Windows

“You were saying about the windows…”

“Right, the fucking windows. So, this place is nice, right? I had some time to fuck around and I’m playing with all the toys. Fridge is NASA certified and shit, feel me? I’m looking around. Not like I’m gonna boost anything. I’m not that dumb. Just waiting. But, you know, I didn’t know shit that nice existed. Then I saw the remote for the windows. Well, I didn’t know what it was at first, but I hit this button and all these walls start sliding and there’re windows behind ‘em. And the windows you could see, they’re all sliding open and shut. Red button covers them all in a sheet of steel. Fucking James Bond shit, you know?”

“For reals? So, what did you do?”

“Nothing to do. He showed up. I’m sitting there with the fool and I even said, ‘you got this nice fucking house and my dishwasher’s broken, bitch.’ He looks at me like I’m crazy. He didn’t get it you know?”

“They rarely do, brother.”

“Yeah, true. This guy, though. I don’t know, man. I like it when they’re too scared to talk. This guy was used-car salesman through and through, dig? Like trying to sell his life to me. I got a wife and kids, man. Yeah, that’s nice, me too. You don’t have to do this! Of course I have to fucking do it, it’s my job, I got a family to feed.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

“Right, so he’s blubbering and shit. Offers me money. I tell him if he’d paid The Boss in the first place, none of this is happening, right? So, I know he’s buying time. For what, who the fuck knows? Me, I’d just want it done, you know?”

“I feel ya. There’s some that just can’t accept that it’s already done if you’re there, dig? Like, the time for negotiation is long past.”

“Exactly, he’s trying to tell me all this shit. And I’m like ‘I have a life too, you fucking dick. I’m trying to finish this bit and get home. So, shut the fuck up.’ He didn’t, so I busted him good. Fucker’s out cold. Real cold. Then I get distracted by all the Star Trek shit again. Finally, I look at the clock and I’m like, ‘Shit! Jenny’s dance recital! I gotta get this shit done so I can clue the boss and get cleaned up.”

“And?”

“Well, I told you. I killed the fool and left. Made it in plenty of time. You should have seen it, man.”

“I bet, how old’s that little girl now?”

“Seven. She’s been doing the dancing thing for like a year and a half now. She’s good. I don’t know shit about dancing, but all the other kids looked like fucking retards, feel me? At least she looked like she’d paid some attention.”

“That’s beautiful, brother.”

“What about you? How’s your shoulder?”

“Healing. Wish I could stop thinking about it. Feel like a chump, you know?”

“Hell, you didn’t know she had anything - ”

“Yeah, but why did I even get close enough? That’s what bugs me. I’m just gonna stop letting ‘em talk, period. ‘Cause this chick was all sweetness and light and wait til my husband gets home, we'll sort this, would you like a drink? So, I figure, what the fuck? She goes and makes a drink, on the rocks, and after she hands it to me, she stabs me with the fucking ice pick. Real nice one. Old timey. Probably from Restoration Hardware or something. Bitch is too good for an ice cube tray, right?”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, so she sinks that shit into my shoulder and then dangles. Like, what the fuck I’m gonna do now? You could have at least stabbed me in the throat. This is gonna be a bitch of a broken wing. I’m sitting there with an ice pick in my shoulder and she’s got her mouth covered like one of those pervy Japanese chicks in those Chinatown rags. Oh no! What did I do? Hee hee hee. You know? She doesn’t even try and hit me or anything. Just stands there staring at the ice pick. Oh, and you’re not gonna believe what she says next…”

“What?”

“She looks right at me like she’s buying drapes or some shit and she’s goes, ‘you can rape me, but please don’t kill me!’”

“No!”

“No shit, man. Said it just like that. Like she’s giving me the consolation prize.”

“Ha! What’d you say?”

“I said, ‘Ma’am, you flatter yourself. Plus, I’m not a rapist.’ Then I shot her.”

“What about the husband?”

“He comes in and I’m sitting waiting for him next to his dead wife. He starts to go mental, and I stand up and slap the everloving shit out of him. Sounded like a fucking hand grenade. So, he mums up. You can tell he’s looking for an out. Some kind of excuse. Something. So, I make it real clear. You owe The Boss money. Your wife is…excuse me…was a fucking retard. You got the money? He does that wide mouth thing like somehow something is gonna come out that will turn me back into the fucking boy scout I am, right? So, I capped him. Bailed. Felt a little bad about the bitch. She wasn’t a necessary hit until she volunteered, you feel me?”

“Fuck yeah, collateral damage. I always want to explain it, but they get so emotional. Your husband is a lying prick and he owes everything you own to my boss because he’s a sick fuck who doesn’t like to pay for his sick fuck hobbies. Got nothing to do with you. Go sit in the bedroom. Wait five minutes after you hear the shot, and then call the police. But they never do the smart thing. Never. How long we been doing this, twenty years? Anyone ever listen to fucking reason?”

“Naw, they don’t get it, man. They’re convinced they’re above that shit. They’re like little kids. Hit off the tee. Just fucking hit off the tee until you get the feel for it. But they want to jump right in. Gonna hit that long ball, first try. They got all the answers. They’re gonna save themselves and me in the process, you know?”

“For reals. We need resumes. No joke. No name. Just a list of people we’ve hit and why. References, you know. Like, shut the fuck up, ‘cause this is what I do. End of story. The proof is in the goddamned pudding. I’m not some meth-head out to steal your DVD player. The Boss said you die, so you die. Shit, I got a mortgage to think about.”

“Ha! Right. But they’re convinced they’re gonna be the ones you let off. Like it wouldn’t end your fucking career, even if you wanted to. I won’t lie, sometimes I feel like The Boss takes it too far. I get it. No loose ends. Erase the drama. But some of those idiots deserve less...they don't need to die. That’s my personal feeling. But whatever. They made the bed. We just tuck ‘em in, yeah?”

“Yep, you got that right. You fuck a dog, you wake up with fleas. People gotta understand that.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that they’ll never understand. And they’ll always feel like the victim whether it was on them or not. It’s all fucking rosey until the piper comes collecting.”

“Yeah, fucking truth. They got nice stereos and shit though, most of ‘em. You gotta give ‘em that. Should of sold some of that shit and handed over the cash, yeah?”

“That’s true. Sometimes I wonder who’s going to end up with that bomb stereo. What’s gonna happen when I’m gone? Who gets the Benz and the watch collection?”

“You ever go back and check things out?”

“Naw. Thought about it. But there’s never any going back, is there? For anybody.”

“Nope. You just keep rolling.”

The men drank from the pint bottle, blowing smoke out of the window crack. Down by the docks it was quiet. They were big men, but they looked like anyone else. Two guys sitting in a car, talking about work.

“I gotta get home, man. Today’s my day for bringing snacks to pre-school. I gotta figure out what the fuck I’m bringing.”

“Yogurt, man. Mine love yogurt.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll get a gang of fruit, too. Some of those fucking roll-up things. You want me to drive you back?”

“Naw, thanks. Car’s right over there.”

“Ok, brother. Talk soon.”

The sound of two big Hemi engines startled the herons on the waterfront. They flapped gloomily in the thin light. They swept their wings and moved twenty or so feet down the bank. Hunting. Surviving. They knew the score. Keep moving. Don’t stay in once place for too long. Be more cautious than you think you need to be. That’s how you stay alive.