I’d been looking down the front of her sundress at the time, and swallowed, and said, “Uh, no. I don’t like these skinny girls they’re pushing on us, these days.”

  “Fake tits and boy’s butts, all of them.” Her lips were trembling; her voice sounded bitter. “He has a girlfriend. . .she works in a titty bar, too. A different joint—this is one that he’s got money in. She’s like that: skinny little thing and a plastic chest and a flat little ass.”

  “You should leave him. Forget his threats. Forget the money.”

  “I can’t. I. . .I wish he was dead. Just fucking dead.”

  “Don’t talk that way.”

  Her whole body was trembling; she hugged herself with one arm, as if very, very cold. “I need a miracle. I need a goddamn miracle.”

  “Well, here’s a suggestion.”

  “Yes?”

  “Say your prayers tonight. Maybe God’ll straighten it all out.”

  “With a miracle?”

  “Or something,” I said.

  “HOP IN,” HE SAID.

  He was behind the wheel of a red-bodied, white-topped Cadillac; his bloodshot face was split in a shit-eating grin as he leaned over to open the door on the rider’s side. He was wearing a green-and-orange plaid sportcoat—it was like a Scotsman had puked on him—and orange trousers and lots of clunky gold jewelry.

  I slipped inside the spacious car. “Didn’t have any trouble getting away?”

  “Naw! That little bitch doesn’t dare give me any lip. I’d just knock some more sense in her! Anybody see you go?”

  “No. I think we’re all right.”

  I’d had him pick me up at the edge of the road, half a mile from the resort, in darkness; I said I was on call tonight and wasn’t supposed to be away.

  “You tell your wife where you were going, and who with?”

  “Hell no! None of her goddamn business! I tell you, Jack, I should never have married that lowlife cunt. She’s got a family like something out of Deliverance. Poor white trash, pure and simple. No fuckin’ class at all.”

  “Why don’t you dump her, then?”

  “I just might! You know what a prenuptial agreement is, don’t you, Jack?”

  “Got a vague idea.”

  “Well, my lawyer assures me I don’t have to give her jack shit. She’s out in the cold on her flabby ass, soon as I give the say so.”

  “Why don’t you, then?”

  “I might. I might. . .but it could be bad for business. I use her in some of my commercials, and she’s kinda popular. Or anyway, her big ol’ titties are, pardon my French.”

  “She helps you put up a good front.”

  “Hah! Yeah, that’s a good one, Jack. . .that’s a good one. . .”

  The drive to the casino was about an hour, winding through tall pines and little bump-in-the-road towns; the night was clear, the moon full again, the world bathed in an unreal, and lovely, silver. I studied the idyllic landscape, pretending to listen to Walton blather on about his accomplishments in the used car game, cracking the window to let some fresh air cancel out his Pine-sol aftershave and cigarette smoke.

  It was midweek, but the casino looked busy—just a sprawling one-story prefabricated building, looking about as exotic as a mobile home, but for the huge LAKEVIEW CASINO neon; the term “Lakeview” was cosmetic, as the nearest lake was a mile away. Some construction, some expansion, was going on, and the front parking lot was a mess.

  He pulled around back, as I instructed; a couple of uniformed security guards with guns—Indians, like most of the employees here—were stationed in front. None were in back. A man and a woman, both weaving with drink, were wandering out to their car as Walton found a place to park.

  “No limit here, right?” he asked.

  “Right. You bring a pretty good roll?”

  “Couple grand. I got unlimited cash access on my gold card, too.”

  The car with the couple in it pulled out, and drove unsurely around the building. Once their carlights were gone, it was as dark as the inside of a cow, back here. I got out of the Cad.

  “If you need a couple bucks, Jack, just ask.”

  He had his back to me, as we walked toward the casino. When my arm slipped around him, it startled him, but he didn’t have much time to react; the knife had pierced his windpipe by then.

  When I withdrew the hunting knife, a scarlet geyser sprayed the night, but away from me. He fell like a pine tree, flopping forward, but the sound was just a little slap against the pavement. The knife made more noise as it clattered against the pavement; I kicked it under a nearby pick-up. He gurgled a while but that stopped soon.

