Wheeling the Escalade into the entrance, Bobby rolled past the wall and some visitor parking to the white guard booth. The security man was on the phone. Bobby powered down his window and waited, glancing past the flimsy wood gate at the pool house, shuffleboard court, and sprawling, low-slung homes packed neatly and closely together along the winding asphalt street. What people he saw were either scooting about in golf carts or power-walking. Most looked to be his age or older: pink, well-scrubbed, well-fed Republican types, enjoying their waning days in their privileged cocoon.

  “Help you?” the guard asked. He probably had a decade on Bobby, and a round jovial face, a picture-perfect greeter type whose real function, Bobby judged, was more p/r than security.

  Bobby deliberately leaned out the open window, to give the impression of being hard of hearing—which he was not—and to make sure the guard got a good look at Bobby’s head and face. “Hi, we’re moving down here from New York? And some friends told me about this place?”

  “Sure. It’s wonderful here,” the guard beamed.

  “Like to talk to somebody about buying in?”

  “That’d be fine. Office is just to your right, by the library. Mary’ll be glad to help you.”

  “Can I,” Bobby asked penitently, “can I drive around a little first? Just to get a feel for it?”

  “Okay. Speed limit’s 15, y’know. Be careful.”

  “Thanks.”

  The toothpick gate-arm wobbled up and Bobby rolled the Escalade through, over a speed bump, and then slowly, primly, along the narrow asphalt drive. He could see already that the whole development—which seemed enormous—was built around a sprawling golf course, a network of narrow canals, and clusters of palm trees and thicker, brushier vegetation. The streets, winding about in a confusing tangled maze, were all named after birds. The one Bobby wanted was Chickadee. After making multiple turns and doubling back on his route twice, he found it, and followed it along in search of Number 33.

  The homes were single-story with angular roofs and quite large, dominating their patches of grass and nestling under tall palms. Some were rigorously plain. Others were obviously the loving focus of hobbyists overburdened with time and cash, who cluttered each square foot with trinkets, do-dads, knick-knacks, flub-dubs, and dressed geese. Street traffic was, Bobby was glad to see, minimal, and consisted mostly of golf carts. Most were driven by singles and, like the homes, ranged from plain-Jane to custom-painted, flag-bedecked ads for their well-heeled owners.

  Bobby slowed as he reached 33. It was a pink frame low-roofed house with no ID outside but the number, and shades drawn over the windows. Inside the open car port sat a white Toyota Camry. Beyond that Bobby got a glimpse of another street and the golf course beyond that still.

  Interesting.

  Bobby continued to roll at a deliberate 12 mph, waving back at passersby when obliged. Circling left, he caught the street that paralleled Chickadee, and passed by Number 33’s back yard. No sign of life from back there, either. But there were people playing the golf course, some on foot, some cruising in their carts. Down the way was a brown tile building with rest room signs on it. Scattered in its vicinity were parked, empty golf carts.

  Now this had possibilities.

  Bobby passed the rest room building, found a turn-off by a canal, and parked the Escalade under a clump of dense trees. Glancing around for observers, he unzipped the leather case and peeked inside. The Colt Woodsman looked to be the third model, blued with few wear marks, and seemed to be in good shape. Floating loose in the bag was the cylindrical silencer, and a clip. Bobby reached in for the eject button and verified there was a full clip on board. Thoughtful of Jimmy to send the extra ammo, but Bobby had never needed more than one, for straight jobs—or three, when the assignment included delivery of a message.

  Zipping up the bag, Bobby stepped out of the Escalade and looked toward the rest room building. The men’s and women’s doors were on opposite sides. A couple of golf carts parked at angles on the rough grass a few steps away. Presently a man came out of the men’s, boarded his cart, and whirred away. Another cart approached, with a couple on board, plus, seated between them, some sort of black-and-white spaniel. No good. Bobby stood and waited. Carts came and went. After a bit another one neared. Just one man this time, and the cart was as plain as could be.

  Just right.

