivered another day. The shock of your neighbor having been killed makes eyewitnesses notoriously unreliable.

Suddenly the guy wearing the blue overalls, some regular Joe who's around six feet tall, hair slicked into a side parting, and whose appearance was mostly covered up by the cuckoo clock, is no longer a person of interest.

Only to crazy Bob Lamb, the drunk who phones the various homicide units from time to time, spouting the same certifiable shit he said to me. They have a name for the Bobs of this world at the FBI, the guys who could never fully quit the job: Inspector Zimmer Frame.

I bought over a hundred cuckoo clocks ten years ago, and have stored them here ever since. I'm down to fifty-seven. Ten more and all they'll be good for is collecting dust.

Maybe I'll send one to Bob when I'm done with all this. As a memento. Bob would like that.

I move one into the van using a hand truck, taking the delivery van's elevator platform up to the storage area.

Then I secure it with some bungee cords.

And then I'm good to go.

# 8.

Okay Deliveries. That's the logo painted on the side of my delivery truck.

I find a space about fifty yards from the Drexler apartment building. I pay for an hour at the meter, and then get out and smoke a cigarette. I don't smoke, at least I haven't for the last six years, but before each job, I wait outside the target's home, and smoke a cigarette right down to the butt.

I use the time to visualize what I'm about to do, the sequence of events. It's calming. At least it is without some guy, wearing a T-shirt shirt with a cartoon character printed on it, who's just come out of the apartment building and is seemingly staring at me.

He comes up to me, raises his wayfarer sunglasses so I can see his eyes, which are too small for his face. Then he says, "There's no smoking on this street, chief. I'm going to have to ask you to put that out. There are women and children who use this sidewalk."

"Just give me a second and I'm done." I take one last toke, and then go to throw it, him standing in front of me and watching the whole time.

He stops me, blocking my throw with his hand, and says, "You're not going to throw it, are you?"

"I was, but I can just as well stub it out and dispose of it in the trash."

"I don't mean that. You weren't going to throw it on account of what _I_ said, were you?"

"I was."

"Because I was just busting your balls." He takes off his wayfarers and hooks one of the temples over the neck of his T-shirt, so they hang there. "I get it. You're a working man and like to smoke. Hell, if I had a menial gig like yours I'd smoke my ass off—what am I doing?" He slaps his forehead theatrically. "Here I am gassing and I haven't even introduced myself. Hancock." He holds out his hand.

I look down at it. Not knowing what to make of this guy.

Then he says, "Not the type of guy to shake hands. I get it."

"Look, guy, I better get back to work."

The cigarette's burnt out, so I toss it in the sidewalk trash can to my right.

Then he says, "Geez, I feel bad. Here you were, probably enjoying the next five minutes before you... do whatever it is you do for the next hour or so until your next cigarette break, and I came over, the buffoon that I am, and disturbed you."

"Don't worry about it. I was nearly finish—"

"Feel free to have another cigarette. Sure, it's frowned upon by the residents of this street, but there's no law. And you know what they say about snitchers."

"It's okay. I was done."

"No really, I insist. Take one out and smoke it. And I'll even wait here with you, just in case your boss phones and asks what you're doing. I can explain to him that I ruined your first smoke break and take the rap for your having the need to take a second. How's that sound?"

As he stands there, a sincere look on his face, I put my finger on it. This guy's high right now. He's grinning like an idiot.

"Well, how does that sound?" he asks.

"I better get going. Can't stomach a second cigarette anyway." I start to walk towards the truck's cab, but he stops me with an overfamiliar hand on my shoulder.

He looks up at the delivery truck behind me. "That your truck?"

"Yeah."

"You a delivery guy or something?"

"I am."

He reads the truck's logo, slowly, like a fourth grader. "Ok-ay Deli-ver-ies. That supposed to be ironic or something?"

"It's just the name of the delivery place I work for."

"Say, you're not making a delivery in that building over there, are you?"

He points in the direction of the Drexler building.

"Is that the Granger apartment building?" I ask.

"No, it's the Drexler. What number's the Granger? I've never heard of it. It is on this road, _right_?"

"Geez, that's just my luck. Anyway, thanks for your help. You have a nice day now."

I make it two steps before the guy, Hancock, says, "What are you delivering?"

I stop, turn and look at him. "A safe."

He whistles, impressed. "Let me take a look at the address you were given. Maybe I can help you out. The least I can do, after I ruined your cigarette break."

"I'm good. But thanks, anyway."

Around twenty seconds is the maximum time you can interact with someone before they start remembering what color your eyes are, if you have crooked teeth, what accent you speak with, and whether you part your hair on the right or left side.

I've spent as long as I need to with this asshole. But the last thing I want to do is make an impression on him, by being rude or by giving him an atomic wedgie and sending him head first into the trash can.

Instead of putting the address into his hand, I shake it. Say, "Thanks for the help, partner, but I've got SatNav."

I make it almost into the cab before he opens his mouth again. "Then how'd you get here, if you programmed in that address?"

"I think I must have typed in the street number incorrectly."

"That figures."

I give him a two-fingered salute without looking back and get in the cab.

Then I drive off.

I look in the wing mirror to see him standing by the spot I was parked in. And I'm sure he still has that idiotic grin on his face.

I drive up Hollywood Boulevard a ways, and then park up, wait five minutes, and then go back to the Drexler building.

Hancock isn't there.

I go to park in the same spot, but someone's taken it, and the remaining fifty or so minutes I had on the meter.

So I have to park in a different one, the one next to it, and pay again. I resist the urge to carve ASSHOLE into the car panel of the freeloader.

Then I get the cuckoo clock out of the delivery truck with the hand truck, wheel it up the apartment building entrance, set it down, and then go over to the intercom and buzz Margaret Hammer in apartment 5J.

# 9.

"You're early."

"By a couple minutes, maybe."

"By my clock it's a whole five minutes. I'm not ready yet."

"By the time I get up there, Mrs. Hammer, most of that whole five minutes will be gone."

"It's Ms. Hammer. Mrs. Hammer's my mother, God rest her soul."

"Still, if you can just buzz me in."

There's a long pause. And then the door buzzes, indicating it's unlocked.

I go to open it, but get there a fraction too late.

I wait, expecting her to ask if I got in okay. But there's silence.

So I buzz her apartment again. Underneath the button, I see the name Jake Hancock, apartment 6J.

"Who is it?" Ms. Hammer asks.

"It's still the delivery guy."

"I just buzzed you in. What are you doing still standing outside?"

"I didn't get there in time."

"Get _where_ in time?"

"To the door, to open it."

"You're standing right by it. The kind people who installed the intercom put it _right_ by the door. What do you mean you didn't get to it in time?"

"If you could just press the button again, but maybe for a bit longer, this time?"

"Are you ready?" Facetious.

I smile. I heard somewhere people can hear when the person they're talking on the phone with is smiling. "Never been more ready, Ms. Hammer."

"Oh goodie."

The door starts to buzz again, and I open it. Most apartment buildings have a hook and latch, for guys like me to secure the door open while they take something through, or for people moving in or out of the building, but this entrance doesn't have one. The building committee must be security conscious. I have to put the welcome mat in between the door and the doorframe instead, to avoid having to buzz Ms. Hammer's intercom again.

I wheel the cuckoo clock up the steps, open the ajar door fully, and then hold it with my foot as I back through it with the hand truck.

Before I take the elevator, I remove the mat.

The building has two elevators. One larger one, stated capacity 8 persons, though it looks like it could hold five at a squeeze. And a smaller one, stated capacity four persons, though it's just enough space for me and the cuckoo clock.

I take the smaller one. People don't generally take the elevator up in apartment building apart from when taken from the lobby. But I don't take chances. Someone could've pressed the up button accidentally, or a resident could be friends with another resident in one of the floors above.

Last thing I need is someone getting in there with me, talking about the weather, asking about who's getting a cuckoo clock delivered today, because maybe on the off chance they know them.

I look at the buttons a second, and curse under my breath for not asking the old bat when I spoke to her. I can't remember which floor Peter Hammer said. And then think about it a second. Margaret Hammer 5J. That Hancock guy's button below it, also J.

Probably on the same floor. Shit.

But I put it to the back of my mind, take a second to figure out J is the tenth letter of the alphabet. And what do you know, I remember Peter Hammer saying it was the tenth, and remember the discussion we had about my taking the elevator.

Tenth floor.

I press the button, listen to the whirr of the elevator motor high above me.

I do a last weapon-placement check, making sure it's seated correctly in the shoulder holster under my overalls, and that the tape securing the suppressor to my abdomen is secure but not too tight. And then I check that the 9mm rounds from the Smith and Wesson are in my breast pocket, along with a rubber-tipped instrument I'll use to dig out the slug I put into Mrs.—sorry, _Ms._ —Hammer, and the slugs I'll put into the wall and some piece of furniture in her vicinity.

I wheel the cuckoo clock out of the elevator, through the tenth-floor landing, through the door to the hallway, and then take a left, finding 5J at the end of it.

When do I earn my money? Is it when I'm able to pull my pistol out from under my overalls, without my hand shaking or without a bead of sweat on my forehead and pull the trigger? Is it when I keep a cool head and follow my cleanup regime to the T without having to think twice about what the next step is or question whether my focus was fully on the step I just completed? Or is it when I walk outside afterwards, maybe see her neighbor Hancock in the distance, coming back from a diner after eating breakfast or having collected a newspaper or some shit, and I don't break stride, but make it to the delivery truck's cab without looking panicked, and spin that truck around before he notices and thinks, _Hey, that lost delivery guy is back here again. That's weird,_ before he goes inside his apartment building to eventually find out his neighbor's been murdered.

I earn my money when doing all those things, which is to say I have the watermelons to be able to do those things well, but I like to think I start earning my money when the door opens, presenting me with my target for the first time. And she stands there, in her flamingo pattern dressing gown, and I smile at her, say, "Here's your cuckoo clock, Ms. Hammer. And there isn't a scratch on it."

# 10.

"It's very..." Ms. Hammer says, and then starts searching for the right word. "Tall."

I haven't made it into Ms. Hammer's apartment. In fact, she hasn't greeted me in any other way than to comment on the gift her nephew bought her. I'm anxious to get inside.

"It is, Ms. Hammer. So tall that it's been something to get up here to your tenth-floor apartment."

She takes her eyes off it, looks at me. I smile, but she doesn't smile back. "You didn't take the elevator?"

"I did. But still, this thing's kind of heavy. If you can let me inside. I have a number of deliveries to make this morning."

"Hold on a second."

Ms. Hammer goes back into her apartment, leaving me standing by the threshold. I glance up the hallway to my right, finding it empty. For now.

She's gone for what must be a minute with no sign of coming back—no calling over, informing me what she's doing back there and definitely no apologizing for the slight inconvenience she's causing me, the delivery guy, or the huge inconvenience she's causing me, the hired gun who's about to take her out.

Two minutes later, an age in this empty hallway, she comes back, carrying a tape measure. Not the retractable kind, which tidies itself away neatly after use, but a length of plastic ribbon, which looks like it's been working itself into a knot in some drawer for the time since Clinton was in office.

She starts unraveling it, her lack of dexterity and older lady sausage fingers making for long work.

I smile, even though she's not looking at me, and say, "Can I be so kind as to ask what you're doing, Ms. Hammer."

"I want to make sure it fits the nook I have for it. Peter assured me it would fit in the one place I can accommodate it."

My smile broadens. "Did he?"

"He did."

She unties the knot, and then says, "Can you hold this at the top?" holding the end of the tape measure out to me.

I don't take it. "Am I right in assuming your ceiling height is roughly consistent throughout your home, Ms. Hammer?" I lean to the side and look around her at the ceiling of the hallway. "And I'm pretty sure the clock's not nearly too tall for your hall."

"I know _that_ , bucko. I want to measure how wide it is. That's the distance from here to here."

"You want me to hold it at the top to measure the width?"

"I do. I thought I'd let you measure it high up, save me getting onto my knees."

She smiles for the first time, but flashes it at me, denoting victory not warmth.

I measure the width for her. Then say, "Fourteen and a quarter inches. That do you, Ms. Hammer?"

"Hold on a second, will you. I'll just go and check."

She scurries off, taking the tape measure with her, and I glance up the hallway to my right again.

No one there. But how long until someone comes out, late for work?

I wait around thirty seconds before making a decision.

Then I say, "Just going to come in, Ms. Hammer. No use standing out here in the hallway."

I get no response, so I wheel the clock in, stepping lightly, and shut the door behind me.

I take it through to the hall to the living area, find Ms. Hammer bent down, measuring the width of the space between two bookshelves. She must be hard of hearing, as she has no idea I'm behind her.

During the second it takes me to undo a button on my overalls, gaining me access to the Beretta, I glance to my left, noting that the blinds are shut.

I then remove the duct tape from the suppressor on one side, slide out the Beretta from the holster, and then whistle.

She turns around, looking disgruntled, until she spots the delivery guy she was talking with a mere minute earlier—about the width of a cuckoo clock, no less—to find him holding a pistol on her. Ms. Hammer is no longer disgruntled.

"Don't you point that thing at me, buck—"

I put one in her throat, and she goes down hard. Whacks her head on the carpeted floor. She only struggles for five or so seconds before her last breath, which I don't wait around to observe.

I'm too busy putting a bullet in the bookshelf behind her, and one in the floor, making it look like the Tasmanian Devil's just been in a gun fight.

While the slugs cool, I go through the door to my right, the one Peter Hammer said would lead to her bedroom. In the top drawer of her dresser is the jewelry box. Like a panicked thief who's just killed someone for the first time, I open it and put my hand into it, grabbing a handful of necklaces and whatnot. I stuff them into my pocket, dropping some in both the drawer and on the floor. And then, like a thief who's calmed enough to realize that's an ineffective way of relieving his victim of _all_ her jewelry, take the whole jewelry box.

I go back through to the living room, and realize the mistake I've made: I've shot her in the spot designated for the clock.

Sure, there's space by the right-hand bookshelf, but that would leave a gap where Ms. Hammer had obviously pulled apart the bookshelves for the arrival of her new clock, which I'd be dumber than an out-of-work garbage man to haul back down to my delivery truck.

I think a second. Come up with a solution.

I put the cuckoo clock by the opposite wall. There's a nice space that Ms. Hammer, hardly the interior designer, could've decided upon a couple days earlier.

But that still leaves the gap between the bookshelves. The more obvious choice for the clock and, more importantly, the space that looks like it's been designated for the clock.

I pull out the bookshelves, so that there's a gap between them and the wall. They look like two cars parked by drunk guys.

Our thief, after watching too many movies, checked behind them for a safe or a cubbyhole used for safekeeping, found bupkis. But he was smart enough to not take the time to move them back to where Ms. Hammer likes them.

Ms. Hammer must've moved one of the bookshelves days ago, probably got a neighbor to do it, as there are two rectangular indentations in the carpet for the right-most bookshelf: the original one, deeper, made over years; a second one, shallower, made over the last couple days.

It's the last sign that Ms. Hammer moved those bookshelves apart for a cuckoo clock that—what do you know—got placed somewhere else. Apart from the tape measure lying by her body, which I'll take with me.