  Yanking him by the ankles, I dragged him between his Caddy and the dumpster he’d parked next to; a slime trail of blood glistened in the moonlight, but otherwise he was out of sight. So was I. I bent over him, using the same flesh-colored, rubber-gloved hand that had held the knife, and stripped him of his gaudy gold jewelry and lifted his fat wallet from his hip pocket, the sucker pocket the dips call it. I removed the wad of hundreds and tossed the wallet in the dumpster.

  The jewelry was a bit of a problem: if somebody stopped me to talk to me about the dead man in the parking lot, I could be found with it on me. But a thief wouldn’t leave it behind, so I had to take it, stuffing it in my jacket pockets. Tomorrow I would toss it in Sylvan Lake. Right now, with my couple of thousand bucks, I walked around the front of the casino, said, “Nice night, fellas,” to the Indian security guards, who grunted polite responses to the paleface.

  Inside, the pinball-machine-like sound of gambling fought with piped-in country western—the redskins seemed to favor cowboy music. I found Nikki where I knew she’d be: at the nickel poker machines. The slender girl had a bright-eyed, pixie face and a cap of brown curls.

  “Jack! I’m doing fantastic. . .I’m up four dollars!”

  “Sounds like you’re making a killing.”

  “How about you?”

  “Same.”

  I had told Nikki I’d meet her here—we usually took separate cars when we went out, since the manager and his social director weren’t supposed to fraternize.

  She moved up to the quarter poker machines, at my urging, and ended up winning about thirty bucks. Before long, I was up two hundred bucks on blackjack. If somebody found the body while I was there, things could get interesting; I’d have to dump that jewelry somewhere.

  But I didn’t think anybody would be using that dumpster tonight, and I knew nobody would use the Caddy. Leaving too soon would be suspicious. So I stayed a couple hours.

  “Jeez,” I said, as we were heading out finally, her arm in mine, my hand on my head. “I think I drank a little too much.”

  “That’s not like you, Jack.”

  “I know. But you better drive me home.”

  “What about your car?”

  My car was back at the resort, of course, parked where Nikki wouldn’t see it when she went to her own cabin.

  “I’ll have Gary drive me up for it tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she said, and she steadied me as we walked back around to the parking lot in the rear.

  It was still dark back there, and quiet. Very quiet. I could barely make out a dried dark streak on the pavement, over by the Caddy, but nothing glistened in the moonlight, now.

  First thing the next morning, the police came around to see me; Gary was with them, a pair of uniformed state patrolmen. It seemed, around sun-up, that one of our guests had been found dead in the parking lot at the Lakeview Casino. His wallet, emptied of money, had been found nearby.

  “Mr. Walton wore a lot of jewelry,” I said. “The gold kind?”

  “Asking for trouble,” said one of the cops, a kid in his mid-twenties.

  Gary, wearing a gray jogging suit, wasn’t saying anything; he was standing behind them like a mute grizzly, his eyes a little glazed.

  “That casino’s probably gonna get sued,” the other, slightly older cop said. “Bad lighting in the parking lot back behind there. Just asking for it.”

  “Both Walton and that casino,” the young one said.

  I agreed with them, said sympathetic things, and pointed them to the cabin where they could find—and inform—the new widow.

  Gary stayed behind.

  “You know,” he said quietly, scratching his beard, “I’m glad that bastard didn’t get killed on our grounds. We might be the ones getting sued.”

  “Right. But that’s not going to happen around here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t worry, Gary.” I put a hand on his shoulder; had to reach up to do it. “We have adequate lighting.”

  He looked at me kind of funny, with narrowed eyes. He seemed about to ask me something, but thought better of it, waved limply, and wandered off.

  I WAS DOING my morning sit-ups when she walked up on my deck, looking dazed, her perfect, bullet-proof platinum hair wearing the girlish pink bow, her voluptuous body tied into a dark pink dressing gown. She stood looking through the cross-hatch of screen door, asking if she could come in.

