BLACKBIRD

J.E.SEYMOUR


Kevin Markinson was sitting on an old leather couch in the dark-paneled den of his boss’s house, sipping at a shot of Jack Daniel’s. His leg throbbed, which meant he hadn’t had enough to drink yet. He was struggling to pay attention to the old man on the other side of the room.

“I need you to do a job for me.”

Kevin eyed his boss, waiting for him to continue. Vincent Marconi was mostly hidden behind a huge oak desk, the bulk of the leather chair swallowing his frail body. His once black hair was now mostly gray, cut short, sticking up. A custom-made pinstriped shirt hung loose on his frame and he wore a brightly-striped knitted cardigan to fight the cold, even though it was only early November, and not really all that cold in Bayside, Queens. The gold and yellow stripes of the handmade sweater made his skin appear even more sallow than it really was. He had never been a big man, but now he was almost small. It was as though he was slowly disappearing, digested by the furniture.

It bothered Kevin, sitting here with this man who wielded so much power, but looked like a twig. The very fact that he was sitting here, face to face with the man, was a reflection of the trust the older man placed in him. Marconi had sent everyone else out of the room, Kevin had watched them leave, watched the way they stared at him, not sure they trusted him, although he had worked here longer than most of them. He’d been hanging around this office for some twenty years now, ever since that day he’d tried to stick up one of Marconi’s protected corner stores with a pellet gun, after wandering over from his own Red Hook neighborhood.

He noted in particular the stare he got from Charles, Vincent’s son. That man glared at him as he walked past, obviously suspecting something. Kevin had no idea what it was the man thought, had no idea what he was supposed to be doing in here by himself. As a general rule, now that the elder Marconi was starting to hand over power to his son, Kevin would get his orders from Charles, not his father.

“I wanted to be alone with you because this is a very sensitive matter.” The old man’s voice was as weak as he looked. Every so often a stab of pain would go through his body, and he would wince.

Kevin would wince too, in sympathy. He knew what it was, the man had cancer, the disease eating him from the inside out. Kevin had seen the symptoms, had predicted the course of the disease even before the doctor had. Kevin understood pain, knew it in all its forms, recognized it in other people even as he tried to ignore it in himself. He took another sip of whiskey, brought his focus back to the other man, listening. He never took notes, he couldn’t take notes in his business. His memory was better than any notebook, even dulled by the constant diet of booze.

“I want you to kill me.  I’ll pay you your usual fee. I don’t care how you do it, but I don’t want to know about it, and I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want a car crash where I have to burn to death; I don’t know anything about poison, but that strikes me as a difficult way to do it.” Vincent was speaking rapidly now, the words tumbling out, as though he was afraid that if he paused he would not be able to start again. He wasn’t looking at the younger man, the man he was asking to commit murder for him. “I know how you usually do it, maybe that’s the best way, you know, find a rooftop, put a bullet in my head. Get away clean.”

Kevin looked down at his drink, wondering if this might be a hallucination, or maybe even a joke. Just in case, he thought it best to respond rationally. “You can’t ask me to do this. There are plenty of others who could do it, but I can’t. I won’t.”

“Part of our deal from the beginning, Duke, was that I wouldn’t ask you to do something I knew you couldn’t do. That’s why I’ve never asked you to whack kids, never asked you to take out anybody’s family. I know your rules, I know how you think.”

Kevin frowned at the nickname and focused on the words. The man had never asked anybody to do that sort of thing, it wasn’t in his universe. Business was in a separate compartment from family, you don’t touch anybody’s family. Now on the other hand, Kevin thought, Charles would go after families if he figured it would be effective. That was the biggest difference between Charles and his father.