Indentations like that are an eyesore. I should know. Sandra got into Feng shui a couple years before the accident. Every time she felt like freeing the energy flow in the room, I'd be the only one who noticed them afterwards.

But in this case, they're more than the topic of a petty argument. They're a trail of crumbs leading to a mouse hole.

I learned a trick for making Sandra believe that they magically disappeared like she thought they would when I pointed them out. I go through to the kitchen, take out the ice cube tray from the freezer, and go back through to the living area.

I place two lines of ice cubes on the part of the indentation that's showing, the one that denotes the second place she put the bookshelf, and by the time they're melted, that indentation won't be visible. They'll still be the rest of the indentation, now hidden underneath the badly parked car, but by the time the crime scene investigators notice that, they'll have pulled and pushed every piece of furniture this way and that it'll look like a spaghetti junction.

All that's left is the slugs. The one aimed at the bookshelf missed and went into the dry wall. I pry it out with the rubber-tipped instrument and replace it with a slug I shot into the dry wall section back at the range. Then I pry out the one in the floor, settle for replacing it with a slug I shot into plain concrete.

The last slug is the one I put into Ms. Hammer's throat. Usually it would be in and out, meaning I could pry it out of the wall or whatever it had ended up embedding itself into. But she wasn't standing, meaning the downward trajectory most likely leaves the slug buried deep inside her upper abdomen.

Mistake number two.

I bend down to a kneeling position by her, make the sign of the cross, and then lift Ms. Hammer up, hoping to see the slug in the carpet beneath.

It isn't there. But there is a blood-soaked hole in the upper back section of her dressing gown, between her shoulder blades.

Looks like the bonus roll-over power ball came out for me this week, as the slug is in embedded in the skirting board.

I carefully lower Ms. Hammer back into the place she fell, and then start getting to work on the last slug, when I hear the doorbell ring.

# 11.

I wait a second, to see if it rings again.

At resting rate, adults with healthy lungs breathe between twelve and twenty times a minute, which is between seven-hundred and twenty and one-thousand and two-hundred breaths an hour. I've been awake for around three and a half hours, which means I've taken around nine-hundred and forty breaths today.

The next breath is the first one I'm conscious of taking. And the first one that I really listen to.

After what seems like a minute, I go back to prying the slug out, figuring it was a neighbor who'll come back later.

Until it rings again.

Twice.

And then that voice, the one I hopefully only listened to for less than a minute says, "I know you're in there, Margaret. You've got your welcome mat laid out."

It's the guy. The neighbor. Hancock.

Silence a second.

I don't move.

"Oh, and by the way, seeing as I'm being the _best_ neighbor today, that's not the smartest move. I know you want to keep that thing pristine, by not having me or whoever tread on it as we—let's drop the pretense—as _I_ go past your apartment door, but it's not the most security conscious thing to do. Someone could notice that you're always out when it's not there and burglarize you."

Silence again.

"Margaret, I know you're there, no matter how still you are. Okay, I'm going. Just wanted to let you know I think your delivery guy's outside. The one who's delivering that clock you were in a tizzy about this morning, and that he seems lost. He drove away and then came back. He's either lost and confused about what he's delivering, or he had to deliver a safe to a different building. If I were you, I'd go out and look for him; maybe he's still in his truck." There's a pause. "Okay, Margaret, I've done my good deed for the day. Thanks for ignoring me. Bye now."

Shit.

Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

I pry out the slug, put it in my pocket, take one out of the Ziploc bag marked HARDWOOD, use some of the blood from her neck wound to smear blood onto it, and then try and force it into the hole left in the skirting board.

It only partially goes in.

I then force it fully into the skirting board using the handle of the instrument I used to pry out the old slug, making sure it's flush with the end of the hole the original slug made. Nothing says planted evidence like a slug that backed its way out of the hole it made.

I then pick up the tape measure, put that in my pocket, and take a quick look around.

Everything seems in place that supports a robbery gone wrong. And then I think of something. If the robber moved the bookshelves _after_ he shot her, to check for a safe or other place of safekeeping, then how did the slug end up in the skirting board?

That's the type of shit that creates the Bob Lambs of this world and puts people like me in jail. But you know what else does? Prying neighbors with too much time on their hands.

I think a second, come to a solution.

I carefully step over Ms. Hammer's body, and then put my back against the wall, between the gap between the two bookshelves. And then, making as little noise as possible, put an elbow-shaped indentation in the wall, making it look like Ms. Hammer caught the robber while he was looking behind the bookshelves, she confronted him, they struggled by the wall, he got free, knocking her to the ground, to a kneeling position. And then he fled, turning around before he left the living area, aiming at her but firing a bullet into the wall, one into the floor, and then the final one in her throat.

There's no sign of the struggle on Ms. Hammer's body. No contusion on her cheek where he punched her, no skin under her fingernails from where she scratched him, and no saliva in her ear from when he gave her a wet willy to make his escape.

Sure, I could punch her in the face now, but it would leave a different mark than if it were made _before_ she died. So instead, I kneel down next to Ms. Hammer's body, grab a handful of her hair, and yank it out, taking a little bit of her scalp with it, making it look like the robber didn't fight fair with Ms. Hammer.

I then place it a couple feet from her body, as though the robber noticed it after he shot her, was horrified to see he had a tuft of hair, attached to which was a section of scalp, hanging from his glove. He shook it loose, and then he got out of here.

Which is what I'm going to do.

I go over to the hand truck.

I wheel it to the door, and am about to leave, when I hear footsteps outside the door.

# 12.

I look through the peephole to see that it's the neighbor again, Hancock. He's standing outside the door, one hand on his hip, the other holding a cell phone.

He reaches out with the hand not holding the phone, and I think he's going to press the doorbell again, but instead he knocks on the door, hammering on it, like he's the police, making me jump.

I press my eye against the peephole again, watch him think a second.

Then he says, "Margaret, it's me again, Mr. Hancock. I know you're in there." He raises his voice. "I need you to come to the door _right_ now, Margaret."

He waits a second, glances down at the cell phone.

And I wonder if he's noticed the change in the light coming through the peephole from my standing here.

I'd go back to the living area, but he'd hear my footsteps. And I'd have to take my eye away from the peephole, but I just remembered that while it isn't possible for him to look through the peephole and see the person on the other side, it _is_ possible for him to notice that the person looking has moved to or from it, indicated by the aforementioned change of light.

What's he doing here? Is he still being the good neighbor, making sure Ms. Hammer knows her delivery guy's here?

Now that I think about it, this Hancock guy's probably the person that helped her with the moving of the bookshelves. That figures. He's her nearest neighbor, and he seems like the kind of guy who might be around a lot, seeing as though it's getting to the point where most people are thinking about going to work, and he's stoned and wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon character on it.

Why would he bang on the door like that, instead of just ringing the doorbell again? And why should she open the door _right_ now?

Has this Hancock guy figured out what I'm doing here, dressed as a delivery guy?

It's a stretch, would seem like too much of a stretch, if the guy standing outside, Hancock, didn't do what he's about to do.

# 13.

He holds up his phone and looks at it, then looks away, thinking, a stupid look on his face. He looks like he's thinking about dialing a number. I take out my Beretta, slowly, and point it at the door. If he starts dialing, I'll wait to see if he stops on three digits, and then I'll cut my losses, put a bullet in him, and call this my last gig before I move to Mu Ko Ang Thong.

Jimmy can get a new guy, Bob Lamb can forever wonder what happened to Clive Nuttree, the Cuckoo Clock Killer, and I'll take Sandra with me, whether she's showing signs of progress or not.

As he starts to dial, I put my finger on the trigger.

One digit.

Two.

Here's the third.

If he moves the phone up to his ear before dialing a fourth, he's a dead man. He just doesn't know it yet.

But he carries on dialing.

Dials seven or eight digits. I lost count.

Then he puts the phone up to his ear.

He could be phoning Hollywood Community Police Station directly, so I don't move the Beretta away from the door, nor do I move my finger away from the trigger.

It's long, that silence between dialing and being connected, if you listen to it.

And then, startling me like when he knocked on the door, a phone behind me starts ringing.

The neighbor's phoning Ms. Hammer's landline.

"Come on, pickup," he says.

And then I realize why he's phoning.

He's not worked out what the delivery guy was doing waiting outside his apartment building. It _was_ a stretch. But what he thinks, and why he's phoning, and I'm ninety percent sure about this, isn't much better for me.

After ten or so rings, it goes to voicemail. Ms. Hammer has a cassette-tape-recorded analog device, and I hear an audible click behind me—presumably from the small hallway table, though I don't take my eye away from the peephole to look—and then the sound of Ms. Hammer's voice, from beyond the grave.

"This is Margaret Hammer. I'm out at the moment, but you can feel free to leave your name, number, and the reason you're calling after the beep and I'll get back to you." Then there's a pause, before she says, "Beep!" And then she laughs, before the actual beep comes.

I expect the neighbor to hang up, but he leaves a message. "Margaret, it's Mr. Hancock, again or not, depending on if I'm right about what happened. You could be out, I suppose, but I don't think so. Five years you've had that welcome mat, and I can't remember one time you left it outside without having been home." He pauses, thinking a second. "Just thought of something, and don't _I_ feel stupid." He slaps his forehead with his palm.

Then he continues, "How would I know if you'd forgotten it? Anyway, if you're out, at the store or whatever, and have just gotten back and are listening to this message and thinking why the hell is Mr. Hancock phoning and sounding all worried, and then forget I ever called. But if you're—"

He gets cut off by the machine.

What was he going to say? I'm not ninety percent sure about why he was phoning anymore, more like ninety-nine.

He starts dialing the number again, gets four digits in, before he realizes he can just press a single button to redial Ms. Hammer's number. And then he starts cursing under his breath, before pressing the single button.

He puts the phone up to his ear. That silence again. The same ten or so rings. The same voice from beyond the grave, sounding like she was in her forties and loving it. The same goofy beep joke.

The neighbor says, "Hi, Ms. Hammer. It's Mr. Hancock again, your favorite neighbor. Where was I? Oh yeah, if you've just gotten back from the hair salon or store or whatever, ignore this message _and_ the one before it. Wait, you would've heard that one first, _right_? Anyway, if you're hearing this message, in good health, then forget I ever phoned. But if you're..." His voice trails off, and he stands there, thinking about his wording, maybe? Biting his nails. Before he continues, "Now I don't want to cause offense, but if you're lying on the floor having had a heart attack or a stroke, or there's some other medical reason why you're incapacitated, then give me some sign, maybe thump the floor with your hand or foot, and I'll listen out for it. If I you give me a sign, then I'm phoning an ambulance."

# 14.

He hangs up and then puts his ear to the door. I can't see him, because of his relative position to the peephole, but he went to my right. I keep still.

If I shift my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet, I could make the floorboards creak, and that guy, the well-intentioned neighbor, will phone an ambulance, as he said. And he'll stay right outside the door until they get here. The hero will wait, and then he'll casually tell the responders he was the one who phoned, maybe getting in their way a little as they try to break the door down. But he can do that, as he's the hero with the cell phone who had the common sense to notice that Ms. Hammer looked a little ill the last couple days and for this to be a red flag when considering her welcome mat's outside her door, which it never is when she's out, but she's not giving any indication she's home.

So he phoned. No, don't worry about it. It was nothing. Anybody would've done the same, he'll tell them.

And me? I'm waiting inside like a dummy. Nowhere to go, except out the window, which is ten stories up. I remember which floor _now_. Peter Hammer wouldn't have to tell me twice in a situation like this. So I'd have two choices. Go out the window, screaming as I fall all that way, or wait inside, standing by Ms. Hammer's body, maybe shrug as they saw me standing beside the body, before I tried to shoot my way out. The ambulance people wouldn't wait for the police, not in a situation like this, where they'd suspect she's just fallen or suffered an internal injury, so I could probably do it, make it out of the building at least. Maybe even halfway across L.A.

The neighbor, the one with his ear to the door, he knows what type of delivery truck I'm driving, and he knows it says "Ok-ay Del-ver-ies," on the side. He said it like that, slowly, as though memorizing it.

How long before they'd radio in the description of the vehicle? I could go on foot, try to find a cab, but I may as well make a beeline for Hollywood Community Police Station, all the good it would do me.

I snap out of it and stop thinking about what-ifs.

All I've got to do is stand still for thirty seconds or so. A minute, max.

Don't move a muscle.

I think about how the sun will feel on my face. Shit, it'll feel good.

I can hear every tiny movement on the other side of the door. The scratching sound his jacket zipper is making as he presses himself against the door. When he shuffles his feet, making sure he keeps balanced, it sounds like they're my feet they're so close.

It enters my mind again, the thought of pulling the trigger. This is the best opportunity I'll get. Shit, not even Taz could miss him from here. Smart move is to do that, before his mind starts piecing our conversation together with this situation. Before he figures out there's something strange about a delivery guy who wants to deliver a safe someplace else, goes to try to find it again with his SatNav, but then comes back, to deliver something to the building he said he didn't need to find.

I must've had half a brain telling him I wanted some other apartment building. But then again, I didn't know at the time that he lived opposite Ms. Hammer, or about his knowledge of the delivery I was going to make.

I can do it, and not think twice about it. Guy wouldn't deserve it. But sometimes doing the smart thing means collateral damage.

I could probably open the door and catch him before he fell, and I could drag him inside and he could keep Ms. Hammer company until someone noticed the bad smell.

And then I hear him move away from the door and see him move into view through the peephole. He looks down, and then without saying a word, he kneels down, rolls up the welcome mat, picks it up, and puts it under his arm, and then goes into his apartment.

His taking the mat into his apartment's a good sign. I reckon he figures he'll look after it until she gets back. Maybe score himself a freshly baked pie or home-baked cookies for his good deed, as long as she's not too insulted by his suggestion she might've suffered a heart attack.

But I didn't like the look on his face before he picked it up. Guy looked pensive, like saving Ms. Hammer's welcome mat from muddy shoes and getting a pie in return is the last thing on his mind. I just pray he doesn't think on it too much. Instinct will save me, but it'll get him killed.

That pensiveness could stem from the fact that her not having made a peep doesn't rule out her having sustained an injury or suffered a heart attack. She could be dead in here, or unable to move or talk.

But then again, the guy wouldn't take the welcome mat with him if he thought that realistic or probable.

I'll give it five minutes before I leave, maybe ten.

I don't think he's standing by his peephole, watching the door, but it's within the realm of logical that he might've figured out the shady-looking delivery man had something to do with the situation he senses is so wrong and he hopes to catch him coming out, even if it's just to get another look at him.

Or he could be peeping through it from time to time, hoping to catch Ms. Hammer coming home, her hair freshly permed, and he can go out and speak to her, shoot the breeze, put his mind at rest.

The hero with the welcome mat under his arm, but with the ageist comment left on her outdated answering machine.

In five minutes—not ten—I'll be able to walk out clean.

That's my plan, until I think of something.

# 15.

If he hasn't put two and two together now, he will when he or someone else notices that Ms. Hammer hasn't been around for a little while, and then notices the stench coming from her apartment.

And that plan of making the cops think she got the cuckoo clock delivered a couple days ago is a no-go now.

Walking as though I'm walking on my new carpet for the first time and I've got shit on both heels, I go back to the living room. I leave the tape measure where it is. But I bring the hand truck over to the cuckoo clock, slide it underneath, and then wheel it over so it's a couple feet from the entrance to the apartment.

