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.