The old man paused to take a breath. “I knew this would be hard for you, but I think if you consider it from my perspective, you’ll do this for me.” He did look at Kevin now, stared into his eyes. “You know what pain is, I know you do. You drink too much to not be in pain. Imagine being in so much pain that the booze doesn’t help. Imagine knowing that it will never get any better, only worse. Your doctor gives you the strongest medicine he can, even more than he is technically allowed to give, and it doesn’t do any good. I can’t ask him to do it, because he’s a doctor, and he won’t do it, you know him, he would never do that sort of thing. I thought about hoarding the pills, you know, and doing it myself, but I can’t do that. In the end I don’t have that kind of courage.”

“I really can’t.” He wasn’t sure he had ever said that to this man, had ever told him he couldn’t or wouldn’t do something for him. But the boss was right, he’d never asked him to do something he couldn’t do. They’d understood each other from the beginning, Marconi recognizing the sense of honor the younger man carried, his Marine attitude. Kevin got to his feet and began to pace, haltingly, limping. His leg hurt. But damned if he was going to use that cane.

“It’s a favor, Kevin.” The old man never called him Kevin, nobody ever called him called him Kevin except his wife, and Charles, who used the real name as a way of showing how much power he had. “Just think of it that way, as a kindness. You’ll be doing me a favor, letting me go out the way I want to, while I can still walk around, while I still have my faculties. I don’t want to die in a hospital, with a machine breathing for me.”

“It’ll bring war. You know that. If anybody takes you out, Charles will jump to conclusions and he’ll go after other people and before long…” Kevin let his voice trail off, imagining things that weren’t pretty.

“I’ll leave a note for Charles. I’ll let him know it was my choice.”

“You do that and he’ll come after me. He’ll have me whacked.” Now that would be interesting. Who would Charles choose to kill his top button man?

Vincent sighed, and Kevin knew he had finally gotten through to the man.

Kevin stopped pacing for a moment. “Listen, if you really want this, I think we can make it work, but you can’t tell Charles. We can make it look like an accident.”

“How?”

“Let me do my job, okay?” He was going to have to think about this. He looked at the empty glass in his hand, limped over to the sideboard, poured himself another whiskey.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll put the money in your account, and we won’t speak of it again. If you care about me, you’ll do this for me.”

“No. Cash only, in my hand tomorrow. You can’t tell anybody, you can’t use the bank, not any bank, not even my numbered account. I don’t want anybody tracing this back to me.” He was surprised that he was able to talk like this to the boss.

Vincent stood up now, nodded, came around the desk, offering his hand.

Kevin took it, surprised by the strength that was still there.  He turned to leave and stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be back here tomorrow morning and let you know what I need from you.”

“Thank you.”

Kevin just nodded. This was the hardest thing anyone had ever asked of him. He wasn’t sure he could do it. He was almost sure he couldn’t do it. This man was like a father to him, his son like a brother. Now he had to figure out how to kill this man, this substitute father. The man he cared a whole lot more about than his own father. In the end, he figured, he would simply substitute his own father for this man, feel as if he was killing his old man, instead of this old man. He was planning the hit even as he walked out of the office, mulling it over, trying to work out logistics.

The three bodyguards were sitting crowded on the couch in the outer room, lined up neatly, like chess pieces. None of them looked comfortable, they always looked out of place in a house, they belonged outdoors, standing guard, holding a rifle or a shotgun, not sitting here on this overstuffed couch in this paneled room. He set the glass on the small desk in the corner. The black-haired girl sitting behind the desk smiled up at him. He ignored her and walked on through the outer office. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Justin get to his feet. He resented the fact that anybody thought he needed a bodyguard, but he allowed the twenty-two-year-old to follow him, allowing himself to think of the kid as a driver, nothing else. The kid was too young and too soft to be a bodyguard, which was how he had ended up with this job. Kevin didn't need a bodyguard, but he did need a driver.

The kid passed him as they emerged from the big house, into the mid-day quiet of the suburban Bayside neighborhood. Kevin slipping on his sunglasses. “Where to, Boss?” The young man stood by Kevin’s Jaguar, one meaty paw on the door handle.