When I leave, I'll be doing so with the clock for the first time during a job.

I go back over to the space in which I had the cuckoo clock, check for an indentation in the carpet. I can't see it, but I know it's there. Give it a few days and it'll be gone, even to my eyes.

I'm not worried about any physical evidence left behind by the clock or the hand truck. The workmanship of the thing is generally at best shoddy, but the base of it is sanded and lacquered so it leaves no woodchips or the like.

And the hand truck is clean.

The story is, according to the physical evidence, Ms. Hammer was waiting for her cuckoo clock, was measuring up the space between the two bookshelves, and then some opportunist thief with a nervous disposition and an itchy trigger finger came in to rob her, saw her, eventually managed to shoot her after a struggle, and then left with her jewelry box, but only after dropping some of the pieces.

That still leaves the problem with the neighbor.

I think a second, come up with a solution.

I'll go back down to the delivery truck with the cuckoo clock, look around as though I'm lost, go into the cab of my truck, looking like I'm consulting a map or whatever, while I actually drop off my Beretta, and then go back up to Ms. Hammer's apartment with the cuckoo clock after appearing to the passersby or other apartment building residents that I confirmed it's the right address.

Knocking on the neighbor's door would be too obvious, so I'll loiter around, knock on the door a few times, hard, like my deaf grandmother's in there and her apartment is on fire, and wait for the guy to come out.

He'll recognize me as the guy who wanted to deliver the safe at that other apartment, but the depot gave me the wrong delivery itinerary _and_ the wrong truck. Turns out I _did_ need to make a stop here.

The craziest things happen some days, and/or it's a small world.

We'll shake hands, I'll tell him I'll fit this address into tomorrow's delivery route, and all of a sudden the delivery guy's taken out of this whole equation.

I check my watch.

There are just a couple minutes before I leave.

I go up to the door, peep through the peephole.

Is he doing the same thing at this exact time?

Turns out he isn't, because he's coming through his apartment door, and carrying a set of keys.

# 16.

It takes me a second to figure out what he's doing. I was right about that pensive look on his face. Guy's so concerned about the wellbeing of his neighbor he went and got the spare set of keys.

I'd thought about it a second, the possibility of him keeping a set, but dismissed it as unlikely, after he'd left the message on her answering machine. The way he talked, it didn't seem like they were close. And I also thought if he had them, why wouldn't he have used them when he began to be concerned, instead of leaving the message.

But none of that matters, because in thirty seconds, a minute max, he's coming through that door.

And when he does, I'm going to blow his brains out.

I won't be hiding in the kitchen or bedroom, first thing he'll see is me. In an ideal world, Ms. Hammer's body would be lying someplace else, so that he could come in, close the door, and be lured into a position where it's unlikely the suppressed but not silent sound of my discharging Beretta would be heard by any neighbors that happen to be in the corridor or making their way into the corridor at the moment I kill him.

It'll be the head, square in the forehead. It's a smaller target, but I'm no slouch on the firing range, and if I were to hit him in the chest the propulsion could send him sprawling backwards out into the corridor. People go straight down from a headshot, as soon as the brain stops sending signals to their leg muscles to be taut, which is instantaneous.

Straight down like the controlled demolition of a building.

I ready myself, pointing my Beretta at the door, waiting for the sound of the key in the lock.

But then I think off something. Did I lock the door after I'd come in?

It's the first time I've been left on the doorstep and had to make my own way into a target's home. Every other time I've been invited in, no questions asked, apart from if I'd like a cup of tea or coffee. But this time was different.

Of course, locking the door behind me isn't part of my MO, at least not until I've dealt with the target... shit, there's mistake number three.

But did I do it _before_ shooting _this_ time?

"Margaret, I'm outside your door again, and you don't know this, but your nephew gave me a set of keys a couple years ago, said he was worried about you. Or at least I told him not to tell you. If you've been ignoring me all this time and are having a shower or using your foot spa while chilling out in the living room, now would be a good time to speak up, because I'm about to use them," the neighbor says.

He's silent a few seconds, and I go back to thinking about the lock. I replay it in my mind. That split second when I decided I wouldn't wait around for Ms. Hammer to measure the space intended for the clock and then come back again to invite me in. I glanced up the corridor, let her know I was coming in, and then wheeled the hand truck over the threshold.

I went as far as the end of the hallway, into the opening of the living area, and then stopped.

"Apologies in advance if you've just been rocking out with your headphones turned way up... which would mean you didn't hear what I just said." And then, to himself, "Jesus, I'm dreadful at this."

I carry on replaying it in my mind. I stopped, saw that Ms. Hammer appeared to have not heard me, as she was still measuring the space, and didn't turn around to chew me out.

And then it hits me. Jesus, I _didn't_ go back and lock it.

I wouldn't have, seeing as though I expected us to have a conversation about my coming in uninvited, at least for a couple seconds, before I pulled my weapon on her.

At the very moment I've thought of potential consequences of this, the neighbor says, "I'm coming in, Margaret, ready or not."

And then I hear the sound of the key in the lock.

# 17.

He struggles a second, making scratching sounds on the door, and then I hear it go in.

His struggling is long enough for me to be able to go over to the door and lock it from the inside, but he'd hear it. And anyway, I don't know if A) Ms. Hammer locks the door after herself, and B) if the neighbor, Hancock, knows this. It also wouldn't make a blind bit of difference to the outcome. I still have to blow his brains out, cut my losses and get out of the business early.

Early retirement, unlike my dad.

And then something strange happens.

Or at least I didn't figure it as one of the possibilities.

I thought it likely the neighbor might find it unlocked, and together with the welcome mat being left outside the door, he'd figure his suspicion was right. That Ms. Hammer had fallen or had suffered an infarction. And then he'd come in.

Or the second possibility after finding it unlocked: He'd suspect someone's in here, having killed her—whether it's the delivery man or not—and then he'd say something, addressing me for the first time.

What I didn't expect him to do was to find it unlocked, open it slightly, shut it, and then lock it himself.

I wrack my brain, trying to think of a reason for his locking it besides him knowing I'm in here.

Is this another action like the taking of the welcome mat? Does he suspect Ms. Hammer might've gone out, forgot to lock her door _and_ forgot to take her welcome mat in?

I creep over to the door and look through the peephole, don't see him standing in front of the door, but he could be standing to one side.

Then he says something that confirms what I suspected he knows.

# 18.

"Don't shoot. I'm not standing in front of the door," he says, then pauses. "Margaret locks the door behind her. Every time, without fail. I hear the door unlock, and I'm going into my apartment, locking the door behind me, and then phoning the cops. Do you understand?"

There's silence a second.

Then he says, "Stamp your foot once if you do."

I don't.

Part of me hopes that if I stay silent long enough, he'll go back to thinking Ms. Hammer's had a stroke.

It's the only plan I have for now, and it seems like a good one, until he says, "If you don't communicate with me, I'll also do what I said."

I try to get my head around what his motivation is. He maybe figures to keep me in here until the cops come, whom he's either phoned before he came back out with the keys or is doing so via text message right now.

"Okay, have it your way."

I wait, watching through the peephole, expecting him to go back to his apartment. And whether he suspects it's the delivery guy or not, I'll do what I have to do, get out of here, leaving the cuckoo clock.

But he doesn't do anything.

What side of the door do I think he's on? His left, my right. He didn't think about which side before, but I bet he is now. My gun is the barrier between him and his apartment. He knows that if he goes past, I'll put a bullet in his back before he's got a hand on his doorknob.

I also think he has a gun. I hear it in his voice, the confidence, and it makes sense.

He could've moved farther up the hallway and kept me trapped from there, but I don't think so. In his mind he'd also give up tactical advantage, or he can't aim for shit and knows it, and also knows that if it comes to a shootout, I'd be the Vegas betting odds favorite over ten feet or more, despite having to open the door to get a line of sight.

Or he wants me to _assume_ he has a gun.

"I've lived across from Margaret long enough to know that she's the type of lady to accumulate some enemies over the years, and I know she's also as strong as a bull, for her age, or was. Every time I play my music too loud or bang pots and pans, she comes knocking on my door, complains that her neighbor should be a little more considerate, because of her various ailments over the years. But just little stuff. A couple months ago it was a bad back. Last year it was bad knees. Last week it was tinnitus." He pauses. "She never mentioned a bad ticker or something else life threatening. And she would've, believe me. Sure, she could've had an undiagnosed heart problem, or something else that means she's lying dead in there, no bullet in her, but I'm ninety percent sure I'm talking to someone who was hired to kill her. Call it instinct."

Silence a second.

"You're not going to talk to me? I was kinda hoping you would. It would make me feel a lot less silly for standing in the hall with a pistol in my hand. Eight years I've had it. Never thought I'd have to use it. I keep it in my stuff drawer. Everyone has a stuff drawer, right? A place where they keep spare sets of keys for properties they don't reside in or for cars they no longer own, and for where they stuff circulars. I keep it clean, though, the pistol. Shoots as straight as the day I bought it. Have you got a stuff drawer, buddy?"

I think about his wording a second, and about the clock that's ticking.

The way he said pistol.

A gun owner, whether he's an enthusiast or not, tends to name its branding, model, and, if it's a larger weapon, its gauge when speaking about it. This guy, based solely on him saying only the term pistol, doesn't know shit about guns. And people who don't know shit about guns don't tend to own one, unless they're a housewife who was given one for protection by her husband.

But then again, a guy who buys a pistol and keeps it in a drawer, never uses it apart from to clean it every couple years, might not know shit about guns either.

"You don't wanna talk? Suit yourself. I'll just carry on talking, if you don't mind?" He pauses. "You probably don't, and I understand why you're not replying. Hell, if I were in your position, I'd barely be able to get a word out I'd be so scared. Not that I'm saying _you_ are."

If he's trying to distract me from formulating a plan to get out of here, he's doing a good job.

I've changed my mind. He does deserve it.

"You know what I've been wondering, how's a guy or gal like you get into this line of work? You drop out of school, work at McD's a couple years, get sick of taking shit from five-star-badge Bob, and then snap?"

I figure I've only got a couple minutes before the police arrive. What's it to be? Jump out the window, wait for the cavalry to arrive, or go out and face the music and potentially find out everything I've thought about the neighbor standing outside the door is wrong?

It's time to call this guy's bluff, or not.

I reach down and unlock the door.

# 19.

For a second I don't think he's heard it, until he says, "Don't come out. I'm warning you. I've just taken the safety off... Can I go ahead and call you Dave? I like using people's names when I speak to them. I feel like I'm being rude otherwise. I should probably choose a gender-neutral name, actually." He pauses. "How does... Peyton work for you? _No_? Me neither."

I take off a glove, open the door, and then throw it out. Having not heard a gunshot, only him saying, " _What the_...?" I open it farther and then go out to find the neighbor standing by the wall, pointing a banana at me.

I'm pointing the Beretta at his forehead, but there's something I want to know before I say bye-bye: "How long ago did you phone the cops?"

"Hey, you're the delivery guy. Never mind. I'll be going, then."

He tries to turn and walk away, but I pull him back by one of his shoulders, turn him back around. He says, "Oh, boy," and then puts his hands up, one of which is still holding the banana.

Then I say, "The cops, how long?"

"I know a person in my position would say this, but I didn't. I left my cell phone in the apartment."

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

I believe him.

"Get in Ms. Hammer's apartment."

"No. You'll shoot me."

"I'll shoot you on the spot if you don't."

"Then I have a question: What's my motivation?"

I hear a door being unlocked behind him, so I put the hand holding the Beretta behind my back. He gets confused for a second, until he turns around, sees one of his neighbors coming out, carrying a briefcase. He stops, glances up at Hancock's hand.

Hancock says, "Hey, Bill. Late for work?"

"Is... everything all right, Jake?"

"Couldn't be better. I was just showing this delivery guy, who carries shit all day, an exercise for stabilizing shoulder joints to prevent injury." He glances up at the banana himself. "Using household items. Like this banana."

" _Okay_. I'll be off, then."

"Okey-dokey."

As the neighbor leaves, glancing at us one more time before disappearing through the door that leads to the landing, Hancock says, "Yeah, so it's not like lifting weights, where you tend to go ape-shit. You want to concentrate on the movement, really _feel_ it..." his voice trails off. Then he says, "Has he gone?"

I raise the Beretta and point at his forehead again.

He says, "I'll take that as a yep."

"Go inside, and don't scream."

"Seriously guy, just go. I'm not a snitch. And I'm sorry about calling you Peyton. It may have sounded weird before, when I said okey-dokey, but that wasn't a code or some shit to Bill to phone the cops. Whatever's going on here isn't any of my business."

"You made it your business when you went to get the spare keys. Now walk."

He sighs and then says, "Excuse me," before going around me.

I follow him in, keeping my gun trained on his back.

Despite my saying don't scream, upon going into the living area and seeing Ms. Hammer's body, he says, in a loud voice, "Jesus! That does not look like a good way to go."

I slap the back of his head. "Keep your voice down."

He says "ow" and then turns around. "You're probably thinking about killing me, but that's a really bad idea. Some gangster guy, Jimmy 'Eight Fingers' Blumstein, already wants me dead. And a good rule of thumb is, if someone has a body part for a nickname, you probably shouldn't—"

"Bullshit."

"It's true. And I don't know if you're associated with the criminal underworld—and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I hope you are—this guy might not be over the moon to find out someone _else_ took out the guy he wanted taking out."

Of course, I wouldn't believe a word this guy's saying, if not for his knowing who Jimmy Blumstein is. I'm still not completely convinced what he's saying is true. But he's right. These nutcase crime bosses get a little sensitive about this kind of thing. He could want to use the guy who's standing in front of me, wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon character on it, to send a message, as dumb as it sounds.

I'm interrupted from my thinking by the guy, Hancock, saying, "Can I reach into my pocket and get something out?"

"What is it?"

"A knife."

"You have a knife in your pocket?"

"I do."

"No. And why were you pointing the banana at me before, if you had a knife?"

"As silly as it sounds, in all the excitement, I forgot it was there. I hoped you'd see the banana through the peripheral vision of the peephole—that's a thing, right?—and think it was a gun. Speaking of the banana, can I drop it? I've been holding it too tight, and it's split."

"You can put the banana down, slowly."

He drops it, making a banging sound. Says, "Sorry. About the knife, it's only a box cutter."

"What difference does that make?"

"I wanted to get it out to somewhat prove my story about that madman, Jimmy, wanting me killed."

"How would that prove it?"

"Because if you'd have come to—you know—a couple days later, I wouldn't have been here. I'm moving."

I frown. "Why would you use a box cutter to move _out_?"

He too frowns. "Good question. I suppose there's not really a use for it until I move in someplace. But still, my intention is to move."

I think a second. "If Jimmy wants you dead, then why aren't you already?"

"It may surprise you, but not only are you not the first hitman to visit this apartment building in its history, you're the second one to visit _this_ month. Jenny Ulversen came to take me out, and an LAPD detective, whom I'm definitely not friends with or associated with in any way apart from this one incident, arrested her."

I know her. I also heard she's been indicted. This guy seems legit.

Which, if he's telling the truth about Jimmy Blumstein wanting him dead, puts me in a position I'm best not being rash about.

