The Meat-cutter's Wife

by Frank Zafiro

“Do you know what you're asking me?”

We were sitting in the office of my restaurant. Well, it wasn't exactly my restaurant, but I owned a nice piece of it and talked the majority owner into naming it “Angelo's” after my uncle back in New Jersey . I kept a small office off the kitchen. It was a good place to do business.

Pete swallowed hard and bobbed his head up and down a few times.

I pushed out a long stream of smoke. “Really? Because I'm not so sure. It sounds to me like you just asked to have a cop whacked.”

Pete swallowed again and nodded. “Yeah.”

“A cop, Pete? Why?”

Pete shook his head. “It doesn't matter.”

I took a deep drag on my cigarette and regarded him for a moment. Pete was a civilian, a regular guy who worked cutting meat at Safeway. He did a little gambling on occasion and I took his action, but he was strictly small time. The only reason I even bothered with him was because he consistently lost. Besides, it never hurts to have a contact in the meat-cutters union.

My silence made him even more nervous than he'd been when he came into my office in the first place. He fidgeted in his seat, bit his lip, then twisted the wedding ring on his finger. I figured he'd be the one to break the silence with an explanation. Silence is a powerful tool in conversation.

After a long minute, I put out my cigarette and leaned forward, surprised by him holding his tongue. “C'mere,” I said with a wave of my hand.

Pete leaned in. Sweat collected around his mouth and as he drew closer, I could smell the coffee on his breath. His eyes met mine and darted away.

“Listen, Pete,” I said, “one thing you should know. If I ask you a fuckin' question, it goddamn well does matter. You hear what I'm saying?”

Pete's eyes widened and froze.

“This ain't no twenty bucks on the Seahawks we're talking about here,” I said, my voice low. “This is kind of like, oh I don't know…betting your life on something.”

Pete's breath caught and then quickened, but he still didn't say anything.

“Cuz that is what you're risking here, something goes wrong. Life in prison, Pete. Some big moolie driving hisself up your backside every day for forty years. You get me?”

He nodded.

“And that's probably a best-case scenario if things go wrong,” I added.

Still, Pete didn't say a word. I got to thinking maybe he knew a thing or two about silence himself, this meat-cutter.

Back in New Jersey , Pete's behavior would be recognized for what it was, which was disrespect. But since my uncle Angelo sent me out to the Pacific Northwest , I've had to adapt. For instance, the bikers and the blacks were in charge of the prostitutes and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to move in on that. I managed to get a small piece of the dope trade, but nothing spectacular. Gambling was where I made my living and even there the Internet and Indian casinos were killing me. Now that the state has legalized card joints, I've had to make some huge adjustments.

Besides, I realized Pete wasn't being intentionally disrespectful. He was just ignorant. And here in River City , the culture that understood this thing of ours just didn't exist. I don't want my fucking ring kissed, but sitting in my office with a closed maw when I ask a question isn't my idea of respect. At least he had a scared look on his face. That was something.

“You can answer my question any time, Pete,” I said and leaned back in my chair.

Pete remained leaning forward, perched on the edge of his seat. Then he swallowed again and leaned back a little himself. “I need a problem to go away,” he said quietly.

“And killing the cop is the only way to make that happen?” I raised my eyebrows and turned my palms up. “Huh?”

He paused briefly, then nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

“You think so?” I shook my head at him. “Listen, if you've got some legal troubles, I can help you. I know some good lawyers, better even than Joel Harrity and not as stuck on all the fucking rules. Besides that, the juries out here are easy to work on—”

“It's not legal trouble,” Pete said.

“Then what is it?”

Pete pressed his lips together, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally, he said, “He's sleeping with my wife.”

His voice broke at the final word and he hung his head. After a moment, his shoulders bunched and shuddered and I realized he was crying silently right there in my office.

I almost felt sorry for the guy for a moment or two. Here he was, cutting his little steaks and grinding his hamburger day in and day out, dropping fifty or a hundred bucks a weekend on bad picks, but basically taking care of his wife. He seemed like a decent enough guy and now this fucking cooz was stepping out on him. With a cop, no less.