Kevin didn’t look at Justin. He really would have preferred to be on his own. It was safer to let Justin drive when he could though. Justin was smart enough not to be drunk when he was working. Kevin was always drunk now, maintaining, self-medicating. He’d admit that much to himself, that he was using the booze. Life was easier this way though, just going from job to job, never thinking about it. Always staying drunk enough to avoid thinking about it. He would sober up a little when he had to do a job, sober up enough to know what he was doing, enough to be able to take a shot. Despite the booze, he had never messed up, never hit something or someone he wasn’t supposed to, never missed a shot.

He refocused his attention on Justin. “I don’t know. Home I guess.”

The young man nodded and slipped in behind the wheel, grinning as he turned the key. He eased the little car out into traffic. Kevin shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, the Colt .45 digging into the small of his back.

“How you doing, boss?” Justin looked at him, turning his head at a red light.

Kevin could hear the concern in the young man’s voice. Justin had always been a good guy. “I’m okay.”

“You eating?”

Kevin wondered if Cindy had put him up to that.

“You look like you’re losing weight,” the kid pointed out.

Kevin looked down at his stomach, as if it had somehow betrayed him. He hadn’t been eating a lot, but he was eating every day. He wasn’t that far gone, not yet.

“You ever think about AA?”

“You calling me a drunk, Justin?”

“No sir, Boss, just well, you do drink a lot.”

“My wife tell you to talk to me?” Cindy had thrown him out over this, what, almost five months ago now?

“Well...” The kid was actually turning red. Justin’s downfall was going to be the fact that he couldn't tell a decent lie.

“Justin, if I do drink too much, it’s my problem, not yours, understand?”

“Yes sir.”

Don’t call me sir, Kevin fumed to himself. I’m just a sergeant. He didn’t say it. He’d said it too many times already, he’d worn it out.

The houses changed from single-family to multi-family to old apartment buildings and Justin pulled the little car to the curb in front of Kevin’s residence, just another brick building in a block of brick apartment buildings. Kevin got out and leaned over. “Where’re you going to be?”

“Back at the house. Give me a call there if you need me, okay?“

“Yeah. If you don’t hear from me, pick me up at ten tomorrow morning, okay?” Kevin watched Justin drive off, angry that the same somebody who had decided he needed Justin had also decided he couldn’t drive his own car.

He climbed the stairs slowly, leaning on the railing, hating the way his leg felt. He paused on the landing just outside his floor, listening, looking for anything out of place. Three years on the run now, forced to live like a hermit, always looking over his shoulder. He hated it, but he preferred it to going back to prison. There was silence from the far side of the door and he pushed it open, one hand on the Colt .45 in the waistband at the small of his back. The hallway was clear and he felt the rush of air, hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. He used three keys to let himself into his apartment, locked the door behind him and limped straight to the tiny kitchen. He grabbed a fifth of good Tennessee whiskey and took it to the ratty couch in the living room, sat down and caught a glimpse of the picture on the coffee table. He blinked as he looked at it, focusing on the image of his wife and two boys.

Looking at that brought pain that was worse than his leg. He opened the bottle and took a long swig, then stared into Cindy’s green eyes. She was older than he was by a couple of years, but beautiful, gorgeous, her hair still black, even at nearly forty. He could almost hear her as he drank, telling him to straighten up or get out. He’d chosen the easier option.

The boys looked more like him than her, especially the older one, Andy. That little boy stared at the camera with the same blue-gray eyes as his father, without a smile, his blond hair too long and falling into his face. Kevin absentmindedly tucked a stray strand of his own long blond hair back behind an ear and focused on the younger boy, Michael. He’d turned two last month. His hair was brown, his eyes were a softer blue, not as cold, and he wore a big grin in this photo.