I say, "Hold on a second. I'm just going to phone someone and check your story."

"Sure. Go ahead."

I take out my cell phone and dial Jimmy Balbone's number.

While it's ringing, I tell him to back up a couple yards and to put his fingers in his ears, real tight. I also tell him that if he takes them out and looks even remotely like he's going for the box cutter, he'll be Ms. Hammer's sleepover date for the next couple days.

Jimmy answers. "Talk to me."

"It's me."

Jimmy doesn't save numbers in his phone. He's superstitious... don't ask. I want to avoid saying my name, just in case the neighbor can lipread.

"Who's _me_? And who do ya think I am, thinking I've got time for this guessing-game bullshit?"

"It's Logan."

"Elvis, is that _you_?"

"It is."

"Then why didn't you just say it was you?"

"Never mind that. I'm at the job, the delivery. And one of the neighbors came knockin'. He's standing in the apartment now, his fingers in his ears."

"Are you saying you've been caught?"

"Yeah."

"Then what are ya waiting for? Put a bullet in him and call it a bad gig. Tomorrow's another day... Listen to me. Going straight is making me all soft."

"There's a problem."

"What is it?"

"He says he's a target of Jimmy Blumstein."

"Eight Fingers?"

"The one and only."

He sighs. "Jimmy, in all likelihood, won't like it if someone else has him taken out. This one time, one of Jimmy's guys cheated on his wife. Being the traditionalist that he is, Jimmy got another one of his guys to take care of him. Problem was, by the time his other guy got there, the cheat had hanged himself with a length of garden hose. Jimmy was so pissed he killed the cheat's wife _and_ the guy who got there too late. This is a volatile situation."

"That's what me and the neighbor thought."

"Smart kid, that neighbor."

"Can you phone Jimmy and check with him what he wants me to do with the neighbor? This Jake Hancock guy."

Jimmy sighs. "Me and the other Jimmy don't see eye to eye, ever since I wouldn't let him look at my math paper. But I'll do it. Only for you, Elvis, am I doing dumb things like this."

"Thanks. You and the other one went to school together?"

"Course. Catholic school. Had our knee socks pulled up so high they were practically jock straps. Me, the other Jimmy, and the other other Jimmy.

"Babinonini?"

"Who else?"

"It's a small world."

"Shit it is. What did you say the name of this neighbor was?"

I say it slowly for Jimmy this time: "Jake Hancock."

"Is that Jake with a K?"

"That's the one."

"Okay, give me twenty minutes."

Jimmy hangs up.

I tell Hancock to take his fingers out of his ears, but he's got them in there so tight he doesn't hear me, so I go over to him and pull one of them out.

He says, "Can I take them out now?"

"You can."

"I promise I wasn't able to understand any of that conversation by reading your lips. While you were talking on the phone, I thought of a way to get us out of this mess. I can hit you, give you a shiner—or you can hit yourself, whatever—and we can make it look like I got away. That way we can avoid upsetting Jimmy Blumstein. I won't snitch either. I don't know what I was thinking knocking on the door like that. Margaret was a terrible neighbor. The worst."

"That's not going to happen, Guy.

"Shit. Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Okay. Then let's get it over with. Do me a favor: If you go for the face, make it the chin. I don't want it to look like a miserable wound, like an eye wound. They're the worst."

"I'm not going to shoot you."

"Oh gee, Mr., thanks for—"

"Yet. I'm not going to shoot you yet."

He shakes his head. "You should've probably said 'yet' straightaway. You really got my hopes up there."

"Have you ever done a day's labor before?"

"I tried to put up a female friend's shelf once and cut my finger."

"That's what I thought."

"Why?"

"Because we're getting out of here, and you need to look like my assistant."

# 20.

After mussing his hair up a little, scuffing his shoes, and putting a cigarette behind his ear, the neighbor could pass for looking like my assistant, apart from the T-shirt with the cartoon character printed on it.

But I have a solution. I tell him.

He says, "No way am I taking my shirt off in front of another dude. There's a reason I don't go to the gym, and it's called sausage city, which is what I call the changing—"

"Just take it off and put in on again, but inside out."

"I heard you the first time, buddy. And it's not going to happen. Anyway, how do you know I won't scream when I'm outside the building, letting all the passersby know you're a lunatic who's going to kill me?"

"Same reason you didn't scream when Bill, your neighbor, went past."

"That's because I care about Bill. Guy puts up a notice every time he has a party. He's a real considerate neighbor. I didn't want him to get shot, too. But the people outside, I couldn't care less whether they get shot."

I indicate the Beretta, letting him know it's still pointed at his face. "Are you telling me you're going to scream when we're out in the open?"

"I am not. I was just stalling."

He shakes his head, and then takes his jacket off, his T-shirt, before putting them back on again, only with the cartoon character on the inside.

He looks down at his jacket. Then says, "Why didn't I just zip up my jacket?"

"Because it's a shade under a hundred degrees outside, and you're a working man."

"Is that what a working man does, makes sure he's at a comfortable temperature while hiding the fact he enjoys cartoons, somewhat ironically? And how will I look like your assistant to the other residents in the apartment building? They know who I am, most of them... some of them. Now that I think about it, I'm only familiar with the people on my floor, but surely they'll recognize—"

"Shut up. To your fellow apartment building residents, you'll look like you, and we'll have a conversation about the possibility of me helping you move, as I've seemingly just completed a delivery. But when we're outside, going to my truck, you'll look like my assistant. And when we're driving along, you behind the wheel, you'll also look like my assistant, and not some terrified guy who's being kidnapped and is being forced to drive along at gunpoint."

"Is this necessary? It seems excessive. Why would people on the sidewalk, mostly tourists, think twice about seeing two guys in a delivery truck... Ohhhh, I get it. You don't want us to look like we're romantically involved."

"It's not that. I'm just a careful man. A careful man who's going to retire someday."

"It's cool. I don't want us to look romantically involved, either. But there's a flaw in your plan. The cigarette behind my ear. I don't smoke."

"How many people in the apartment building are aware that you don't smoke?"

"Good point."

"Now put the cuckoo clock back into place by that wall."

He doesn't move. Says, "We're not taking the cuckoo clock with us?"

The plan was, before this guy Hancock came sticking his snout in, to take the cuckoo clock with me, but that plan went out the window when the other neighbor Bill saw me in the hallway _without_ the clock, like I'd just delivered it.

I tell him, "No, I delivered it, before someone came to burglarize Margaret. That's what I was doing in the apartment building."

He still doesn't move. "And you put it _there_?"

"What's wrong with that place?"

"Let me guess. Your home looks like it was decorated by Homer Simpson."

"What my home looks like is of little importance. What it looks like happened here, according to the statement Bill gives, along with other residents, is what's important."

"So you happened to deliver a clock, and then Ms. Hammer turned up dead, and I went missing, and my neighbor Bill saw us talking in the hallway, acting somewhat suspicious, if we're to assume me standing there with my hands raised, one of which was holding a banana, looks suspicious. I gotta say, it sure sounds like you should let me go. I can tell the police Margaret was alive and well _after_ she'd received the clock. I can tell them while I borrowed some butter or sugar or both, that the clock was already there. I was baking a cake." He thinks a second, and the only reason I'm listening to this bullshit is because he's making some good points. Apart from letting him go, of course. "Shit, but then they'd think I was baking a marijuana-laced cake. That won't work—"

"There's holes. But I'm cutting my losses. And what happens to you is out of my hands. Now put the clock by that wall."

"Okay, but it's going to look fishy. That's all I'm saying."

It takes him five minutes to put the clock into place, and he makes a hell of a racket while doing so.

Then I say, "Are you ready?"

"To go on a trip that will end in me dying? As ready as I can be."

"You're going to push the hand truck down to the delivery truck. You take your hands off it, I'll put one in your back."

"No, you won't. Not out in the open, in a densely populated area, and before you know what Jimmy Blumstein wants to do with me, but I'll play ball anyway. I'm using the possibility of you being a good guy and letting me go, after Jimmy Blumstein inevitably gives you the okay to kill me, as motivation."

He goes over to the hand truck and I instruct him to go to the door, but not to open it before I've put the Beretta away in my holster.

Before we go out, I tell him, "And act cool."

"Will do."

When we go out into the hallway, he whispers, "There's your glove and what was my lunch lying on the floor."

"Pick them up."

"If someone comes out now, it'll look less fishy if you do it."

"I'm not doing it, for obvious reasons."

He sighs, then does.

"Give me the glove and put the banana in your pocket."

"I'd put the glove in there, but I draw the line at the banana."

He sees the serious look on my face, and then shakes his head as he hands me the glove but puts the banana in his pocket.

We make it down to the lobby before we see someone: a lady who's checking her postbox.

As we walk past her, in a loud voice and obvious tone, Hancock says, "So what are we talking for the whole gig? And will _I_ have to do some of the lifting myself. Because that might be a deal breaker."

"We'll work something out. And you won't have to lift a finger."

"Sounds good. And you're welcome for my helping you wheel this—what's this called again?"

"A hand truck, and it's appreciated."

Now that we're outside and the door to the apartment building is closed, I tell Hancock to wheel the hand truck over to the rear of the delivery truck. I lower the elevator platform for him, and then he takes the hand truck up and into the storage area, and then he comes back down.

Then I say, "Go and get in the cab."

He starts heading around to the driver's side, so I say, "Not that way. Get in the passenger side, and climb through to the driver's side."

"Relax, man. I'm not going to make a run for it."

As I follow him to the passenger side, I can't help but think this guy isn't acting like a guy who knows he'll probably be dead in an hour. Sure, he thinks I'll let him go. But he must know that's bullshit.

But there's no harm in letting him think that.

Unless he knows something I don't.

But it's hard to imagine that's the case, when he climbs into the cab and says, like a child, "Wow, look at how high up the driving position is!" and then sits at the wheel, bouncing up and down on the seat. "This is going to be fun."

I take the seat next to him.

Then he says, "Where to?"

"There's a seemingly abandoned warehouse, on some brownfield land east of El Porto."

"There?"

"Yeah."

He sits and thinks a second. "Can't we just go to a Starbucks or whatever, hang out until we hear what Jimmy Blumstein says?"

"We can't."

"Oh, shit! You're really going to do it, aren't you?" He turns to me, pleading. "Don't do it, man. Margaret Hammer, I totally get it. But me? I don't deserve this. You're a good guy. I can tell. I'm a great judge of character. A guy like you doesn't want to kill a guy like me in cold blood."

"Let's just see what Jimmy says, and then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Right now, I need you to act cool. Can you do it, buddy?"

He shakes his head, but calms down, stays silent as he starts up the engine. Before he sets off, he puts his seatbelt on, and I put on mine.

He takes a deep breath, and sets off down Hollywood Boulevard.

I say, "Get off this road the first turn you come to."

"We still heading to the abandoned warehouse? A totally obvious place to shoot me, by the way."

"We are. But I need to do some thinking on the way."

"What are you thinking about?"

"That it would be nice to have some peace and quiet."

He's quiet thirty seconds or so before he says, "You married, chief? Have kids?"

"I know what you're trying to do."

"I'm just making conversation. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You do. It's not quite as easy to kill the cow if it has a name, no matter how hungry you are. There's a right."

He takes it.

Then says, "I don't have kids myself."

"I'd have never have guessed that."

"Ha-ha. But maybe someday. I just met the girl of my dreams. Well, I met her a while ago, but it's only now fate has decided we can be together. Never thought I'd get married again until I met that girl."

I play along. "How'd you meet?"

"In the diner she works at. _Worked_ at. I saved her from her piece-of-shit husband. Guy slapped her around like she was a slab of cheap-cut steak."

I glance at his physique. "Did he bring a bunch of grapes to a banana fight?"

"No, but he didn't like getting hit with his own kitchenware. He's a chef. The chef at the place my girl was a waitress."

"Do you always state the obvious?"

"Just wanted to make it clear, is all. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Married?"

"Yeah, I'm married."

He glances at me. Then says, "Not happily, I guess."

"What's it to you?"

He holds his hands up, says, "Just making conversation."

"What the hell are you doing?" I say, and then grab the wheel.

"Shit, sorry. I'm little rusty."

He takes the wheel again, and I take my hands off it.

"Well don't be rusty."

"How long have you been married?"

"Take the next left."

"That one?"

"The one that's next, yeah."

He's silent a second.

Then says, "Five years, ten?"

"Ten next week."

"Congratulations?"

"Why'd you ask that, and not just say it?"

"Never mind. I _did_ mean it. It's nice to see shit like that. Ten years is a long time."

"Thanks, and I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I _am_ happily married. We are, I meant."

"Then why'd you bristle a little when I asked?"

"Maybe it's because I don't really want to talk about it."

"I get it." He's silent a second or two. "You having an affair or something?"

"No."

"She sick?"

I don't say anything. He glances at me again.

"Shit, it isn't the Big C, is it?" he asks.

"No, she doesn't have cancer. But thanks for asking."

Silence a minute.

"She's not cheating on you, is she? With another guy?" he asks.

"I changed my mind. Pull over so I can shoot you."

"Is over there good?"

"Just keep on driving. And try not to make assumptions about my life, marriage or otherwise."

He thinks a couple seconds. "No, I'm guessing she wouldn't cheat on a guy like you. You look like the type of guy a home invader would apologize to, before tucking you back in bed."

"If it'll shut you up, she _is_ sick, not physically. I don't rile easily, if that's what you're trying to do."

"Why would I want to rile the guy who's sitting next to me with a pistol? That wouldn't be smart."

"No, it wouldn't. Take the next right."

We pull onto Sunset Boulevard.

Then I notice Hancock's got a strange look on his face, like he farted and followed through a little, and then he says the last thing I expect him to say.

# 21.

"I think I'm having a heart attack!"

" _What_?"

"I can't feel my heart beat, or I can feel it too much. I'm not sure."

"Slow down! Take your foot off the pedal."

Guy's panicking, and his face has gone purple... shit! There's a cab thirty yards in front.

And worse still, Hancock, the panicking nitwit, has taken his hands off the wheel again.

Although it won't relieve the pressure he's putting on the gas pedal, I take the steering wheel.

I say, "Take your foot off the gas pedal, Han—" but don't get to finish, as he does something that makes me realize that all that stuff he was asking me about, making me feel like he was trying to "give the cow a name" was a load of horseshit.

He was luring me away from what his real hope was.

He leans under my arms and over my lap, unbuckles my seatbelt a second before we crash into the back of the cab.

# 22.

"Hey, asshole! Wake up!"

When I come to, my nose is throbbing. Broken. When my vision clears, I look to my right, at the driver's seat, and see it empty, and the driver's-side door ajar.

I look past that, and see a guy waiting outside the truck on the sidewalk, continually calling me asshole.

Then he says something that clears up who he is. "You crashed into my fucking cab."

I ignore him and block him out of my mind, and take out my cell phone, see that I've got a couple missed calls. It was Jimmy. The last one was a couple minutes ago, the one before that five minutes ago. I call him back.

When he answers, I say, "Jimmy. It's Blake."

" _Elvis_?"

"Yeah."

"You sure? You sound funny, like the... who's that cartoon character who's a... what do ya call a half woman half fish?"