I sighed and reached for another cigarette. With a flick of my wrist, I shook one free and lit it. All the while, Pete sat in his chair and wept without a sound.

After allowing him a minute or two, I asked, “Why don't you whack the cunt instead?”

His head jerked up and he looked at me in shock and surprise. “Wh-what did you say?”

“She's the one stepping out on you,” I said. “If anyone needs to get clipped, it's her.”

“I…I can't…”

“Then just divorce her, Pete.” I took a deep drag and let it out, sending a large cloud of smoke billowing toward him. “Christ, man, it's only trim. There's plenty more out there. You two got no kids. Just dump her.”

He shook his head. Sorrow was in his eyes, but I saw something else creeping into them, too. Something that surprised me a little. Anger.

“I love her,” he said through gritted teeth. His voice was thick from the crying. “And what he's doing isn't right.”

He was right about that one. She was his woman and some guy was moving in on his territory. He had every reason to want to defend it. Hell, maybe that was what she wanted. To see him fight for her. A lot of bitches were that way.

“Fine,” I said. “But this isn't something you just do on a whim.” At least not here in River City , I thought. It's too quiet.

“I've thought this through,” Pete said quietly.

“Really? For how long has this been going on, this cop and your wife?”

“Three months.”

I was drawing in smoke when he said that and I stopped mid-breath. “Three months? Why'd you wait so long to deal with it?”

“I had to be sure.”

“And now you are?”

He nodded.

“You caught them?”

“Not me. But someone I hired.”

“You hired a P.I.?”

He nodded again.

“And what did that cost?”

“A grand.”

“Yeah? What'd that buy you?”

He swallowed and looked away.

“Pictures?” I asked. “He get some pictures?”

“Yeah.”

“Video?”

Pete nodded wordlessly. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a DVD in a black thin case. He hesitated, then slid it across the desk to me.

“Jesus, Pete, I don't want it.”

“I…I can't watch it. But I need to know what's on it.”

“You know what's on it,” I said. “Otherwise, the P.I. wouldn't have given it to you.”

“Please.”

I sighed. Then I took the disc and put it in my desk drawer.

Thank you,” he whispered.

I nodded and took another drag from my cigarette. We sat in silence for a bit. I smoked the last of my cigarette and he stared at the front of my desk. I don't know what he saw in the wood grain. Maybe he was imagining what was on the disc.

Finally, I asked him, “Why don't you just go find this cop and kick his ass?”

“I can't do that,” he said. “He's a cop.”

I laughed. “You can't kick his ass, but you can have him whacked. Nice.”

Pete turned red, but said nothing.

I stubbed out my cigarette and grabbed a pencil and notepad. “Relax, Pete. I'm just bustin' your balls here.”

He didn't reply, but I could tell he wasn't feeling the humor. That was probably a good thing. Whacking somebody was serious business. Whacking a cop was beyond serious. Truth be told, it was actually kind of stupid and I wasn't sure I was even going to do it.

“What's the cop's name?” I asked him.

Pete pulled a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket and held it out toward me. I didn't reach for it.

“Open it up and lay it on the desk,” I said.

Pete looked confused, but he did as I asked. Once the paper was flat on the desk, he smoothed out the folds and turned it around so I could see it.

The cop's picture was in the center of the page, showing him in his uniform from the waist up. He was thick-bodied, with ruddy skin and dark hair streaked with gray. A confident stare beamed out from the photo at me.

Definitely one who plays the ladies , I thought.

I checked out his name underneath the photo. “Officer James Kahn,” it read.

“Heh,” I laughed. “Just like the actor.”

“Huh?”

“The actor. James Caan.”

Pete shook his head slowly, confused.

“He played Santino Corleone in The Godfather . You know, Sonny the hothead son?”

Pete gave me a blank look.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Sonny was the one that got whacked at the toll booth. They shot him up with Tommy guns. It was a great scene. Fucking tragic, but great.”