Kevin reached for the picture, held it in his hand for a moment and then laid it face down on the formica surface of the cheap table. He didn’t need to think of her right now, didn’t need everything that came with those thoughts, the ache that brought to his chest. He took another swig of Jack Daniel’s, then dug out a pack of Camels and his Zippo and indulged in yet another bad habit, another thing Cindy hated.

The phone rang and he jumped, then leaned over and grabbed it.

“Yeah?”

“Kevin.”

“What can I do for you, Charles?”

“I need to see you.”

“Send Justin.”

“Nope, not here. Can I come there?”

Kevin looked around the messy rooms that made up his tiny flat. Charles had never been here. He couldn’t even begin to imagine why Charles would want to come here. “Is it business?”

“No. It’s personal.”

“What?”

“I need to discuss something with you.”

This could only be bad. “Okay. If you really want to come here. Get Justin to give you directions.”

“Right.”

Kevin hung the phone up and stared at it, willing it to disappear, to quit causing him so much trouble. Then he got to his feet and took another long swig from the bottle as he walked over and set it on the kitchen counter. Picked up the bottle again and took one more long gulp. Turned back to the living room, trying to figure out what he needed to do to clean up, when the doorbell rang. It took him a minute to figure out that that was what it was. Nobody had ever rung the doorbell here. Justin had a key. And how the hell had they gotten here so fast? Chunks of time seemed to disappear lately, when he wasn’t paying attention.

Charles Marconi walked in like he owned the place, which he did, this place and a lot of other places like it scattered all over Queens. His bodyguard, Manny, was on his heels, towering over him. Manny grinned at Kevin and headed straight for the couch. That created a seating problem, because Manny was so big he took up the entire couch, or at least the vast majority of it. Kevin had no desire to sit next to Manny, so he grabbed a wooden chair from next to the dining table. He remained on his feet though, waiting for his boss to sit first.

“I want to know what you’re up to,” Charles said, walking around the room. He picked up the photograph, glanced at Kevin, then set the picture down upright.

Kevin looked over at Manny, who showed a mouthful of yellow teeth.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You were in there with my father for twenty minutes. You weren’t discussing the weather.” Charles cast a glance at Manny, then at the chair beside Kevin.

“Here.” Kevin backed away from the chair and perched on the edge of the scarred table as Charles sat down, smoothing his pants, straightening his tie. Kevin brushed some cigarette ashes off his jeans, then looked over at Manny again, who was holding the picture now, still grinning.

“Okay. So what does my father want from you?”

“Nothing. He just told me to cut back on my drinking.”

Charles frowned. “He lectured you for twenty minutes on your drinking?”

“He seems to think I have a problem.” Kevin eyed Manny again, who was turning the photo around in his massive hands.

“I think you have a problem, but I wouldn’t waste twenty minutes of my time trying to talk to you about it. You’re hopeless.”

“Nice kids,” put in Manny.

“Shut up,” Kevin growled. He crossed the small room and yanked the picture away from the big bald man.

“Sensitive, are we?”

“Manny, leave him alone.” Charles turned to Kevin again. “You know my father is sick.”

“Yes sir.”

“He’s trying to tidy up loose ends before he dies. I think he’s using you to do that, and I want to know what you’re doing, because I have a few ideas of my own about what needs to be done and I don’t want you messing that up. Do you understand?”

Kevin understood perfectly, but he knew that Charles had no idea what was going on. “It doesn’t concern you.”

Charles turned red.

Even though it would have been entirely out of character for him, Kevin was almost sure Charles was going to start sputtering, was going to jump out of his chair and scream, was going to have some kind of temper tantrum. But he didn’t. Instead he got calmly to his feet, entirely in character for him, the man who never had a hair out of place. Kevin noticed that Manny got to his feet too, that Manny was cracking his knuckles and still grinning.

“Don’t push me, Kevin. I know you too well. You’re like my brother, but you’re not my brother, you understand the difference?”

Kevin understood that too.