"Never mind that. My nose is broken. Please tell me you didn't manage to get in contact with the other Jimmy."

"Why's your nose...? Ah, Jesus."

"Seems I underestimated the neighbor a little."

"Yeah, you did... Mermaid! That's it! But what the hell's her name?"

"Jimmy, listen to me."

I'm interrupted by the cab driver climbing up into the cab. He points his finger at me, again calling me—you guessed it—an asshole.

"Hold on a second," I say to Jimmy, then bend the cab driver's finger back, snapping it in what sounds like two places, and then shove him backwards out of the cab. I shut the door, and then get into the driver's seat.

I put Jimmy on speaker and then lay the cell phone on the dash.

"Jimmy, you still there?" I ask as I start the engine.

"I'm here."

"Did you manage to get in contact with—"

"Ariel! But that's not her _whole_ name—"

"Jimmy, her name is Ariel the Mermaid. Now listen to me. The other Jimmy, have you spoken to him?"

"That's it. And you sound like her, all high pitched and nasally."

" _Jimmy_?"

"I did. And you'll never guess what."

I wait for him to answer, as I'm backing up the delivery truck, so I can drive around the totaled cab and get the hell out of here before Asshole Broke Finger calls the cops.

Then he says, "This guy Hancock is—what you call—a conman."

"That makes sense. It would be pretty good if you told me Jimmy doesn't want me to kill him."

"He doesn't. He wants you to keep him in a safe place, maybe torture him a little, until Jimmy and his guy Beans get there."

"That might be a little difficult now."

" _Why_?"

"I thought that was obvious."

"Jesus, has he gotten _away_?"

I hear the noise that's made on the other end of the line every time Jimmy gets super pissed: that of him picking up and smashing his mother's urn, which he keeps on the mantel in his office.

When he comes back on the line, he says, " _You're_ the one who's picking those itty-bitty bits of pottery out of Ma's ashes this time, Elvis. And paying for a new urn."

"I will."

"How'd he get the jump on you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Tell me, god dammit. Or it'll be your urn I'm smashing next, after I've killed you and cremated you."

"He crashed the car."

"And you weren't wearing your seatbelt? Jesus, Elvis. Every time I watch a movie-flick that happens, at least twice. How'd you get caught with an old chestnut like that?"

"I was wearing mine, but he said he was having a heart attack, so I took the wheel. He put his foot down on the gas and then unclipped mine. You happy, now?"

" No, I'm not happy, Elvis. If happiness is a deserted island, I'm out at sea in a god damn rowing boat, watching it from afar, and I've got the squirts and no toilet paper." He sighs. "Look, Elvis, I'll phone Jimmy back up, and tell him you've got him, but you need to do your own thing before he can have him. He won't like it, but he's going to have to. And in the meantime, find that rotten clam and make a chowder out of him. Wait a minute, let me rephrase that—"

"It's okay, Jimmy, I get your metaphor."

"Just to be clear, find him and keep him in a safe place, until Jimmy gets there. Maybe sauté him a little. I know I'm supposed to be going straight, but stick a finger in one of his nostrils and give it a good pull for me, will ya, Elvis."

"I can do that."

"Good. Now leave me alone for an hour. And when you phone back, make sure it's to give me good news."

"You expect me to find him in an hour?"

"Did I say an hour and a half? Or two? Or one and a quarter? Or—"

"I get it, Jimmy."

Jimmy hangs up.

Shit.

I would've had to find Hancock anyway, but now I've got a little extra motivation. Jimmy Blumstein and some goon named Beans.

I hear sirens in the distance, so I decide to drop off the delivery truck in the warehouse.

On the way I'll think of a plan to find Hancock, if he can be found at all.

Guy'll probably be halfway to Delaware with that box cutter in his pocket by the time I've dropped off the hot wheels.

But then I think of something.

# 23.

Greasy Fingers diner. That's the place where Hancock met and saved his girl. Twenty years ago, I'd have to go through reams of microfiche, burning the midnight oil in some library, and probably still wouldn't have found bupkis. But all I had to do was take out my smart phone, google it. Trite technology observation aside, I tried "customer attacks L.A. chef," but got too many results to go through, so I had to be a little cleverer about it. Guy Hancock doesn't look like he can fight for shit, even if he's armed with industrial-grade kitchenware. So, I figured this girl of his, maybe she gave him a helping hand, so I googled "customer and waitress attack L.A. chef" and I found what I was looking for. There's even a YouTube video of the breaking news segment that a local TV news station produced, along with a photo of the girl, Grace Black, on her wedding day and looking like she skipped breakfast and got straight to drinking.

Wearing my regular clothing and driving my regular car, I'm sitting outside the diner now, waiting for the grease trap chef to come out and talk to me. Rebel Black wouldn't give me the wax out of his ear until I mentioned the name Hancock, and then he told me he'd finish up making a "full breakfast" and then he'd see me outside in the parking lot, even though there were more than a few empty booths inside the diner.

It's nearly been an hour since I last spoke to Jimmy, and I know Jimmy well enough to know that "phone him back in an hour" means phone him back just before then.

So, I take out my phone. Unlike the other times I've phoned him today, he's expecting my call.

"Talk to me."

"Jimmy, I don't have Hancock."

"Try that again, but take the n't out of it, this time."

"I don't know what to tell you, Jimmy. Guy ran off and he could be anywhere."

"Could be anywhere? You must have one of those extra-large—what do you say—scrotums to phone me up and tell me those words, the one big enough to hold three balls."

"Relax, Jimmy—"

"Don't tell me to relax. I know what you're thinking, Elvis. Now that I'm going straight, I'm a soft touch."

"I don't think that; it's just unreasonable to expect me to find the guy in an hour—"

"Unreasonable?"

"Yeah, unreasonable. I'll find him, just not in the time it takes to drop the delivery truck off at the warehouse, get changed, and then drive to the diner his girlfriend worked at once."

"Is that a—what's the word—cryptic answer?"

"It is."

"You go looking for guys' girls, I don't want to hear about it. I'm a respectable businessman now. I suppose it was a little—what's the word—unrealistic to expect you to find him in such a short amount of time. But the problem is, the other Jimmy isn't as good as—how do you say—managing his expectations as I am. He don't like being lied to, neither. So give me a number you can stick to and then deliver."

I think a second. "I'll have him in three hours."

Jimmy sighs. "You're too honest, Elvis, is what I ought to say to you more often." He pauses. "Do it in two hours."

"Two hours and a half hour."

"What do you think we're doing here? Two hours and fifteen."

"Done."

Before he hangs up, Jimmy says, "Oh, and Elvis, your collar's sticking up." He pauses for a second, and then laughs. Says, "You checked, didn't ya?"

"You got me, Jimmy."

"I knew it. Works every time."

Jimmy hangs up.

When he's in a playful mood, that's one of Jimmy's bits, saying guys' collars are up and then laughing his ass off when they check.

When we're in each other's company, I play along by bringing my hand up to my collar, waiting for him to laugh like a drunken hyena, but this time I didn't have to, as Jimmy was on the end of a telephone.

His being in a playful mood is a good sign. It tells me he's not as concerned as he's making out about this Hancock situation. If I know Jimmy, and you don't have to be around the man long to work him out, he's just looking for an excuse to give up this idea of going straight, or at least to take a little break from it. It's killing him, having to go "straight," at least according to Jimmy's loose definition, and reigniting an old rivalry with another crime boss would be the perfect excuse. That, and pride, a shitload of pride.

But none of that changes my situation. Hunches are for gambling, but not with your life. I've still got to find the guy.

A couple minutes after Jimmy phoned, and just before I was thinking about going back in there, dragging the grease trap out by the pinafore, Rebel Black comes out.

I flash my lights, indicating which car I'm in.

He gets in, and then says, in a Boston accent, "Mind if I smoke?"

"No, go ahead."

What did I say to get him out here? That I had information about Hancock he might find useful.

He lights up, and then says, "Let me guess. This Hancock guy has been stepping on your toes, and not because he's a shitty dancer."

He's not as dumb as he looks.

"You could say that, but I'm not a malicious man."

"You look it."

"Do I?"

He shakes his head, a strange gesture, and then he takes another drag of his cigarette. A long one. Says, "Look, if you think I'm out here because I want to get back at that prick or my wife, then you're wrong." He takes another long drag, and then his eyes dart around the dashboard. He says, "There an ashtray?"

"No. Cars made after around 1999 don't tend to have them."

I refrain from telling him there's no place to hold a six pack either.

He opens a window, tries to flick the ash off outside, but it blows back in his face.

So I hand him the empty coffee cup I got from inside his diner.

As we sit in silence a couple seconds, I take in his appearance: his build, hair type, disregarding his facial features.

Then I tell him what I want for the information.

"What are you, some kind of sick fuck?" he asks.

"No, I don't want them for what you think." I pause. "This Hancock guy, he stole my girl."

He nods. "He's the type to do that. But what the fuck has that got to do with my ex-wife's panties?"

"I want her back."

"I still don't follow."

"My girl might not like it if she finds out about the other girl, your ex-wife, and if I were to tell her directly, I figure I'm not the most credible source."

"So you what, want to put the panties some place?"

"They might turn up some place they shouldn't be, like Hancock's laundry basket. My girl, she likes to wash her guy's things."

He shakes his head again, as I look at his hairline. It's full.

Then he says, "I don't know if I can help you out. It wouldn't feel right, even after what that bitch did to me."

"What about if I could tell you about a few things Hancock shouldn't have been doing? How would you feel then?"

He thinks a second. "I think if they were bad, I might be inclined to feel a lot less shitty about handing over a pair of my ex-wife's panties to a complete stranger."

"Go and get a pair, and then we can see how you feel. If you're not comfortable, don't hand them over. I can't say fairer than that."

"Will any pair do?"

"I'd prefer non-dressy, regular, so it looks like she didn't dress up for the occasion, like she visits often enough for him not to care what type she wears."

"Smart."

He finishes his cigarette and then says he's got a load of her laundry she never came and picked up. She wouldn't, not from a guy that beat on her like he did, if Hancock's to be believed, and looking at the guy, I've got a hunch he was telling the truth. The type of hunch I'd gamble on.

He goes to get out, but before he does, I tell him I'm going to park by the side of the diner, so none of the customers can see the exchange of panties. I wouldn't want to tarnish his outstanding reputation in the community.

He's taken aback by that last comment. Maybe he thinks I'm being cute by referring to the way he treated his wife, but I just want to give him a reason for my moving the car.

And it's true: I don't want any of the customers to see us, and none of the drivers on the freeway, either.

So he gets out, looking pensive, and I do what I say.

He goes around to the back of the diner, goes up to a Winnebago, goes in for thirty seconds or so, comes out, and then starts walking back over.

While he does, I take out the pair of latex gloves I put in the glove compartment before I came here, and put them on.

He gets in, notices the gloves, and then his eyes dart around, wondering. He says, "What are they for? Were you expecting dirty panties?"

# 24.

Two hours and four minutes later...

Jimmy Blumstein comes in the warehouse first. He's wearing round-lens glasses, which sit atop the bridge of a bill-like nose. He's got a full head of wiry salt-and-pepper hair, which is combed into an immaculate side parting. His suit, although I imagine it's tailored, looks too big in the chest, as he's got shitty posture. Like a vulture. The man looks like a vulture.

Behind him is who I assume is Beans. He lurches into the warehouse, carrying an old-looking leather holdall. His head looks like a watermelon with two holes punched in it for eyes.

"This the guy?" Jimmy Blumstein asks.

I say, "This is the guy, Hancock."

The guy sitting in the seat, with duct tape over his mouth, starts mumbling in protestation and his eyes go wide.

Beans and Jimmy stand there looking at him a second. Then Jimmy says, "What the hell did you do to him? His face looks like hamburger meat."

"I had to work him over a little before you came."

"Well you should have gone a little easier on him. He looks one stiff fart away from his last breath. You believe this shit, Beans?"

"I don't believe this shit, Jimmy."

"Shit, you don't believe this shit."

I interrupt their intellectual debate. "He's just a little beat up, is all."

Jimmy looks at me, holds eye contact. Says, "If I wanted your opinion, I'd have asked for it."

Beans says, "He'd have asked for it."

"Like this: Guy who's not a medical doctor, can you give me your lousy medical assessment of the man sitting before me. Like that I would have asked it."

I give a wry smile, trying to act diplomatic. "Mr. Blumstein, you're welcome for my catching Mr. Hancock here."

Beans takes one step towards me, but Jimmy stops him. Says, "Now, now, Beans, Mr....Elvis. Have I got that right?"

I nod.

Then he continues: "Mr. Elvis went out of his way to respect my wishes for Mr. Hancock, and he's kind enough to let us use his warehouse this evening for the piece of business we have to attend to." He glances at me. "And is that a broken nose?"

"It is."

"Then it's only reasonable, on account of his injured nose, which I assume was obtained at the hands of Mr. Hancock, that Mr. Elvis be allowed to engage in a little business himself, before we take over the meeting."

While he glares at me, Beans says, "If you think it's reasonable, Jimmy, then I also think it reasonable."

"I'm glad we've cleared that up. Are we done here?" I ask.

"Just a second. I want Mr. Hancock to thank you before you leave, on the good job you've done."

Jimmy holds out his hand, inviting Beans forward, who puts down his holdall and then gets a handkerchief out of his pocket, which he uses to cover up his fingers while he rips the piece of duct tape off his mouth.

They stand there looking at him as he talks in tongues, so to speak.

Then Jimmy says, "Why's he talking like that, like he's deaf?"

"That would be on account of his not having a tongue," I say, then hold up a baggy, inside which is the dismembered lump of flesh.

Jimmy sighs, and then a second later so does Beans.

They glance at each other again, and then Jimmy says, "How am I supposed to identify him now that his face looks like a giant meatball and he can't talk?"

"He's got his wallet in his pocket," I say.

Jimmy nods at Beans, who, using his handkerchief again, fishes out the wallet. He takes a second to check it, and then says, "It says here he's Mr. Jacob Hancock."

And then, as though he's skeptical about Beans's reading ability—and I don't blame him—Jimmy goes over to him and takes a look himself, nods. Jimmy takes the wallet from Beans and then holds it up to the guy sitting in the chair, juxtaposing the face in the wallet with the beaten-up face in front of them. While Beans looks over Jimmy's shoulder, Jimmy glances back and forth from the photo to the face.

They're silent a second, until Jimmy says, "He looks like shit, but it's the same guy. What do you think, Beans?"

"I'd say they're the same guy."

Then Jimmy says to me, "Reason we're being careful, Mr. Elvis, isn't because we don't trust you. We just wanted to make sure we got the right Mr. Jacob Hancock. This may surprise you, but this is the second time we've tried to take care of Mr. Hancock."

"I understand."

Still being sassy, Beans says, "He understands, Jimmy."

Jimmy ignores him, says, "Okay, Mr. Elvis. You are now free to leave. Unless you'd like to watch?"

"I'm good."

"Okay, then."

I hand him the keys to the warehouse, and tell him he can give them to Jimmy Balbone after he's finished.

As I'm leaving, Jimmy says, "Okay, Beans, get out the hammer, chisel, and blowtorch."