“I never saw the movie,” Pete said.

I shrugged. “All right. It doesn't matter. Where'd you get this picture?”

“The River City PD official website.”

“You downloaded this picture on your home computer?”

“No,” he said. “I'm not stupid. I went to the library and used the free terminal. It only costs a quarter to print off a color page.”

“The library has free computers?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Anyone see you make this?”

He shook his head. “The computer just sends a signal to the reference desk saying how many copies you made.”

“How many'd you make?”

“Only the one,” he said. “And I paid cash for it.”

  Aren't you just a savvy motherfucker, I thought.

“You sure about this?” I asked him, pointing at the picture on my desk.

Pete nodded, his jaw set. “Positive. I want that fucker dead.”

I sighed again. “If you feel that strongly about it,” I suggested, “why don't you just take a few of your carving knives and go visit him some night?”

Pete didn't answer. He looked away from me, back down to the wood grain of the front of my desk. He didn't need to say anything, though. I knew the answer. He wanted the cop dead, but he didn't want it to change his life. He didn't want the blood on his hands. That's why he came to me. That's what he was really paying for. A little distance to salve his conscience.

“Okay, Pete,” I said. “I'll think about it. But it will be expensive. You got that kind of cash?”

“I've got forty-six thousand in my retirement fund right now,” he said, guileless. “I can pull it out to pay for it.”

“What about your retirement?”

He shrugged. “I'll build it back up. I've got another twenty years to go.”

I sniffed and rubbed my nose. “You'll take hit for early withdrawal, won't you?”

“I'll have to pay taxes on it,” he said. “Even if I put it back later.”

“So you'll net what? Thirty-five?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe a little less.”

I thought about reaching for another cigarette, but didn't. Times were tough here in River City . My uncle Angelo probably cleared a mill or a mill two a year back in New Jersey . I was lucky to break a hundred thousand a year here in Washington . I got to thinking this little job wasn't so little after all. I might even have to kick a taste up to Uncle Angelo on it.

I stood up and walked around my desk. “C'mere,” I motioned to him. He stood up, the look on his face questioning and a little fearful. I drew him into an embrace and gave him a few hard slaps on the back. Meanwhile, I checked him for a wire. I doubted he was in league with the Feds or the local cops, but you can never be too careful.

Once I was sure was clean, I smiled at him. “For you, Pete, I'll do this. But it will cost you thirty large. In advance.”

Pete didn't hesitate. He nodded his agreement and held out his hand. “Thank you, Dom.”

I took his hand and he shook it, clasping our handshake with his free hand.

“Thank you,” he repeated.

I stepped back and patted his cheek roughly. “Just bring the money, Pete. I'll take care of the rest.”

***

“What for you want this papers?” Val asked me.

The small Russian coffee shop was mostly empty. Val and I sat in the corner and all of the tables around us were empty. I wasn't certain, but I was pretty sure Val owned a good stake in the place. It made sense. Coffee in the Pacific Northwest was bigger than cigarettes.

“That's my business, Val,” I said, sipping the strong brew from a small espresso cup. “Can you get them?”

Valeriy Romanov shrugged. I called him Val, because whenever I tried to say his full name, it always came out like the woman's name, Valerie. I know it's supposed to be pronounced vuh-LAIR-ey, but whenever it comes time to say it, I fuck it up. So I just call him Val.

“Of course I can,” he said, grinning wolfishly. “Anything inside that building, probably I can get.”

Val and his crew had been at work in River City since the mid or late 90s, about the same time Uncle Angelo shipped me out west. We'd spent a year or two avoiding each other, then a few months of cautious sparring before we figured out we could just as easily be allies.

The Russians were a hard crew, but they didn't get emotional. For them, it was all business. Val's predecessor, Sergey, had killed a cop back in '97 and got himself killed in return. But the crew survived because of the business.

“The stuff might be in the garbage,” I told him. “It's not high security info. But if it's not in the trash, they might have to get it out of a shred bin or off a computer.”