Charles walked to the coffee table, picked up the photograph and abruptly changed the subject. “How is she doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s not talking to you, is she?” It was more of a statement than a question. “She threw you out, and now she won’t even talk to you. Did she file for divorce yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe my father did talk to you about your drinking. You had a blackout lately?”

“No.” That wasn’t really a lie. He couldn’t recall having a blackout lately.

“You’re smarter than this, Kevin.” Softer now, less of a boss, more of a brother.

Kevin didn’t think he was supposed to answer that.

Charles sighed. “We’re going away this weekend, my parents, Marie and Vinnie, and me. I’ll talk to you again next week. As I said, I have some ideas, things I want done, loose ends to wrap up.”

“Your father is still in charge.”

Charles put the photograph down and whirled around to face the younger man. “That’s right. But he’s dying and I’m going to be in charge when he’s gone.” The boss was back.

Kevin shrugged, resisted the urge to step away. “You trying to take over early?”

“I wouldn’t call it taking over. My father wants me to assume more responsibilities.” Charles narrowed his eyes. “It might be time to show some loyalty.”

“You know I’ve always been loyal.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way then, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“We’ll talk again.”

“Yes sir.”

“Come on Manny, let’s go. I don’t want to be late for lunch.”

Manny smirked. “I know how Leila hates it when you’re late.”

“Shut up Manny,” said Charles.

Kevin watched them leave, locked the door behind them and sat down with his bottle of booze again. Going away for the weekend meant they’d be up in Massachusetts, at the vacation house in the Berkshires. He wondered briefly if it was hunting season up there yet. Maybe something could be arranged. He’d been up there a couple of times. The Marconis owned an old dairy farm, gone mostly to pine woods now, a couple of hundred acres of land in a remote section of southern Berkshire county, bordering some State-owned land.

He sat with Vincent in the office again the next morning, with a pounding head and dry mouth, trying to keep from helping himself to a glass of whiskey. “Charles said you’re going up to Massachusetts this weekend.”

“That’s right. The doctor doesn’t think I’ll be well enough to travel up there for Thanksgiving, so we’re going to make an early holiday of it.”

Kevin hadn’t realized how far gone the man was. “You’re that bad?”

“Yes.” The old man leaned back in his chair, staring into space. “My wife is already talking about nursing home arrangements.”

Kevin sighed. He didn’t feel ready for this yet. “I don’t suppose you’re strong enough to go for a walk in the woods while you’re up there?”

“I might be able to manage that.”

“Without John.”

The old man nodded. John was Justin’s father, Vincent’s bodyguard, a big man, quick on his feet and an awfully good shot. “I understand.”

“I’d prefer that you be alone, but if you can’t be alone, take somebody like your wife.”

Vincent nodded again.

“Charles can’t know I did this, you get that? He’ll kill me.”

“I know. Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anybody. Do you need me to do anything for you?”

“No. I’m going up today to scout out the woods. I’ll let you know where I want you to be. Understood?”

“Yes.” The old man got to his feet. “I know how hard this is for you, Kevin. I appreciate it.”

Kevin nodded and licked his lips as he got to his feet. He reached for the man’s hand, and nearly jumped back as the shorter man grabbed him in a bear hug.

“Take care of yourself Kevin. Back off on the booze, okay?”

Kevin backed up a step. That was an order he didn’t want to obey. Not right this moment. “I’ve got to go.”

“Right.”

Kevin walked out the door without helping himself to any of the Jack Daniel’s on the sideboard. He caught Justin’s eye and the youngster leapt to his feet and followed.

He briefly considered using Justin to help him out on this job, but discarded the idea almost as soon as it came into his head.

“What can I do for you, Boss?”

“Just drive me home, Justin.”

“Yes sir.”

Kevin swallowed his tongue.