  As the golf cart drew up, Bobby started walking toward the rest room building. He wore white shorts and sandals and one of the nicer polo shirts, which, aside from being too large for him—as were all his clothes, these days—made him look no different from any other Zephyr resident. The cart parked by the rest room building and its driver, a squat man in a porkpie hat, disembarked and walked with rather awkward haste into the men’s. Maalox moment, eh? Bobby thought, grinning. His timing, excellent as ever, had him ten feet from the cart as the man clicked out of sight behind the gray steel door. Without hesitation or furtiveness of any kind Bobby boarded the cart, set the leather case on the seat beside him, and wheeled the machine on its fat rubber tires back toward the street.

  Around him, birds soared and chirped and a warm breeze rustled the palm fronds. But there were no cries of protest and no pursuit. There was in fact no reaction at all as Bobby serenely piloted the cart toward the back yard of Number 33 Chickadee.

  ALL WAS BLANK along the pink expanse of the back wall of the house. Here too shades were drawn at every window. A single door offered itself toward the left. Toward it Bobby walked across the coarse grass, hands inside the leather notebook, threading the silencer into the snout of the Woodsman. He worked the action once, enjoying the oiled precision of the double snick. But he left the weapon in the case. For now.

  The doormat on the concrete by the back door said GO home. With no hesitation Bobby opened the screen door, pulled it back, and turned the knob of the inner door. Promptly it opened. Inside was some sort of sitting room, all done in blue. There was a sewing machine, open and threaded, and some plastic laundry baskets stacked full of folded clothes. As Bobby stepped inside, a man came through the opposite door, stopped and stared. He was in shadow, and this was years later, but Bobby recognized him.

  Sixto asked, “What the hell do you want?”

  “Pardon me, sir,” Bobby said. “Can I have a glass of water?”

  “Get lost. This is private property.”

  Despite his years, Sixto was still beefy, still had the squarish meaty face and jet black hair, glistening and combed just so, still had that looking-down-his-nose air. He wore a white terry cloth robe with wide sleeves flopping at his elbows, and red piping at the hems matched the embroidered initials on the breast.

  “Go on,” he said sharply, “get out of here!”

  “I’m lost,” Bobby said plaintively. “I was at my daughter’s—I went for a walk—”

  Sixto glowered. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “What a cluster-fuck. All right, all right,” he added impatiently, “Wait here. I’ll call security.”

  Bobby followed him up some steps, through a door, past a bathroom, and into the kitchen, wading through Sixto’s almost nauseating cologne cloud. The kitchen was a riot of pastels and chrome, and its big windows were securely blinded. What are you afraid of, Sixto? Bobby thought, smiling inwardly. Hearing him follow, Sixto turned. “I told you to wait, dickhead.”

  “Could I have some water?” Bobby asked.

  “All right,” Sixto said brusquely, and went to the sink. “What’s your daughter’s name?” he asked as he grabbed a plastic tumbler out of the cupboard.

  “Rosario,” Bobby said, opening the leather case. “Antonia Schiavone Rosario.” Sixto hesitated, glanced over his shoulder. “You’re shittin me. That’s—”

  Bobby let the leather case fall to the floor, having extracted the Woodsman.

  “Your late wife’s name,” he completed. “May she at last rest in peace.”

  Sixto flinched, dropped the tumbler into the sink, seized the counter edge with one beefy hand, rigidly half-facing Bobby.

  “Good God,” he breathed, staring. “Oh fuck no.”

  At which point Bobby used words he thought he’d never again utter: “Greetings from the big guy.”

  “Bobby! No! Please—”

  The first shot, a flat abrupt cough, drilled Sixto through the right elbow. As he screamed and grabbed himself, Bobby said, “That’s for not letting Antonia visit her mother.” He fired again—cough—and exploded the opposite knee. Sixto staggered and tottered and clattered to the floor, on the way down whacking his head on the counter’s edge. “That’s for calling Antonia a cunt that time at the regatta, in front of everyone.”