“Garbage? That work good.”

I knew he had a cousin or something that ran a janitorial service. This cousin of his had the contract to clean the police station every night. He played it mostly straight, but the place was a gold mine for information. I also knew it would cost me. Cleaning the police station was a large contract, as government contracts tend to be, and his cousin didn't like Val going to the well very often.

“How much do you want?” I asked.

He waved his hand. “Let's see if I can get it. Then we talk money, okay?”

I drained the last of my harsh Russian coffee and stood up. We shook hands and I left.

***

Back at Angelo's, Isaac was hooking up a new DVD player in my office.

“You'll love this, boss,” the twenty-year-old kid said. “It's got progressive scan.”

I shrugged. “What's that?”

He looked at me like I was retarded.

“Don't give me that fucking look,” I told him. “I'm running fucking businesses here. I ain't got time to be some kind of mechanical whiz kid.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “No look, no look.” He went back to connecting the wires.

When he was done, he handed me an envelope. I opened it and quickly counted the bills inside.

“Fat week,” I commented.

Isaac nodded his head absently and used his fingertips to check that his hair was still perfectly gelled into place.

“You're still beautiful,” I told him. “You vain fuck. Get out of here.”

He smiled at me. “I'll let you know how that thing goes tonight.”

“The casino thing?”

“Nah,” he said. “The thing out in the Valley.”

He meant dumping some electronics from a Circuit City truck he and Joe Bassen hijacked a month ago up on Highway 395. In fact, I realized, that was probably where the new DVD player came from.

“Be careful on that,” I told him. “It's been a while, but not that long.”

“It's cool,” Isaac said and left.

I watched him go. The kid may not have been paisan and he may have been one vain motherfucker, but he did good work.

I took Pete's DVD out of the drawer and put it in the DVD player. The video began without any preamble.

The recording was surprisingly well done for the most part. The P.I. got a number of shots of Officer Kahn and Pete's wife at dinner. I could see why the cop was interested. The woman was a looker.

After dinner, there was a change of scene. It was a little darker out and the P.I. was parked across the street from the Las Playas motel. He zoomed the camera in on the motel sign, then zoomed out and panned over to the cop and Pete's wife going into a room together.

Another break, and the P.I. was right next to the same door they'd gone it. Room number 6. The camera microphone was picking up the faint sounds of heavy breathing and a few moans. Then the lens found a crack beneath the Venetian blinds and zoomed into the room. Suddenly her face took up the full screen, eyes closed and moaning. The camera panned up to his shoulder, then down the length of their bodies as he thrust into her and she dug her heels into his ass.

“Hey, what are you doing!” came a sharp voice from off-camera.

The picture trembled, swayed, dropped to the ground and then shut off.

I pushed stop and ejected the disc. I thought about keeping it in case things went south with Pete, but I realized it would do me more harm than good. I lit my lighter and melted the disc over the top of my garbage pail.

Pete I thought, you were right. You didn't want to see this.

***

Two days later, Val called and asked me to meet him near Joe Albi stadium. The stadium was closed, but the huge parking area was open. True to form, it was an unpaved field with trampled down weeds, gravel and dirt. A few paved lanes crisscrossed throughout the field, but all of the parking stalls were in the dirt. Not exactly Giants stadium.

Val was already there when I arrived, sitting in his black Lexus, smoking his thin French cigarettes and listening to heavy metal. He turned the music down when I pulled up next to him. Wordlessly, he handed an envelope out the window.

I took it and opened it up. The paper was folded in thirds. It had obviously been crumpled into a ball at some time and then smoothed back out before it was folded. It didn't matter. I could read what was printed on it just fine.

“Is right?” Val asked.

I nodded. It was. All of the uniform patrol assignments were there, listing the officers, their districts, the shift and days off. A few had letters next to their names and a few were lined out. The date on the bottom of the page was yesterday's date.

“It's exactly what I wanted,” I told him.

“Good.”