* * *

He sat on the couch in his apartment and thought about what he needed, what he would do, how he would do it. He had a rifle in the basement storage area, tucked in behind some boxes, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to use it. It was a good weapon, his favorite, a Remington 700 in .308 with a variable Leupold scope on it. If he used that gun though, it was almost the same as leaving his fingerprints at the scene. That was his weapon of choice, everybody knew that, especially Charles. He wasn’t going to go so far as to get in close, use a handgun in the classic wiseguy style, not something like that, but he could choose a different rifle, maybe a different caliber, something bigger perhaps. Bigger would give him longer distance capabilities. But he’d memorized the windage and drop for this caliber, not for anything bigger, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to relearn everything he knew in the next two days while trying to get used to a new weapon. There’d be an autopsy and all that went with it, nobody was going to let a shooting slip by, regardless of who it was that got shot. Still, if he was close enough the bullet might go right on through, and in the woods, the chances of them finding it would be pretty remote. If he wanted it to go through, he’d have to go with a full metal jacket, rather than the hollow-points he usually used. He let his brain run, going over the details. Next thing he needed was to get up there, check out the terrain. He didn’t think there was anybody there, just a housekeeper who came in once a week or so to check on the place. He’d been up there once before, with Cindy, on a weekend with Charles and Marie. It had been awkward and he didn’t remember all that much about the place.

He did remember how to get there. Straight up the Taconic State Parkway, cut into Mass on the pike. He’d rent a car just in case anyone saw him up there. He didn’t want anyone to know what was going on. It would have been so much easier to use Justin for help, to let Justin do the driving, to get some paper from Justin. He resisted the urge to drink. He was becoming physically sick though, with the headache that he knew preceded the shakes. He finally allowed himself half a tumbler full of whiskey, which settled his shaking hands.

He drove up that afternoon, stopped at a grocery store to buy a decent map and found his way to the little town where the farm was located. He scoured the map for back roads and managed to find what he thought might be an old trail running through the property. It turned out to be too rustic to use the rented Ford. That meant walking. He drove back along the main road to the driveway, scouting out the distances. He knew that Vincent wasn’t going to be able to walk too far. He’d be lucky if he could walk in far enough himself to get off a good shot. The thought of the pain that would cause in his leg, throbbing even now, made him want more whiskey. He took a sip out of the bottle in the brown paper bag on the seat and turned the car back towards the city.

He called Vincent on Friday, told him to walk out in the pine woods to the east of the house, towards the State forest. The old man agreed to be there Saturday afternoon. Kevin bought a box of .308 full metal jacket shells at a sporting-goods store in New Jersey. He loaded the rifle into the Ford and headed up the parkway.

When he got to the trail he pulled the car off the road as best he could. There wasn’t a lot of traffic, not that it mattered. Anybody noticing the car would assume that it was hunters. Pulling on a blaze orange vest for effect, he unpacked the weapon, loaded the five bullets and walked into the woods, going as fast as he could, even though he was a couple of hours early. He settled himself on a rise overlooking the old road leading out from the barn. The barn itself had been converted into some sort of studio, all closed in and heated, the south wall a mass of windows. He was far enough away from the house and the barn to feel comfortable about his escape. Gunshots in the woods in the fall weren’t something unusual, it wouldn’t be hard to walk away.

Kevin settled himself on the ground to wait, resisting the urge to smoke. Chewing tobacco, that’s what he needed. That’s what he used to use, back when he was doing this for real, when he’d be lying on his belly in the jungle, watching and waiting. Not that this wasn’t real. He struggled with the thoughts, the feelings he had for this man. The Marconis had given him a job when nobody else would, when Veteran was a dirty word.

He watched the road without thinking about it, just waiting and watching, letting his mind run.