  Sixto, bleeding from three places and making that broken-record toneless cry, thrashed himself around on the floor to look up at Bobby through stricken, dark brown eyes.

  “Please,” he gasped, “please, Bobby.”

  “And this,” Bobby said, calmly, instructively, “is for making Antonia cry.” And he shot Sixto between the eyes.

  The [click] moment. Lights out. Nothing like it.[click]

  And then, in the instant stillness of the kitchen, from behind, a soft voice: “Bobby?”

  AS IF CUED, Bobby’s headache rose in his head in a wave of pain. He almost cried out from the force of it. He turned to see Alexa standing at the kitchen entrance: of course much older, a bit stooped, long hair bunned back, its rich auburn given gracefully way to slate gray. She wore white culottes and a sleeveless blue shirt—still the all-eyes English teacher type. But even after all these years, and despite what she had done to him, she could still put Bobby’s heart in his throat.

  Neither spoke at first. She stepped closer, peered around the counter corner at the forever-still Sixto. “You know,” she said, low voice melodious but a little husky, “I never dreamt this would happen. But now. . .it makes total sense.”

  “What are you doing here?” Bobby managed.

  “I was taking care of Toni. Couldn’t expect him to do it. Him and his whores.”

  “Condolences,” Bobby said, “on your sister.”

  “Thank you.” She studied him, mouth a tight line trying to smile. “You haven’t been well, I see,” she said gently.

  With his free hand Bobby touched the depression in his jaw. “Had a mole here, turned out to be melanoma. They took out a chunk of the jaw. Year later, it showed up in the brain. So a slice of that they took. Then radiation.” His eyes were leaking tears; Bobby shifted the Woodsman to his left hand and brushed his face with his hand. “For six months I’ve been better,” he added, and the tears came forth fully now, “but I think it’s come back again.”

  “Oh, Bobby. How sad.” She reached out a comforting hand, but Bobby flinched back.

  “This crying, it’s from the tumor,” he said brusquely. “That’s all it is.” Her expression clouded over and she inched back from him. “What is it?” he asked.

  She took a deep unsteady breath, swallowed, pursed her lips. “Well,” she said, tone effortful, “I can’t help thinking. . .here you are, and there he is. And I remember the rule.” Bobby said nothing. “No witnesses,” she added.

  Bobby stared. “Not you. Never.” And not with you looking, he thought.

  The tightness around her eyes eased, and she managed to smile. “That’s good. Because there’s so much of life ahead yet. For both of us.”

  Bobby’s headache let up a bit. He felt something inside, something that had been locked down for forty years, unclench. “Okay,” he breathed. “All right.”

  “But we should get out of here,” Alexa said, and turned. “Could you take me to the airport?” she asked, in that tone Bobby remembered: Peter Schiavone’s pampered sister. “I’ll call my husband,” she added, walking toward the kitchen door, “let him know I’m coming back early.”

  Silently, Bobby swiveled, leveled, fired. The slug caught Alexa in the back of her skull and knocked her forward, face down flat to the floor—click—lights out.

  Going to the sink, Bobby ripped off a paper towel, wiped the Woodsman down, and laid it on the floor. Then he walked toward Alexa, stepped over her still splayed legs, bent slightly to look into her open lifeless eyes.

  “No one walks out on me twice,” he said, and left.

  J.A. KONRATH

  J.A. Konrath’s first novel, WHISKEY SOUR, introduces series heroine Lt. Jacqueline Daniels of the Chicago Police Department. It also features problem solver Phineas Troutt, the protagonist of this tale. Joe has sold stories to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and many other magazines and collections. He has one wife, three kids (that he knows of), a few dogs, and a house in the suburbs of Chicago.

  Joe says: “I’ve been a fan of anti-heros in fiction since reading Richard Stark’s The Score as a teenager. Rooting for the bad guy is good, clean, antisocial fun. THESE GUNS FOR HIRE arose out of my love of this genre. Though the characters in these stories are scary and often horrible, the authors have been a joy to work with, and are some of the nicest folks on the planet. Really.”