  “Of course,” I said, sliding the door open, and took her to the couch where she’d sat two nights before.

  “You heard about Dick?” she said, in small voice. She seemed numb.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “You. . .you won’t say anything, will you?”

  “About what?”

  “Those. . .terrible things I said about him.” Her eyes got very wide; she seemed frightened, suddenly, but not of me. Exactly. “You don’t think. . .you don’t think I. . .”

  “No. I don’t think you did it, Mrs. Walton.”

  “Or. . .or hired somebody. . .I mean, I was saying some crazy things the other night.”

  “Forget it.”

  “And if the police knew about Dick hitting me. . .”

  “Your face looks pretty good today. I don’t think they’ll pursue that angle.”

  She swallowed; stared into nothing. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Why don’t you just lean back and wait to inherit Dick’s estate? You can do those TV commercials solo, now.”

  She turned to look at me and the faintest suspicion seemed etched around her eyes. “You’ve been. . .very kind, Mr. Keller.”

  “Make it Jack.”

  “Is there anything I can do to. . .repay your kindnesses?”

  “Well. . .you can keep coming to Sylvan Lodge, despite the bad memories. We could sure use your business, for those sales conferences and all.”

  She touched my hand. “I can promise you that. Maybe we could. . .get to know each other better. Under better circumstances.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Could I just. . .sit here for a while? I don’t really want to go back to the cabin. It still. . .still smells of Dick. That awful cologne of his.”

  Here all you could smell was the lake and the pines, real pines; the soothing touch of a breeze rolled over us.

  “Stay as long as you like,” I said. “Here at Sylvan Lodge, we strive to make our guests’ stay as pleasant as possible.”

  P.J. PARRISH

  P.J. Parrish is actually two sisters, Kelly Nichols and Kris Montee, who write the Edgar-and Shamus-nominated Louis Kincaid series. Their books have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists. Their latest is AN UNQUIET GRAVE.

  Hitmen have always had a special place in their hearts. Kelly created her first one in the fifth grade for a story she wrote called “The Kill” in which The Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein was bumping off his Fab Four. Kris “hired” her first hitman in one of her romances in the 1980s to knock off the fictional version of her slimeball ex city editor. They believe it is always nice to have a hitman around the house.

  Visit them at www.PJParrish.com.

  GUTTER SNIPES

  P.J. Parrish

  THE NEON WAS A slash of red in the oily puddles of the asphalt, and every time a car went by it sent the red quivering.

  It looked just like Helen’s mouth, he thought.

  Moon Renfro tossed his butt out the window and leaned back in the seat. He didn’t need to be thinking about Helen. There was too much other stuff he needed to be using his brain for right now and there was just no extra space for trying to figure out what the hell he had done this time to set those lips of hers flapping again.

  The neon sign was making this annoying buzzing sound. He looked up at it.

  PAUL STROFFMAN’S LUCKY STRIKE

  A couple of the letters were flickering, getting ready to die. He stared at the sign in admiration. It was original, put up there in the ’60s when Paulie “Sour Kraut” Stroffman bought the place. It was big and flashy and when it was working right, a neon ball would roll across the top of the letters, knock down the pins at the end, and the red letters STRIKE would turn to yellow. The sign never worked right since back in ’79, but then the city passed some dumb-ass ordinance so Paulie couldn’t replace it even if he could afford to. So it kept breaking and Paulie just kept trying to fix it.

  It was a fucking work of art after all. They didn’t make ’em like that anymore.

  Just like the Lucky Strike. He had to admit the place wasn’t much to look at on the outside. Just a brick slab in a dying strip mall. But inside. . .

  Paulie kept the insides up real good, kept the lanes oiled with the best stuff, and stripped them down twice instead of once a year. Had the best computerized scoring program that not only marked your score, but flashed these cartoons of grinning turkeys and pins being sucked to dust. Things that really made you feel good about what you had just done.

