JUST LIKE OLD
TIMES
By Shari
Held
I hadn’t set foot
in our old hangout since I retired five years ago. Not much had changed since
then. Same sticky floorboards, autographed picture of John Wayne hanging lopsided
on the wall, threadbare pool table. The joint smelled of stale beer and fried
onions. I stopped beside the booth where I’d agreed to eliminate Jagger so Grosjean
could take over his operation. It was my first job. Grosjean and I had been a
good team. Over the years, the body count from our successes had reached two
figures.
I found Grosjean
at the U-shaped booth in back, a Bud waiting for me. Just like old times. His forehead
creases were deeper, jowls longer, gut bigger, and the twinkle in his eyes had dimmed.
“Templeman, good
to see you,” he said. “You okay with a post-retirement assignment?”
I shrugged and sipped
my Bud.
“I need to teach
an up-and-comer a lesson. Thinks he’s hot shit. Doesn’t have to kiss my ass no
more.”
“Want me to rough
him up?” I sounded as dubious as I felt. Those days were long behind me. Anyone
with two functioning eyeballs could see that.
He gave me a familiar
look. “He’ll be an example for all those young pricks. Get my drift?”
“Loud and clear.”
If
Grosjean wanted the kid dispatched badly enough to call me in, his control over
the organization must have hit the skids.
“Double your usual
pay. You in?”
I nodded.
“Good. I know I can
trust you.” He wiped at a trickle of sweat rolling down the side of his cheek, passed
me a folded piece of paper, and motioned to a fat manila envelope on the table
between us. “Meet me here for the other half when it’s done.”
After he left. I
finished my beer, then stuck the note and envelope in my jacket pocket and split.
#
At my condo, I
read the note. Danny Hughes. I didn’t recognize the name. No reason I should, I
guess, but you never know. I packed a pee cup, a coffee thermos, binoculars, my
22-caliber revolver and suppressor, and took off.
In Hughes’s
neighborhood, people socialized while walking their dogs or pushing baby
carriages. Upscale, but nothing swank. I drove by the house, then parked my
rental car in the alley and ambled toward his tree-lined property. If anyone
noticed me, all they’d see is an old man carrying one of those chairs in a bag
people take to outdoor concerts. The trees provided me with privacy, and I’d
still be well within my 120-foot range.
What was the kid
thinking? No fence, no dogs, no security. The setup was a hitman’s wet dream.
A Mercedes SUV pulled
into the drive. Two rug rats scampered out of the house. “Daddy! Daddy!” Hughes
knelt and gave each a big hug. The wife, a petite little thing, waited for her
turn. He gave her a kiss, then patted her on the butt.
Unbidden, Laura’s
face flashed in front of me. A part of my past I thought had died years ago kicked
me in the gut. What the fuck? My hand shook on the binoculars, and I released
my hold on them, letting the neckband check their fall.
The family went
inside but soon reappeared on the patio with dinner fixings. A cookout. The
last one I’d attended, Chiggy Sanders’s head fell into the bowl of mustard
potato salad, my bullet lodged in his forehead.
My target was cooking
burgers. No idea that this would be his last meal—unless I plugged him before
he finished grilling. The aroma of mesquite and charcoal made my stomach gurgle.
I never eat before a job.
I popped a few
Tums. But it wasn’t hunger pangs for burgers I felt.
The kids and wife
went inside. Now was my chance. I pulled my gun out, screwed on the suppressor,
adjusted the scope, and aimed at the red dot on Hughes’s white polo shirt.
#
The following day I
met Grosjean. My beer and an envelope were waiting for me on the tabletop. I
pocketed the envelope. Our routine hadn’t changed.
But I had.
This time I walked
out with Grosjean as he was leaving. I waited until he got in his Porsche, then
motioned for him to roll down his window. I leaned over to speak. And ran an
icepick through his temple. Quick and easy.
Just like old
times.
I couldn’t kill a
young
husband and father so some fat-assed old gangster could call the shots for a
few more years. Not now.
In
my car, I wiped
down the icepick and tossed it in a residential trash can on my way to I-465.
Maybe I’d head south. Rent a little house on the beach in Pensacola. Fish, make
friends. Maybe, even, a woman friend. And try to create a semblance of the life
I was never able to have with Laura.