# 25.

It takes a couple hours to drive to Colorado Desert. A couple minutes into digging the grave, I stop, because I hear Hancock say, " _Hello_?" and then start banging on the hood of the trunk, panicking and saying he's claustrophobic.

I go over to the trunk and open it.

"Jesus, I thought you were going to leave me in there forever," Hancock says.

The guy back in L.A., in my warehouse, is Rebel Black. The moment he sat down on the front passenger seat, I knocked him unconscious, tied him up, put him in the same trunk Hancock's lying in now, and then drove to Hollywood Boulevard.

How did I catch Hancock?

I figured a guy like Hancock might've watched too many movies, and would assume I wouldn't return to the scene of the crime. And he's partially right. I'd have to have shit for brains to take the elevator up to the tenth floor, potentially trapping myself in the building. But I am stupid enough, or careful enough—I haven't decided which yet—to buzz Hancock's intercom, hold up his girl's panties for him to see, on which was written WE'RE GOING FOR A DRIVE, in Magic Marker ink.

He came down, worried about what my intentions were, and then it was just a case of persuading him it was in his interest, and that of his friends, family, loved ones, future family members, family members' pets, and probably his postman, that he came with me.

I've got to hand it to him, even though he whined like a little baby, he showed real balls getting in that car. Peter Hammer wouldn't have done it, and you can be sure as shit Rebel Black wouldn't, not to save someone else's ass.

The first opportunity I got, when we were away from the hustle and bustle of Hollywood Boulevard, I delivered a swift elbow to Hancock's head, making contact with the soft fleshy bit of the temple, and knocked him unconscious, before tying him up.

Then I drove to the warehouse with both of them in tow.

During the hour before Beans and Jimmy Blumstein arrived, I beat that son of a bitch to a bloody mess, so that he could pass for Hancock. His weight and build are about the same. He's a bit heavier, but I had a hunch they'd only know Hancock by his face, and wouldn't be familiar with the rest of his appearance. When his eyes were almost shut, his lips had swollen up like a Lazy River rubber ring, and the rest of his face was adequately marked with contusions, welts, and a whole assortment of injuries, I cut out his tongue, cauterized the wound, and put Hancock's wallet in his pocket.

I could have used a baseball bat or a crowbar, but I thought it fitting that I beat him with my fists, just like he'd beaten his wife.

During his beating, Rebel Black squealed like a freshly born pig, wailing and hollering and crying until snot streamed out of his nose.

I've never taken pleasure in inflicting pain, but this time I enjoyed it.

The rest you know. Which brings us to now.

Hancock sits up and looks around. "Aw, fuck, this is the desert, isn't it?"

"It is. I'm going to help you out of the trunk, and then I'm going to show you something."

He looks around again. "What?"

"You'll see."

He sighs, and then I help him out.

While I do, he's talking about not having told anyone, not even the police, and definitely not his girl.

When he's standing, I tell him, "I believe you."

"You _do_? I mean good, you should, because it's the truth. My self-preservation _way_ outweighs any need for getting justice for Margaret Hammer."

We start walking.

He goes without force until he sees the shovel and the makings of a grave. Says, "If this is about your nose, then I apologize. I reckon a broken nose will really suit your face. In fact, the moment I saw you, I thought to myself, You know what that guy's face needs to round off his chiseled jaw line and other manly features, a broken nose. I swear to God."

"This isn't about my nose."

"Then it's got to be the possibility that I'll snitch on you, which I won't. What can I say to make you believe that I don't want stitches? For snitching... for being a snitcher, I mean. I live close enough to Harlem to know that snitching gets you some stitching. Jesus, what's the phrase again?"

"Shut up and take a seat."

Hancock, with his hands tied behind his back, waddles over to the nearest rock, sits funny, on the edge of it.

And then a gust of wind rushes passed Hancock and in my direction.

I ask him, "Have you shit your pants?"

"A little. I've shit my pants a little."

I shake my head, not because I don't think it's reasonable for a grown man to shit his pants when he's minutes away from dying. And then I take a seat on a rock.

I say, "Let me tell you something, Jacob Hancock. There's not a single thing you can say that will convince me that sometime in the future you won't get a twinge of guilt and think about telling the cops what happened today and a really accurate description of me: my accent, what I look like, that sort of thing."

"I won't. I swear. In fact, I'm really bad with accents. Yours could either be non-regional, like a news anchor's, or West Texas and I wouldn't be able to tell the difference—"

"Shut up and let me finish—"

"Please do. I'll be quiet. But before I am, let me just tell you I suffer from something called face blindness. I can't even remember what my girl looks like. Every time she comes to my apartment and I look at her through the intercom camera, I'm all confused, and like, 'I haven't ordered a hooker.'"

"Are you finished for real, this time?"

"I am if I've said enough to convince you not to kill me."

He looks at me hopefully.

I like the guy. Can't help it.

But that's not the reason I'm going to let him go. I'm not doing it for him, or even for his girl.

I probably won't sleep too well the next couple nights, and I see a relapse coming on from the stress of my dream retirement being in the hands of someone who shits himself, gets stoned in the morning, and wears a T-shirt with a cartoon character on it.

And if Jimmy Balbone finds out I let him go, or the other Jimmy, I'm a dead man.

I continue, "As I was saying, there's not a single thing you could say to convince me that sometime in the future you won't feel a little guilty, and think about going to the police... but that doesn't mean that I'm not going to let you go."

He frowns. "I don't believe you. Is this a way of calming me down, so that you spring the gun on me and surprise me... Wow, that sounded way sillier when I said it out loud."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Then are you playing some sort of game, like a cat who lets the mouse run away for a couple seconds before he fucks him up?"

"No, that's not what I'm doing, either."

"Then I'm stumped." He thinks a second.

"You haven't done anything to earn my letting you go and not killing you, but I will."

"So I was right. You do want me to give you an alibi?"

"That's not it, either."

I tell him what I want him to do.

Then he says, "Just that?"

"Just that."

"What did you say his name was?"

I tell him again.

"Shit, you should've just said that when you were at the intercom, instead of driving me all the way out here. That's my bread and butter, or at least it was."

"I know that. And I thought you might need a little motivation."

"That's what the grave is for?"

"Is it working?"

"FYI, that thing needs to be a little deeper. If I'm a forty-five-year-old waitress with a snacking habit, that's my prom dress. But yeah, it is. I'll go ahead and say I'm a little intimidated by the idea of being buried out here. And it's a hell of a drive for my parents to come and deliver flowers and mourn my loss. Can we leave now?"

"There are a couple things you need to do first."

"What are they?"

"First, I want you to finish digging the grave."

"Why, if I'm not going into it?"

"I've got a feeling I might need it in the future."

"For me?"

"Not if you do what I said and keep your mouth shut."

"Done. What's the second thing?"

"I'm going to need you to take off your tighty whities and wipe your ass with the clean side, and then throw them away, before I let you back in my car."

He sighs. "There's no way I'm doing that in the presence of someone else." He looks around. "There's a mountain in the distance. I'd feel a whole lot more comfortable if I could just run over there."

I look at where he's pointing, and it's on the horizon. "You can ride in the trunk again, then."

"Close your eyes and we can shake on it."

I don't say anything, just turn around.

A minute later, I say, "Are you done yet?"

"I don't know how to say this."

"Just say it."

"I don't know how it got there, because it isn't on my pants, but there's some on my sock. Unless it's Nutella..." He's silent a second. "Nope. Not Nutella."

"Then just go sockless. Or just wear the one sock."

"No briefs and one sock. This is turning out to be one hell of a day."

# 26.

With the grave dug, the coordinates taken down for future reference, and with Hancock's sock and briefs in a grave instead of him, we leave.

We're only ten minutes into the drive when Hancock starts waxing lyrical about how this experience has changed the way he feels about life forever.

"That's it. I mean it. I'm a new man. Sure, I'm close to my forties, and I'm in pretty bad shape, and I feel like I should probably have more friends, but there's no way I'll ever wake up and press the snooze button again. Not after surviving what can only be described as a harrowing near-death experience," he says.

We sit in silence a second, before he says, "What about you? Hey, you may as well go ahead and tell me your name now, seeing as how we're buddies, and all."

"We're not buddies."

"Okay, I get it. It depends on the definition. What I was saying was, how has this experience affected your outlook? Feel free to use the word profound. I won't think any less of you."

"Mind if I put on the radio?"

"Nah, I'm not really in the mood for it. You want to hear my five-step plan for getting my shit together?"

"Not really."

"One, no more getting stoned in the morning. In fact, maybe no more getting stoned, period. Okay, I got it, no more getting stoned on weekdays. Or maybe just every third day. I'll need to be clear minded if I'm to implement step two."

Without responding, I turn on the radio, settling for the first station I come to.

He continues, "Two, phone my parents more often. Sure, they don't seem all that bothered about my existence now that they're retired and living in Florida, but this experience, it's really made me appreciate them more. First thing I thought about when I saw that grave? How I'd ruined my parents' retirement, because they'd never be able to get over losing me. Wow, I'm really growing as a person."

Giving up, I turn the radio off.

He says, "Hey, I was digging that song."

"How about I give you my email address and you can send it to me, your plan?"

"That works."

"Okay, I'll write it down for you when we get back."

"You can just go ahead and tell me. I've got a really good memory."

"It's Geoff Cranberry sixty-nine—one word—at Gmail dot com."

He sighs. "I get it. I'm boring you. I'll shut up, now."

And he does. I glance at him every so often in the rearview—he's sitting in the back, after refusing to ride in the "elbow seat"—to find him staring out into the desert with a dumb grin on his face.

And I wonder if he'll be able to do what he's promised to do.

It's a long shot, if I'm to base his competence solely on, well, the way he is. But I've got a good feeling he might come through for me. I guess I'm being hopeful.

If he doesn't, there's already a grave dug for him.

About a half hour away from L.A., I get a phone call.

I glance at who it is, and then tell Hancock to put his fingers in his ears again, and tell him if he makes a sound I'll have no other choice than to change my mind about shooting him.

I answer.

Jimmy says, "Elvis, we've got a problem."

# 27.

Upon hearing those words, I think Jimmy and Beans have somehow learned the guy whom they're torturing with a blowtorch, chisel, and hammer isn't the guy they wanted.

But it turns out to be more trivial than that. At least to me.

I ask, "He's where?"

"On the roof. And he's talking about jumping down from it."

"Which roof?"

"His own roof."

"Doesn't he live in a one-story property?"

"He does. He says he'll dive down from it, head first."

"That's how diving tends to be."

"Don't get cute, Elvis."

"Sorry."

"How that's schmuck going to pay me if he's in a—how'd you say?—non-induced coma for the foreseeable future?"

The guy he's talking about is Peter Hammer. Seems he might be having a little crisis of conscience, if his threatening to dive from the roof of his house is any indication.

I say, "Write a will for him before he jumps. He can sign it on the way down."

"Smartass, Elvis, is what I should call you more often." He sighs. "Can you go and see him, convince him that the smart thing to do is to jump _after_ I've gotten my money?"

"Can't Phil and Gary go see him?"

"They're already there; that's how I know he's on the roof. They went around to tell him how sorry they are for his loss."

"Why can't _they_ talk him down?"

"He's standing in the middle, holding on to the chimney, and they think it unwise to shout over to him. The neighbors, and all."

"Then they can climb up there."

"Look, Elvis, I'm gonna need you to do it. Phil and Gary are scared of heights."

"They're scared of being ten feet above ground?"

"They are. And they tell me, even if they weren't, they can't find a ladder on his property."

"Okay, I'll go over there, see what I can do. Is he talking of phoning the police?"

"He hasn't mentioned that. Just keeps saying he's a bad nephew. The worst. How long will it take you to get there?"

I glance at the Sat Nav. "Fifty minutes."

"Try and get there in forty."

"That's how long the drive is, Jimmy."

"Okay, then forty-five."

He hangs up.

I put my cell back on the dashboard, and Hancock takes his fingers out of his ears. Says, "Was that your boss?"

"I don't have a boss."

"Say no more. Forget I ever asked."

# 28.

I drop Hancock off on the way, a walking distance away from Hollywood Boulevard, and arrive at Peter Hammer's home thirty minutes later.

I park in the driveway, and then walk to the entrance, where I find Phil and Gary holding a bed sheet, which seems premature, as Peter Hammer is still in the middle of the roof, but instead of standing, he's sitting with his back to the chimney, his chin resting on his chest, looking dejected.

They see me coming, and say at the same time, "He's on the roof."

"I figured that. How'd he get up there?"

Gary says, "He climbed up. Pulled his scrawny ass up by the drainpipe."

Phil says, "You going up there?"

"I am. You can put the sheet down, fellas. I don't think that's necessary."

Gary says, "Mr. Balbone had clear instructions. Until he's on terra firma, we're holding this sheet."

"Suit yourselves. Where are his keys?"

"Why?"

"I want to get into the garage."

They look at each other, and then Phil says, "Try the door."

They're there, hanging from the lock, on the inside.

I take them and go back to the garage, open it. I don't find a ladder at first, and then spot it hanging from the ceiling by two bike hooks.

I take it down, and go back to where Phil and Gary are.

I lean it against the building, check that it's standing solidly, and then begin my ascent all the way up onto the single-story roof.

Nearest neighbor's fifty or so yards away. It doesn't look like they've spotted Peter Hammer, as there's no one outside the property, watching the scene. Nor is there anyone outside the property in the neighboring home on the other side.

I go up to Peter Hammer. When I'm ten feet from him, he spots me, and says, "Don't come any nearer."

"Relax, I just want to talk."

He raises his voice. "About _what_? How you killed my dear aunt today?"

"Keep your voice down, Peter. Let's speak to each other like gentlemen."

" _Gentlemen_?"

"Gentlemen. I'm just going to come over there and take a seat, look at the view with you for a while. That okay?"

He shakes his head, looks into the distance, snot dribbling from his nose and his stare empty.

I go over and sit down next to him.

After sitting in silence a couple seconds, he says, "Is she—?"

"In a better place? Yeah. Don't worry. She didn't feel a thing. It was over quickly."

He says, "Shit," and then starts to sob. "She _had_ been getting a little forgetful, you know. I wasn't just making that up to excuse it."

"I believe it. When I rang her intercom, she'd totally forgotten that she was supposed to get a delivery today. Nearly didn't let me in."

He laughs, forgetting himself for a second, and then says, "That sounds like Aunt Margaret," and then he starts sobbing again.

When he's calmed down a little, he says, "How am I supposed to live with myself after what I've done?"

"You're not."

He looks at me, taken aback by my honesty.

I continue, "At least the next month or two. This pain will never go away, but you'll learn to ignore it. You might even be happy from time to time."

"You think so?"

"I know so. It's human nature. No matter what bad shit we do, we always find a way to get over it. We're inherently flawed like that."

"I'll never be happy again. I loved Aunt Margaret."

"I know you did, Peter. But what happened was unavoidable. You know that. In time the pain will fade."

He thinks a second. "There might have been another way. I could've sold this place, for example."

"There's no use thinking about the what-ifs. What's done is done."

Silence a second.

"Did Aunt... Was Margaret scared?"

"She was really brave."

A pause.

"What are you doing up here?"

"I'll be straight with you. Mr. Balbone wants to protect his investment."

"And the goons down there? What are they doing here?"

"The same thing."

"I thought they'd come here to whack me."