  Moon had been bowling at the Lucky Strike every Tuesday and Thursday night for ten years, and he loved it. Loved the sharp smell of acetone, beer, and smoke. Loved the constant clattering of the wood. Loved the feel of that old bowling shirt on his back and the idea that only four other guys in the whole world had one just like it.

  It was his life, and for ten years it had been a good life, one that provided him with friends, beer, and even sex from the alley kittens who worked the snack bar. But best of all, he was somebody here. He carried the second highest average in the house, a 239. Only Bulldog Baker had a higher one at 240.

  Moon sucked on his cigarette.

  One goddamn pin.

  It started to drizzle so he cranked the window up halfway. He exhaled and watched the smoke swirl in the clammy air of the truck. His eyes were locked on the front door of the bowling alley and his insides were churning as he considered what he was about to do.

  He had gone over every detail in his head, thought about every angle, asked himself every question. Well, every question but one: Did he have the balls to really go through with this?

  A sudden noise made him jump. The neon sign was spitting and flickering. He leaned forward and looked up at the sign.

  PAUL STROFFMAN’S LUCKY STRIKE

  Then, suddenly, with a loud pop! some of the letters were gone. Moon stared through the wet windshield at the sign, frowning. He switched on the wipers.

  U MU STRIKE

  His mouth fell open and he had to grab at his crotch to slap away the cigarette. He found the butt on the floor mat and then swung back up to look at the sign again. Damn. The letters were still there, big as life against the black sky. U Must Strike? Shit. . .it was a sign. It had to be.

  The clatter of falling pins drew his eyes back to the entrance of the bowling alley. A guy had come out and was slinking across the lot.

  Moon stuck a hand out the window. “Shaky!”

  Shaky Cruthers slumped toward Moon’s car. He opened the passenger door and climbed inside, flipping his stringy black hair like a wet dog.

  “Whatcha doing here, Moon?” Shaky asked. “You didn’t bowl tonight, did you?”

  “No,” Moon said. “I came to talk to you.”

  Shaky pulled a crumpled pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and started patting at himself, looking for a match. Moon tossed him a book from the bowling alley. Shaky lit his cigarette and settled into the seat, drawing one knee up.

  “So, what did you want to talk about?” he asked.

  “I want to win the championship for the Triple J Doubles,” Moon said. “I want that thousand dollars prize money and that trophy.”

  Shaky laughed. He had a weird laugh, like one of those little dolls with the talking strings in their necks. “You better run that by Bulldog first,” he said.

  Moon almost reached out and choked Shaky for his bad joke, but he didn’t want to piss him off right now. But he did throw him a sneer and Shaky mumbled an apology.

  “Hell, we’re in good shape,” Shaky said. “We’re tied for first.”

  “But we’ve been sucking hind tit most of the year,” Moon said. “We got only next week. I want you to do something for me.”

  “Anything, Moon.”

  “I want you to make sure we win.”

  Shaky almost laughed again, but he caught Moon’s eyebrow slant and he sucked it back in. “What do you want me to do? Stand back there and blow the pins down?”

  “I want you to fuck with Bulldog Baker.”

  Shaky choked on his cigarette smoke. His hacking filled the car and Moon looked away, out to the darkness to tune him out.

  “You done coughing?” Moon finally asked.

  “Yeah,” Shaky gagged. “Yeah. But man. . .I thought you was serious there for a minute.”

  “I am serious.”

  “Bulldog is big as a damn semi, Moon,” Shaky said. “How am I suppose to fuck him up?”

  “Not him, asshole,” Moon said. “His equipment.”

  Shaky stared at him, and suddenly Moon could see the reflection of the sign in his big brown eyes.

  “Listen,” Moon said. “Bulldog bought a pair of Kangaroo Ultras at the beginning of the season. Second week he wore those shoes, he bowled a 300. He calls them his magic slippers.”

  “So?”

  “I want you to steal them just before we start. It’ll mess up his head.”

  “What? How?”

  “It’ll be easy,” Moon said. “Before practice, Bulldog always goes in the bar to get his beer and play that stupid poker machine. That’s when you steal his shoes.”