I took a moment and found James Kahn's name. The mark-up showed him working on the north side, graveyard shift. He had Fridays and Saturdays off. That made sense, if he liked to play the ladies.

“I need one hundred fifty,” Val said. “My cousin say his man have to break into shred bin for this.”

I pulled my cash out of my pocket and peeled off three fifties. “Your cousin is full of shit,” I said, handing him the money.

“Why for you say that?”

“The sheet of paper was balled up and thrown away,” I told him. “People don't do that to papers they plan on shredding. They do that to papers they plan on throwing in the trash.”

Valeriy shrugged. “Maybe so. But one hundred fifty is fair money, no?”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Thanks.”

Valeriy gave me an icy smile, showing his yellow teeth. “Always. You need something more, you just call. Okay?”

The Lexus spun its tires on the loose dirt and gravel, before finding purchase on the strip of asphalt that passed for a lane of road. I watched as he drove away.

“I might just do that,” I muttered.

***

The next day, Pete brought a package to my office.

I embraced him again, did some back clapping and wire-checking, then motioned for him to sit down.

“Thirty,” he said, handing me the thick manila envelope.

I took the money and put it in my drawer. I'd count it later, but for now I put on a show that I trusted him completely. Besides, he'd always made good on his gambling debts, so I suppose he was honest for the most part.

“You sure you want to go through with this?” I asked him again, even though if he backed out now, I'd hit him for five grand just for wasting my time. “Once you leave here, there's no going back.”

“I'm sure.”

“Your call,” I said and walked him out.

***

Once I had the thirty grand sitting in my safe, I started giving things some careful consideration. The problem I ran into was that I didn't want to risk having this thing come back to me or anyone on my crew. I wasn't exactly raking it in over here in the Pacific Northwest when compared to back East, but life wasn't so bad. And the air was clean, too. I didn't want to fuck all that up by bringing unwanted attention from the cops. Besides, I'd never get called back to Jersey by Uncle Angelo if I couldn't handle things out here in Hicksville .

In the end, I kept coming back to Val. I knew he was hard-core and could do it. Isaac probably could, too, but then he'd most likely have to lam it and then I'd lose my best worker.

Using the Russians would put another layer between me and the job itself. The downside was, I'd have to pay them. I just hoped they worked cheap.

***

I'd expected Val to be surprised or shocked when I floated the idea past him the next day. But he just sipped his Russian coffee and nodded his head.

“What?” I said. “This isn't a big deal to you?”

“Oh, yes,” he told me. “Is big deal, but only if I take the job.”

“You don't want it?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Business is good. We mostly do our work with the cars now. Not so much the violence, you know?”

“I know. It's the new fucking Millennium.”

He smiled. “Exactly.”

“A kinder, gentler world,” I said.

“Maybe not so gentle.” He took a sip of his coffee and sighed. “But things go easier that way, no?”

“Well, if you don't want the job, I'll take it to the niggers.”

Val scowled. “You will save money there, da . But you pay in the long run when some stupid cherniy makes a mess of things.”

He was right. I was bluffing. Some things haven't changed since New Jersey . I'd never trust blacks with anything important.

Val sighed. “Is just very dangerous, you see? Too much attention. Bad for business.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. That is why you are here, trying to hire me.” His tone wasn't harsh, but he didn't smile either.

I tried a little flattery. “I just figured since you guys handled that thing before that you might be up for this one.”

“That was very bad for business. Only thing worse was to not do it. Not show the cops that we do what we want here.”

“That Sergey had some balls,” I said, trying to shmooze Val a little. “Clipping a cop and all.”

The Russian snorted. “Sergey no kill anyone.”

“But I thought—“

“When he die from cop's bullets, it make good sense to put the gun in his hands.” Val watched me closely as he spoke. “Who cares if he is convicted of murder? Sergey doesn't care. He is dead. See?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Smart.”

He shook his head. “No. Stupid. It take a year to get the heat off us.”

“What if there wasn't any heat?”