"Now why would they want to do a thing like that?"

"It seemed logical."

"If it makes you feel any better, they're standing down there, holding a bed sheet. Nobody's here to hurt you, Peter."

"I wasn't really going to do it, you know. I'm too much of a coward."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Took a brave man to make the business decision you made."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. Now let's go down and get you a stiff drink."

"I think I'll just stay up here for a while, if you don't mind."

"Then I'll stay here too."

After a couple minutes' silence, he says, "I'm ready to go down now."

Peter goes first, tentatively climbing down the ladder.

When we're both on the ground, I say to Phil and Gary, "You fellas can go. I'll handle it from here."

As though he isn't there, Phil asks, "But is he gonna be _okay_?" and then raises both eyebrows, adding subtext.

"He's going to be fine."

Gary says, "If you're sure, Elvis."

They leave, handing the bed sheet to me.

Figuring my job here isn't complete, I walk Peter Hammer into his property, my hand on his shoulder.

We go through to his living room and I tell him to take a seat. I fold his bed sheet and drape it over his sofa chair, and then I go over to his minibar, and ask him what he'd like to drink.

He looks up at me, looking in better shape. "I'll take a brandy."

"Nice choice, Peter."

I prepare his drink and go over to him and hand it to him.

He takes it, almost smiles, and then says, "Thanks for this," meaning the drink and everything else I'm doing for him.

I smile back. "No problem."

# 29.

After I strangle the life out of Peter Hammer, I smash his glass on the floor, and then cut his wrists with it, squeezing his forearms to get a decent amount of blood out. I then wrap him up in his bed sheet, go outside, drive my car into the garage, close the garage door, go back inside using the door leading into the main building, and then carry Peter Hammer's body back to my car, where I place him in the trunk, pretzling up his limbs.

Then I take out my cell phone and phone Jimmy.

When he answers, I say, "He killed himself."

"Who did?"

"Peter Hammer."

"What the hell are you talking about, Elvis? I spoke to Phil two minutes ago, and he said you were handling the situation."

"I went to take a leak, and when I came back out he'd slit his wrists."

"You left him alone?"

"He had to be left alone at some point. If he didn't do it now, he would've in the future."

He sighs. "Four hundred grand I'm down because of you, Elvis."

"Look, that guy would've gone to the cops. It was written all over his face."

"Phil and Gary said he was scared for his life."

"Phil and Gary weren't up there when I spoke to him on the roof, speaking of the guilt he wouldn't be able to live with. They especially didn't hear how he said he'd nearly picked up the phone before they'd come."

He pauses a second. "He said that?"

"He did."

Another pause.

"Then why did you tell Phil he was going to be okay, implying you had a handle on the situation?"

"Phil and/or Gary asked that question in front of the guy. What am I supposed to say when he's standing there? And what is this, some sort of interrogation?"

"No, Elvis. I just think it weird, is all, that the guy killed himself while you were there. That he didn't wait until he was in a bathtub, listening to his favorite song, and with a glass of red wine in his hand."

"Sounds romantic, but I don't know why we're having this conversation, or what you're alluding to."

"I don't know why, either. It just seems funny." Jimmy, on occasion, can come close to being pragmatic, like now: "I guess I'm just super fucking pissed that I ever trusted that mouth-breathing idiot with all that money in the first place." He pauses. "Anyway, good job, Elvis."

"Thanks. Now is there anything else before I go and bury this guy in the desert?"

Without replying, Jimmy hangs up.

I look at the phone a second, thinking, and then put it away.

I then put those thoughts to the back of my mind and get in the car, start driving back to the hole that Hancock dug a couple hours earlier.

# 30.

Do I trust Hancock not to squeal? It's irrelevant what I think, or what I think I know. Like I said before, hunches are for gamblers, and I'm not a gambling man.

I'm leaning towards him not saying a thing. I believed him when he said saving his own ass was more important than getting justice for some woman he didn't care so much about.

So I bury Peter Hammer's body in the grave Hancock dug. And a short distance from the body, I bury the shovel Hancock used to dig the hole, next to the place where Hancock buried his soiled underwear. I collected another shovel from the warehouse on the way, and I use this to cover the body and other shovel with sand, keeping my gloved hands away from Hancock's fingerprints, avoiding potentially smudging them.

I know what you're thinking, if I were forced to use that leverage, and get Hancock indicted on a double homicide—Margaret Hammer logically follows after her nephew—it'll look like a setup. What kind of hare-brained idiot buries the shovel a short distance away from the body, and his soiled underwear? And even the investigators who handle the case, should I tip them off, would think it looks like someone's framed him. You'd have to be a fool not to, and the investigators down at the Hollywood Police Station are no fools.

But they won't do what they're supposed to do, either. I'm not saying I'm relying on a bent cop or some other cliché; I'm just relying on any cop. Take your pick.

It's romantic to think that a cop's job is to seek the truth, to get justice for their victims, and even I'm naïve or hopeful enough to think that's the case most of the time, but I'm not naïve enough to think some cop, any cop, wouldn't take the slam dunk I've given them, start looking into who possibly framed him.

I'm willing to bet my retirement on that. They'll find the body, the shovel, and the underwear, and ignore all the conflicting evidence, and definitely ignore Hancock's story about some hitman having committed both murders, and just focus on the narrative that's given to them. Hell, that's what I'd do.

And motive? Hancock's got bags of it. Every conflict he had with his neighbor, every time he played his music too loud and she came knocking on his door, was one more reason to take out his neighbor. Peter Hammer, her nephew, was just a bonus. Or whatever. Two homicides for the price of one. The cops will find a way to justify Hancock's killing of Peter Hammer.

Killing Peter Hammer wasn't as simple as wrapping my hands around his throat and choking the life out of him. There was the Jimmy element to think about.

He knows something's up. Jimmy's sharp. Don't let his vocabulary fool you. He doesn't know what yet, but he'll get his hand on the thread, start unraveling the sweater, if he's sitting reading a newspaper one day, learns that some guy called Jacob Hancock is indicted for the homicide of the guy I said killed himself. He'd pull that thread until he got to me, the collar, the thing at the center of it all, the thing holding the sweater together.

Which is why, when I meet Hancock a couple days later, in a diner of his choosing, I have no intention of actually informing the police of Peter Hammer's murder. But I do intend to subtly let him know I've got leverage.

I walk into Vine and Dine and find him sitting in a booth, looking a little shady, ostensibly reading a newspaper, if it weren't upside-down.

I sit opposite him, and he lowers the newspaper, folds it up.

He says, "You look different."

"Have you found him?"

"No small talk first?"

I don't say anything.

A second later, Hancock pulls out a folded piece of paper, hands it to me.

I look at it.

He says, "It's an address."

"I figured that."

"The address of the place he works at. He wipes old people's asses for a living."

I tell him thanks, and put it in my pocket.

Hancock isn't a conman, or at least that isn't his sole profession; he's a private investigator. Rebel Black told me. Most private investigators are ex-cops, Bob Lamb types who are sticklers for not finding people clients might have ill will against, which is why I needed Hancock to do this job.

Hancock says, "So, should we order breakfast, for old time's sake?"

"Why not."

"Really? I was just being polite, and a little flippant."

"Breakfast sounds good."

"Okay."

He looks at me a second, thinking. Then calls over a waitress. She knows him by name, and he's a little flirtatious while we order breakfast.

She asks who his buddy is, and Hancock says, "This is my girl's brother, Kevin. He's an MMA fighter, an amateur, but a good one."

She says to me, "Nice to meet you, Kevin," and then walks off.

Hancock says, "That's Mindy."

"Nice girl."

We sit in silence a second.

Then Hancock says, "This guy, why'd you want me to find him?"

"He's an old friend of the family."

"Who you wanted _me_ to find? You know what, I don't want to know." He pauses a second. "The funniest thing happened. Rebel Black, my girl's ex-husband, hasn't turned up to open the diner the last couple days. One of the waitresses phoned her, asking if she knew where he is."

"Rebel who?"

"Black. Remember I told you about him? Slapped her around. A real piece of shit."

"Oh yeah. I think I remember you saying something about him."

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about his disappearance, would you?"

"No idea what you're talking about."

He lowers his voice. "Well thanks, anyway."

"For what?"

"Having breakfast with me."

We sit in silence a second. Then he says, "So I'm all set, to move away."

"Where you headed?"

"Haven't decided yet."

"What's your definition of all set?"

"Bags packed, told my shrink she'll have to find another narcissist to talk back to health. And I'm putting my apartment up for sale. I just need to find a realtor I trust. You know any?"

"I'll put some feelers out for you."

"Thanks."

Silence a second.

Then I say, "How's Bob?"

"Haven't spoken to him since we saw him that day."

"Has anyone been to visit your neighbor?"

"No. And I haven't invited anyone. I decided to let nature take its course. The smell they won't be able to get out of the apartment might drive down the price of my unit, but it's a hit I'm willing to take in order to stay off the persons-of-interest list."

"Do you think that's wise? Moving away and not reporting it?"

"Now that I think about it, it does seem a bit dumb."

"Want my advice, go around in a couple days, let yourself in with the keys she gave you, and then there's a decent reason for your having been in there, at least forensically speaking. You were worried; you hadn't seen her the last week."

"And I hadn't seen her since I borrowed sugar, right when she got her cuckoo delivered."

"Right. Shows you two were familiar with one another, if the keys don't. You could say something less clichéd, like an ironing board."

"I own an ironing board."

"You might, but the police don't know that."

"I'll wear a crinkled shirt that day."

"Or whatever. Just make sure it sounds like you didn't google an excuse."

Mindy comes with the food.

We eat in silence.

I think about how I can subtly imply what I've got over Hancock, and he sits there, thinking.

Then he says, "I've been thinking about that hole I dug. More importantly, why I dug it."

"Have you?"

"Yeah. There's something occupying it, right?"

"What makes you think that?"

He lowers his voice. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that you're a—" he looks around "—hitman."

He pauses, then says, "I can't decide who I'm more disappointed in: myself, for being so dumb, or you, for taking advantage of me."

"It's nothing personal."

He cringes. "Jesus, I only suspected it." He shakes his head. "At least drive me out there so I can get my underwear. They find it someday, I can handle being the wrongly incarcerated murderer, but not the 'The Skid Mark Killer,' or whatever headline the rags would use. The embarrassment would be too much, not to mention a nickname like that might get me more than my fair share of attention in the showers."

"I never hear from you again, directly or indirectly, no one will ever find out about your big boy pants accident."

"That makes me feel a little better. Not great, but better." He gets up. "Time for me to leave. I've got a neighbor I'm worried about, and a new life to begin." He holds out his hand. "I'd like to say it's been a pleasure, Peyton, but well, it hasn't. Sorry about busting up your nose."

I shake his hand.

Before he leaves, he says, "If I'm ever in Hollywood again, we should meet up and catch up."

"Say hi to your lady for me, Hancock. And good luck."

He puts enough cash on the table for the whole check and a tip, and then leaves, shaking his head as he goes.

Mindy comes over, asks if I'm finished, and then collects our plates. When she comes back over to collect the cash, she says, "I've always wondered, this MMA fighting, do people like you enjoy it?"

I smile. "Sometimes we do. Sometimes we don't."

# 31.

It's my and Sandy's ten-year wedding anniversary. I managed to swing it with her doctor to get her out of Shady Acres for the day, as long as she's mildly sedated, so I've put on my best suit, shaved, and I'm feeling nervous.

The plan is to take her to her favorite restaurant, I'll try to chat with her about some of my favorite memories from our marriage, and hopefully I won't have to restrain her at some point. After dessert, I've got a present for her. That's why I'm nervous.

I recently learned there are traditional gifts for each year. For example, it's traditional to give electrical appliances for a four-year anniversary gift, and bizarrely wood for the 6th year. Tenth is diamonds and/or jewelry. Sandy's not allowed jewelry at Shady Acres—something about her possibly using it to attack other residents—but I got her some nonetheless. But that's only her warm-up gift.

The other gift, not so traditional.

The rest of it is in my warehouse, brought all the way from Pants, Oklahoma. I sure hope she likes it.

If she does, it'll be a turning point in our relationship.

I go through the reception area, and the two ladies working the desk compliment me on my appearance, and then I get taken to the main communal area, where Sandy's waiting.

I go up to her, find her staring into space. Bev, the nurse who's taken to Sandy, is standing by her, smiling.

I take in Sandy's appearance. Bev's done a bang-up job of her makeup, and the little amount of saliva Sandy's dribbled onto her dress hasn't ruined how beautiful she looks.

I smile at Bev, letting her know my appreciation, and then I kneel in front of Sandy, say, "Sandy, dear, happy anniversary!"

When I go to hug her, she pushes me off, digging her nails into my chest, and says, in a sassy voice, "Mike, we're not married, you dipshit. I could get a better husband than you."

Bev whispers in my ear that her medication should take full effect in the next half hour, and then excuses herself, and I carry on hugging Sandy.

Miraculously, she comes with me, despite still thinking I'm Mike Rutherford, the bully from her high school. And I only have to carry her on my shoulder from Shady Acres's front entrance to my car, not all the way.

After wrestling her into the front passenger seat and buckling her seatbelt, it's time for us to drive to the first location of our romantic date, Wild Bill's Bar and Grill, for a warm-up drink.

Sandy's quiet the whole way, probably on account of her medication, but I don't care. I'm smiling like it's prom, and I'm driving the prom queen. We haven't been out in the real world together ever since she's been a resident at Shady Acres, and it feels good.

She's much more relaxed getting out of the car than in, and we walk hand in hand into Wild Bill's.

A couple of the regulars notice us, and start whistling. One of them, an older guy with more nostrils than teeth, says, "You be careful with a fancy lady like that in a place like this."

But he seems good natured enough about it.

I tell him I will, and we take a seat by the bar.

I'm under strict instructions to not give Sandy alcohol, but one drink won't hurt. Besides, I see it as therapy.

When we would come here, before the accident, she ordered an El Presidente—a cocktail comprising of rum, lime juice, pineapple juice, and grenadine. I order that for her and a lime and soda for me.

I tell the barman to keep an eye on her—making sure she doesn't randomly leave or fall off her stool, that sort of thing—while I go over to the jukebox. I put on the song we first made love to, and which became a tradition: "Takin' Care Of Business" by BTO.

Then I rejoin Sandy at the bar.

I toast our ten years of marriage, and then hold up her drink to her lips so she can experience a taste of her life before her brain injuries, while she listens to the song she was really familiar with at the start of our marriage, but which she only wanted to listen to one to two times a week at the end of it.

After she's swallowed a couple mouthfuls, and spilled a little on her dress, and after we've listened to the first chorus, I pay close attention to her demeanor, her facial expressions, for a sign that it might be working.

She's just staring into space, not smiling, and definitely not calling me by my real name, as she isn't speaking at all.

I sigh, accepting that this part of the plan to use sense memory to awaken the Sandy I know is in there somewhere isn't working and probably won't work.

Time for the next part of the plan.

We drive to her favorite restaurant.

We order the dishes we ate on our first date. They aren't on the menu, but I manage to persuade our server, Alberto, that today they are. As specials that I'll pay an exorbitant price for.