  Visit him at www.JAKonrath.com.

  BEREAVED

  J.A. Konrath

  “WHY SHOULD YOU CARE? Guys like you got no scruples.”

  If I had any scruples, I would have fed this asshole his teeth. Or at least walked away.

  But he was right.

  “Half up front,” I said. “Half at the scene.”

  He looked at me like flowers had suddenly sprouted out of my bald head, Elmer Fudd-style.

  “At the scene?”

  I’d been through this before, with others. Everyone seemed to want their spouse dead these days. Contract murder was the new black.

  I leaned back, pushing away the red plastic basket with the half-eaten hot dog. We were the only customers in Jimmy’s Red Hots, the food being the obvious reason we dined alone. The shit on a bun they served was a felony. If my stomach wasn’t clenched tight with codeine withdrawal spasms, I might have complained.

  “You want her dead,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “The cops always go after the husband.”

  He didn’t seem to mind the local cuisine, and jammed the remainder of his dog into his mouth, hoarding it in his right cheek as he spoke.

  “I was thinking she’s home alone, someone breaks in to rob the place, gets surprised, and kills her.”

  “And why weren’t you home?”

  “I was out with friends.”

  He was a big guy. Over six feet, neck as thick as his head so he looked like a redwood with a face carved into it. Calloused knuckles and a deep tan spoke of a blue-collar trade, maybe construction. Probably considered killing the little lady himself, many times. A hands-on type. He seemed disappointed having to hire out.

  Found me through the usual channels. Knew someone who knew someone. Fact was, the sicker I got, the less I cared about covering my tracks. Blind drops and background checks and private referrals were things of the past. So many people knew what I did I might as well be walking around Chicago wearing a sandwich board that said, PHINEAS TROUTT—HE KILLS PEOPLE FOR MONEY.

  “Cops will know you hired someone,” I told him. “They’ll look at your sheet.”

  He squinted, mean dropping over him like a veil.

  “How do you know about that?”

  The hot dog smell was still getting to me, so I picked up my basket and set it on the garbage behind our table.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Battery.”

  He shrugged. “Domestic bullshit. Little bitch gets lippy sometimes.”

  “Don’t they all.”

  I felt the hot dog coming back up, forced it to stay put. A sickening, flu-like heat washed over me.

  “You okay, buddy?”

  Sweat stung my eyes, and I noticed my hands were shaking. Another cramp hit, making me flinch.

  “What are you, some kinda addict?”

  “Cancer,” I said.

  He didn’t appear moved by my response.

  “Can you still do this shit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long you got?”

  Months? Weeks? The cancer had metastasized from my pancreas, questing for more of me to conquer. At this stage, treatment was bullshit. Only thing that helped was cocaine, tequila, and codeine. Being broke meant a lot of pain, plus withdrawal, which was almost as bad.

  I had to get some money. Fast.

  “Long enough,” I told him.

  “You look like a little girl could kick your ass.”

  I gave him my best tough-guy glare, then reached for the half-empty glass bottle of ketchup. Maintaining eye contact, I squeezed the bottle hard in my trembling hands. In one quick motion, I jerked my wrist to the side, breaking the top three inches of the bottle cleanly off.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  I dropped the piece on the table and he stared at it, mouth hanging open like a fish. I shoved my other hand into my pocket, because I cut my palm pretty deep. Happens sometimes. Glass isn’t exactly predictable.

  “You leave the door open,” I told him. “I come in around two am I break your wife’s neck. Then I break your nose.”

  He went from awed to pissed. “Fuck you, buddy.”

  “Cops won’t suspect you if you’re hurt. I’ll also leave some of my blood on the scene.”

  I watched it bounce around behind his Neanderthal brow ridge. Waited for him to fill in all the blanks. Make the connections. Take it to the next level.

  His thoughts were so obvious I could practically see them form pictures over his head.

  “Yeah.” He nodded, slowly at first, then faster. “That DNA shit. Prove someone else was there. And you don’t care if you leave any, cause you’re a dead man anyway.”