He paused, looking at me. We both took the moment to light up, me sharing my Camels with him. After the first deep inhale and a breath out, he asked, “How?”

“What if this friend of ours died by accident?”

“Accident?”

“Yeah.”

“You want for me to push him down from ladder? What you mean, accident?”

“If he was a painter, I'd say a fall from a ladder would be right.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “But this guy's not a painter. He's apt to have a different kind of accident, don't you think?”

Val thought about it for a moment, then nodded his head. “Is possible.”

“Cuz, if you think about it, what happened in '97 was kind of an accident for that guy, too. I mean, I'm sure worker's comp would cover it.”

Val smiled at me, cold and wide. “I never think of it this way.”

I leaned back and shrugged. “I'm just sayin'.”

Val took another drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly, contemplating. “Yes. Is possible.”

“Good.”

He looked over at me. “How much you pay for this?”

I shrugged, nonchalant. “If it were just some mope, I'd go two. Maybe twenty-five hundred. But since this is a special-type person, say five thousand.”

“Bullshit,” Val said. “I want ten.”

I thought about countering with seventy-five hundred, but decided not to. Instead, I made a show of thinking about it, then nodded in agreement. “Fine,” I said.

I slid an envelope toward him containing Officer Kahn's picture and the crumpled markup I'd purchased from him just two days ago. We shook hands.

“When will it be done?” I asked him.

“You pay five thousand. Then, within two weeks.”

***

I paid the five thousand later that day and set the remaining five aside for when the job was finished. I felt pretty good about the whole thing, clearing twenty large and getting some cushion in the bargain.

They say the waiting is the hardest part. And this was like waiting for Christmas, but not knowing what day it will fall on.

Christmas for Pete came about four days later.

***

I was sipping a glass of red and trying like hell to get into the pants of the new waitress at Angelo's when it came across the news.

A little blonde newsgirl was holding her microphone and chattering silently into the camera. The caption below her read, “5-Live: Police Officer Slain.”

“Turn that up so I can hear it,” I told Roger, the bartender.

He hit a button on the remote and sound spilled out.

“—teen year veteran of the River City Police force. Detectives are on the scene in the Hillyard neighborhood and they are investigating, but preliminary reports do confirm that Officer Kahn has died from his wounds.”

Holy shit, Val, I thought. Nice work.

“Details are sketchy,” the little blonde reported, “but we were able to obtain a statement from Lieutenant Crawford of the Major Crimes Unit.”

The camera cut away to a large cop in a bad suit. He was balding and what hair he had made up black streaks against his scalp. His full, dark mustache drooped down at the corners of his mouth. The clip caught him in mid-sentence.

“—stopped the vehicle. The passenger ran and one officer pursued him on foot. Officer Kahn attempted to take the driver of the vehicle into custody, but was shot during the struggle.”

There was a clamor of questions off-camera.

“No,” the police lieutenant said, “there have been no witnesses located at this time, other than the deceased officer's partner. He did not see what occurred.”

Another clamor of questions, dominated by a male voice asking about the vehicle.

“I'll have a description of it shortly,” Lieutenant Crawford told him, “but it appears that the license plates used were false plates.”

The clip ended and returned live to the little blonde reporter. “We'll keep you updated as this story develops. For News-5, I'm Shawna Matheson.”

I sipped my wine and looked around the cocktail room. The waitress I was working had tears in her eyes.

“That's so terrible,” she said.

I shrugged.

“I wonder if he had children?” she asked me.

Right then, I decided not to fuck her.

***

Val didn't even wait a full twenty-four hours before asking for his other five thousand. I met him at his coffee house and we sat down at his corner table.

“Feeling any heat?” I asked him as I slid the fat envelope across the table to him.

He shook his head and slipped the envelope inside his jacket. “It goes like fucking clockwork.”

“How'd you handle the partner?” I asked.

Val grunted. “Easy. We have two plans. One if with partner, one if alone.”

“That was smart,” I said, “sending one person running to draw off the partner. But what if he hadn't chased after your guy?”