When Vincent Marconi stepped into view Kevin raised the rifle, snugged the strap around his arm, pulled the butt into his shoulder, settled the stock across his knees. He’d picked out this spot for the range, it was only about two hundred yards to the spot where his boss had just appeared. He kept this weapon zeroed at that distance, it was a comfortable shot, still leaving plenty of escape time. He found the target in the scope, recognizing the change in his mind, that wasn’t his boss anymore, it wasn’t Vincent Marconi, who had kept him fed and happy for close to twenty years. Kevin could feel sweat on his forehead. He watched the man move slowly down the path, looking around, obviously nervous. His target knew he was here. Not that it mattered. All he had to do was take up a pound and a half of pressure on the trigger and the bullet would take care of the rest. The target stopped, turned his head in the direction of the sniper sitting in the woods.

Kevin lowered the rifle. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take the shot. He’d known right along he wouldn’t be able to. Shouldn’t have wasted his time trying. He got slowly to his feet, tucked the rifle under his arm, letting it point at the ground, and walked down the slope towards the farm road. Vincent looked up at him as he approached.

“Kevin.” The old man glanced at the rifle.

“I can’t do it.”

“I understand.” He looked down the road towards the big barn in the clearing. “Come down to the barn with me.”

“Is Charles around?”

“Not out there. He’s in the house. I told them all I was going out to take a nap in the barn.”

Kevin nodded, unloaded the rifle and set it down by the side of the road, then walked slowly beside the old man.

“I remember when I first met you. You thought you were so tough.”

“I was an idiot.”

Vincent laughed, the first time in a long time Kevin had heard the man laugh. “You were, what, sixteen, seventeen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Out to rule the world.”

“I was living on the street. Holding up corner stores was a step up.”

They arrived at the big building and Kevin opened the door for the man who’d taken him off the streets, given him a job, a place to live. They sat down in the big room, vaulted ceiling, exposed beams, leather furniture.

“Kevin, would you turn up the heat?”

“Sure.” He walked to the heater, a wall mounted propane-fired unit and studied it.

“You need to straighten up, Kevin. You drink too much.”

Kevin wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“You won’t do it for anybody else, but you ought to do it for yourself.”

“Yes sir.”

“You don’t like doing what you do, am I right? That’s why you drink. You should quit.”

“Quit which?”

“Get out of this life.” He paused. “Quit drinking too.” Vincent cleared his throat. “When I hired you back, after you got home, I knew you were different. They taught you a skill, but it wasn’t something you enjoyed. I wouldn’t have you working for me if I thought it was something you enjoyed. I don’t like people like that.”

Kevin nodded and turned the heater on. It kicked in with a loud roar.

“You hate yourself. If I had known what it was going to do to you, working for me, doing what you do, I wouldn’t have asked you to do it. Charles said you’d be good at it, I figured you must have learned how to deal with it over there in the jungle.”

Kevin turned away from the heater for a moment. “I thought I could deal with it.”

“But you can’t.”

Kevin shrugged.

“Promise me something.”

“What?”

“You’ll quit. You’ll stop drinking and you’ll tell Charles you can’t do this anymore. No more hits.”

Kevin thought about all that entailed. He wasn’t sure it was possible. He turned back towards the heater without answering.

The old man let out a heavy sigh. “I guess I really do need to take a nap. I’ll see you sometime, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin said it softly, without looking at the man, studying the warning labels on the heater. “I’ll see you around.”

* * *

The phone rang early Monday morning. Kevin, sprawled on the couch, barely heard it through the alcoholic haze. It rang six times before he answered it. “Yeah?”

“Kevin.”

“Charles.”

“My father died this weekend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused, bringing himself to the surface, focusing on the bottle on the coffee table. “What happened?”

“The propane heating system in the barn malfunctioned. The vent was clogged up with a bird’s nest. Nobody had serviced it since we used it last winter. Carbon monoxide built up in the studio. He was out there taking a nap when he died.”

Kevin knew exactly how the man died. Peacefully, in his sleep. In control to the end. An old bird’s nest on the ground had let him do what he couldn’t do with his rifle. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Sure. We’re still making the funeral arrangements.”

“Okay.” Kevin hung up the phone, turned the picture of his wife face down, lifted the whiskey in a toast to his dead boss, then raised the bottle to his lips.