There's not much conversation during lunch. I try to engage her in conversation about what life is like at Shady Acres, but Sandy looks a little tired, but also like she might want to kill me, which is why I ask Alberto for a plastic set of cutlery for her.

On our first date, a guy made eyes at Sandy, and came over to flirt with her. I kindly told him that I'd smash the bottle of wine we were drinking at the time—an overpriced Merlot—over his head if he didn't refrain. Sandy thought it was cute and endearing and that I was her hero, and she later told me it was one of the reasons she fell in love with me.

When we've finished our meals, I glance at the table next to us, which I also booked. Dick-Eyed Bill is sitting by it. I bought a suit for him and paid him to come here to reenact that scene. Nodding at him, I let him know I'm ready.

Bill starts making eyes at her, but doesn't get her attention, so I wave him over. I don't understand what Bill says to her, but it kinda looks like he's flirting with her.

I tell him I'll smash his own bottle of overpriced Merlot over his head if he doesn't stop, and wait for a response from Sandy.

Nothing, but I still have high hopes her gift will work.

I thank Bill with a nod, and we skip dessert and drive to my warehouse.

I park outside, and tell Sandy to sit tight while I prepare her gift.

When it's ready, I help her out of the car and guide her to the warehouse door, my hands over her eyes, so she doesn't see it prematurely and ruin the surprise.

When she's inside and standing in front of it, I ask her if she's ready. She doesn't respond, but I figure she is anyway, and take my hands away from her eyes.

Upon seeing Mike Rutherford sitting there, tied to a stool, I get my first real moment with Sandy since the accident. She gasps, holding her hands to her cheeks. She recognizes him, in part because I refrained from beating the shit out of him, at least to his face, and because Mike still looks like the pipsqueak from her school days, just bigger and with a shitty goatee.

She says, "Is that... Is that?"

"Spotty Mike Rutherford? It is."

He starts to whimper, saying he's sorry, he didn't know the girls at school didn't like it, so I tell him to shut his mouth.

I then position myself next to Mike, juxtaposing us, and then say to Sandy, "See? I'm _not_ Mike Rutherford. This is Mike. I'm—"

"My _husband_?"

Clarity of thinking for the first time. I look to the heavens, my eyes welling up. I glance at Sandy to see she's also crying.

I go over to her, embrace her, and we stand there, laughing and crying in equal intensities, as we have our first real moment as a married couple since the accident. I can't help but glance at Mike afterwards to find him looking a little freaked out.

I'd like to say that moment lasted, that I'd cured Sandy. But it's fleeting. She goes back into her semi-comatose state a couple minutes after we leave Mike. But she's showing signs of progress. The rest of the date, she doesn't call me Mike, not even once, but calls me by another name: Douglas, the fictional guy who she thinks she's married to.

It's progress, of sorts.

I'd also like to tell you that I let Mike off with a slap on the wrist, and that he's able to go back to High Tree Retirement Home in Pants, Oklahoma, to continue his life. But Mike's ass-wiping days are over, and his days of eternal nothingness as his naturally mummified remains lie in a shallow grave in the desert have just begun.

But only after I'd tortured him for a day and a half. Mike was right to assume a tough-guy persona at high school; I was really impressed by his ability to withstand pain. He didn't shit himself, only pissed himself a couple times. A real tough guy.

# 32.

I've decided to stay in L.A., at least a couple more years. The doctors are wrong. I know it. Sandy's in there, somewhere, and time will reveal her. Mu Ko Ang Thong will be just as pretty in a couple years' time as it is now. Prettier, if I get the old Sandy back.

Mike Rutherford was a real breakthrough. Sure, I can't tell her doctor about it. Patient-doctor confidentiality only goes so far. So I'll carry on my own private treatment. See what else I can dig up from her past, remind her of, and see if I can't get a permanent breakthrough. I just haven't figured out what, yet. But we've got time.

Besides, who'll run Sloppy Seconds, my soup kitchen, if I leave? Dick-Eyed Bill, Stinky Pete, and all those guys are relying on me for a hot meal.

The only thing I'm not sure of is if I'm going to carry on working. I haven't heard from Jimmy Balbone since he hung up on me.

Curious.

I'm sitting in a café, drinking a cup of coffee, thinking about the story I'm going to tell at AA in an hour, when my phone rings.

I look at the phone, and then answer.

"Get a tan while you were in England, Cuckoo?"

It's Bob Lamb, and he's drunk again.

"Hey, Bob. As a matter of fact, I did."

"Yeah, I bet you did, Clive. What flight did you fly in on?"

I ignore his question, and ask, "How've you been, Bob?"

"Busy. Retirement's a bitch."

"Define retired."

"No longer active in my profession, dummy."

"At least not officially. Did I miss anything while I was away?"

"A homicide. A couple missing persons: one deadbeat chef, nothing; but the second one was curious."

"Oh yeah. How so?"

"Don't act like this is news, Cuckoo. Like you're reading it from the toilet paper you're about to wipe your ass with."

"I only read British newspapers while I was there, and let me tell you, those journalists are savage."

"Then you should have read the ones with the broad sheets and lots of words on. The big-boy papers."

"Gee, thanks for the advice. Do they have bigger pictures, too?"

He sighs. "You want to hear about this homicide and missing person or not?"

"I'm kinda busy, Bob. Will it make the news?"

"You know who'll be on the news soon enough?"

"Miley Cyrus? Justin Bieber?"

"You, smart guy."

"I can't think of anything I've done that's newsworthy."

"I've got to hand it to you, Cuckoo. Hollywood Boulevard. That was a ballsy move. Dumb, but ballsy."

"Is that a place in Hollywood?"

"You're not going to get me angry this time, Clive. You're not worth it."

"Is it? It sounds like a nice place. I should visit sometime."

Bob sighs and then I hear him order another whisky. After a brief argument with the barman, during which Bob says please three times through what sound like gritted teeth, the barman gives in.

Then Bob says, "The aunt of some big-shot movie producer was found dead."

"Where? No, let me guess."

I pause. Bob tries to speak, but I cut him off by saying, "Some place in Texas?"

"Boulevard, ass hat."

"Oh, so that's why you mentioned that place. I figured I'd go with the second-largest state."

Bob takes a slurp of whisky. Then says, "Drop the act, Cuckoo. Can you guess what she got delivered that day, the day she was killed?"

I pause, feigning thinking. "A new toaster?"

"A cuckoo clock, Clive. But you knew that."

"So let me get this straight, she didn't need a new toaster?"

"I have no idea why I phone you."

"Because we're friends, Bob. And who else are you going to have water-cooler moments with?"

"It's sad but true. Anyway, word on the grapevine is Dukes and Mahoney are the leads. They went around, spoke to the neighbor who phoned it in. Guy said he went to check on her, said he was worried."

"Nice neighbor. It warms my heart to know that Hollywood—at least on, where did you say? Bully Yard?—has a sense of community."

"Anyway, guy said the last time he'd seen her was the day we suspect she deceased."

"Which day's that? Gee, there are lots of words on this grapevine of yours."

"The last time anyone saw her, apart from this neighbor, was the day _before_ she got this clock delivered."

"So you think this delivery guy had something to do with it?"

"Good one, Cuckoo."

"He sounds like a solid lead. Good police work, Bob, especially for a retired guy."

"Yeah, he would be, if the neighbor didn't provide the delivery guy with an alibi."

"Weird. How or why'd he do that?"

"That's what I've been thinking about." Bob takes another sip of whisky. Then says, "Just level with me, Cuckoo. How the hell did you get some neighbor to say he'd seen her _after_ the clock was delivered?"

"Let me take a second to get this straight."

"You do that, Clive."

"This neighbor, did he want some toast?"

Bob sighs. "Just this one bit of information, Cuckoo. I need to know. He catch you, and you threatened him, or something? Just imply it. I need to know. I'm in no way recording this conversation. I'm in a bar for Chrissake"

"Why didn't he just use his grill, if his toaster was on the fritz?"

"Don't make me say please."

"You could say please, Bob, but it wouldn't change the fact that I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"Have it your way, Cuckoo. I might've gone easier on you if you had."

"That's nice of you, Bob. So this delivery guy, they going to try to find him?"

"Nah, Dukes and Mahoney are taking the case in a different direction. But I'm not dumb enough to think some neighbor just coincidentally mentions he saw you, the delivery guy, before he saw her alive and well last. It's details like that that will trip you up, one day, Cuckoo."

"How can it trip me up?"

"I'm not finished yet. This missing person, the interesting one, guess who it is."

I pause. "Can I have a clue?"

"You don't need a clue."

"Why's that? Because... Got it! This person also wanted toast."

Bob sighs. "The big-shot movie producer. He's the one that went missing."

"So you figure there's some connection between the death of this lady and the disappearance of her nephew? Sounds like you might be clutching at straws, Bob."

"On the same day, dummy. The same day."

"Still, the link's tenuous at best."

"It's solid."

"You know what I think, Bob?"

"What?"

"It sure sounds like this movie producer is your main suspect."

"Would be, if I didn't know you did it."

"Bob, I'm hurt."

"Here's my theory, Nuttree. You were hired to take out Margaret Hammer, and while you were in there, cleaning up after the hit, someone came knocking on the door. You peeked through the peephole, saw that someone had come to visit Margaret. Her nephew. He knew she was in. Maybe he'd spoken to her that day, or arranged to come by earlier in the week. Or whatever. But no one answered when he knocked, and the door was locked, so he went to the neighbor, the one he knows. Asked about Margaret. Had he seen her that morning. Maybe he had. Doesn't matter. They went back to her apartment together, with the key the neighbor was holding on to, and they went inside. You shoot Peter Hammer. But you don't shoot the neighbor. Maybe you couldn't shoot him, or maybe the delivery guy needed an alibi.

"The only thing I can't work out is _why_ you needed the alibi. Or why you couldn't shoot him. Or why he'd agree to give you it."

"There's a hole in that theory. A gaping one, Bob."

"Okay, smart guy. What is it?"

"If Margaret Hammer's dead, who's making the toast for the toast party?"

Bob breathes heavily into the phone, then says, "I'll get you someday, Cuckoo. And then we'll see how funny you are."

"Okay, Bob. I've got to go."

"Speak to you soon. I'll let you know how it went after I've spoken to this neighbor myself, this Jake Hancock."

"I look forward to it."

"Yeah, I bet you do."

Bob hangs up.

Poor Bob. There _is_ a gaping hole in his theory, toast-based flippancy aside, if I shot Peter Hammer there, then how did I get his body out of the apartment building, along a heavily-populated street, and into my delivery truck without anyone seeing me?

Bob's probably aware of that, and didn't want to mention it because, well, pride. Or maybe after getting shitfaced every day since he retired, Bob's slipping a little.

Anyway, despite the odd insult, I enjoy our conversations.

You might be wondering why Bob phones and tells me these things. Why wouldn't he keep his cards close to his chest? I think deep down, Bob knows he'll never catch me, and he needs to prove to someone, anyone, that he still has worth, even though he's retired. That he's still got it. I'm not the only serial murderer who's evaded him. I'm just the one who he can phone and talk shop with. Loneliness does strange things to a man. I should know. On top of reciprocating Bob's attempts at conversation, which is risky, I also employ a hooker as a stand-in for my wife.

Interrupting my thoughts, Julius comes into the café, coming through on his promise to give me a pep talk before the AA meeting.

When he sees my face, which isn't fully healed after the car crash, he says, "Shit. It's finally happened, hasn't it? And just before your birthday. Jesus, Blake, how could you be so stupid?"

"Relax, it isn't what it looks like."

He sits down. "Then what happened?"

"I caught a stray elbow on the basketball court."

He looks at me a second. "I don't believe it, but I do believe you haven't touched a drop. So, are you ready?"

"No."

"Right answer. We never are."

# 32.

I tell the relative strangers at the AA meeting every detail of the night of the accident. It's the hardest thing I'll ever have to do. I've never told anyone, not even Terry.

Julius was right. It does feel good, even though I cried in front of a newcomer.

After the meeting, Julius comes up to me, says, "I'm real proud of you, Blake. That couldn't have been easy."

"Thanks."

"Now you're ready, really ready, to find God and stay sober, one day at a time."

As Julius shakes my hand, I wonder why he's talking in AA clichés for the first time since he's been my sponsor. And his handshake goes on a little too long.

Still shaking my hand, he says, "Does it feel like the weight of the world has been lifted from your shoulders?"

I smile. "It does."

"That's great."

He stops shaking it.

Then says, "Hey, what are you doing afterwards?"

"I was thinking of going home, getting an early night."

"You don't have time for a coffee, do you? It might be useful to debrief."

"I don't know. I've kinda drunk enough coffee for today."

"Or a green tea, or whatever. We need to talk."

"Okay."

Twenty minutes later we're sitting in a cafe.

Julius says, "So, why'd you give us the dead cat version?"

"What do you mean?"

"That story. It was bullshit."

"I can drive you to Shady Acres, and you can see how much of it is bullshit, if you'd like?"

"Oh, I believed that stuff about Sandy, and the crash. Still, you gave us the dead cat version."

"I don't know what you mean."

He shakes his head. "How long have we known each other, Blake?"

"You know how long."

"I do. And I get why'd you bullshit everyone at the meeting. I'm just disappointed you bullshitted me."

"I'm not bullshitting you."

"It's just you and me sitting here, Blake. You expected me to believe that you careered into a cow?"

"That's what happened."

"Okay, buddy." He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "I want you to know, I'll carry on being your sponsor. I've never given up on anyone. But this, this thing we have, don't expect it to carry on if I don't get the truth someday. Disappointed isn't the word."

He gets up and leaves, but only after he's settled the check.

And I sit there, thinking.

You can only block out details for so long. I imagine, when I'm sitting on that beach on Mu Ko Ang Thong, the details of my job will haunt me. They already do. I'll get flashes of that moment when I wrapped my hands around Peter Hammer's throat, of that look in his eyes. The way he pleaded with them. I'll get flashes of the last moments of Margaret Hammer's final seconds of life, and all the other countless final seconds. That's my prison.

I'll get out on release, days at a time, maybe even weeks, but those memories will never go away.

Julius was right. I did leave out a detail. I check the date. This is the longest period I've been able to forget. Thirty-five days, this time.

But what was I supposed to do? Tell a room of relative strangers that I meant to crash the car that night?

I take out my phone, thinking of dialing Julius's number.

But it starts ringing.

I answer, and Jimmy says, "Blake Elvis, you busy?"

### The End.

## Personal Message from the Author

I hope you enjoyed this book or any other of my books as much as I love to write them! If you have, click this link and tell me. I personally respond to each email I receive, and love reading what fans of my books have to say.

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Dan Taylor

## About the Author

Dan Taylor is an English dude stranded in Oslo, Norway. His girlfriend, a blonde-haired Norwegian national, has kidnapped him, but he doesn't require rescuing. He's the author of the Jake Hancock series and doesn't take himself seriously as an author, though he works his ass off to make his readers and himself laugh. He doesn't like skiing, probably because he sucks at it, but he can build one hell of a snowman. He's silly, but you already knew that. You can read his blog at JakeHancockBooks.wordpress.com

## Jake Hancock series

_Kiss Hidden Lies_

Out of Crime

Served Ice-Cold

Saving Grace

Our Little Secret

Dead Friends Don't Lie