“Cops always chase,” he answered and snapped his fingers at the waitress. “Katya, two coffee!”

“Not always,” I said.

“Eh?”

“They don't always chase after people who run.”

The Russian waved his hand dismissively. “Bah. Cops like some dog when he see rabbit. Always chase.”

“What if he had stayed in the car, though? Did you have a plan?”

“Sure,” he said. “There be two dead cops. And I no charge you extra.”

I thought about that for a moment, and I believed him.

“What if the cop ran your guy down right away?”

“No way,” Val said with a proud laugh. “I send Yuriy. Yuriy very fast. He can out-run even KGB, huh?” He laughed again at his own joke.

I joined him, chuckling. “I guess that's pretty fast.”

“Very fucking fast,” Val said. “But why you ask so many questions?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you pay and I do. Now you ask so many questions. Why?”

I met Val's gaze. His eyes were hard flecks of iron and bore right into me. I knew he was probably thinking the same kind of things I thought when I checked Pete for a wire. He was probably wondering if he was going to have to dig a hole somewhere for me.

“Professional admiration,” I told him. “I'm impressed, that's all.”

Val studied my face closely. After a bit, he nodded his head and just like that I was out of the woods. Guys like Val and guys like me, we use logic but a lot of the time we just follow our gut.

“Smoke?” he asked me. I accepted one of his French cigarettes. They were about half as big as American ones and I hated the damn things, but this was business. We lit up and puffed for a moment or two. Katya brought us our coffee and Val scowled at her for taking so long.

I took several sips of the harsh Russian blend and let the French cigarette burn down slowly in my hand.

Finally, Val leaned in close to me. “Was fucking beautiful, Dom,” he said. “We use a second car. After Yuriy run away, second car pull up and surprise your friend.” He waved his hand at me. “Bye-bye,” he said and pointed at his eye.

“He shot him in the eye? Jesus!”

“One shot,” Val whispered. “Then first car and second car drive away. I have third car pick up Yuriy one mile away.”

“And the cars?”

“All bad plates,” he said. “And now all cars are in pieces.”

I nodded my head in admiration. “I just can't get over the fact that there were no witnesses. You'd think the red and blue lights alone up in Hillyard would—”

“It all happen very fast,” Val said. “No chance for witnesses. Besides, what time this happen? Three o'clock in morning? Everyone asleep.”

I took another drink of coffee and forced myself to puff on the French cigarette. “You are one smart motherfucker, Val,” I told him.

He patted the enveloped inside his jacket. “I know.”

***

It was another four days before I saw Pete again. I expected him to come by the restaurant as soon as he saw the news, but when he didn't show, I figured he was just being cautious. Or maybe he was back to banging his cheating wife. Who knows?

When four days had passed, I started getting a little nervous. Not only had he failed to come see me, he hadn't phoned in his bets for the weekend. I wondered again if Pete was somehow in with the Feds or local cops and had been whisked away into some kind of witness relocation program. But I knew that couldn't be true. If it had been, they would have busted me as soon as I took money from him. They would never have put some cop in danger of being whacked just to get a better case against me.

I tried to shake off the paranoia. I was too small time to warrant any interest from the Feds, even in this backwater town. My measly hundred kay a year and the forty I paid Isaac and Joe wasn't enough to register on their radar screens.

I thought about going by Pete's house, but didn't figure that would be a good idea. I settled for Safeway. I made my way down the grocery aisle and to the meat department. I saw him back in the meat-cutters work area, his back to the cases. He stood stock-still, except for his right shoulder, which moved smoothly as he worked.

As I pushed through the hanging plastic strips and into the cool, refrigerated air of the butcher's area, the smell of raw meat hit my nostrils. “Pete?” I asked.

Pete turned toward me. The knife in his hand was covered in blood. So was his smock. He held the knife easily in his hand, pointed directly at me.

Recognition seeped into his eyes. “Dom,” he said, his voice dull.

I pointed at the knife. “You wanna put that thing down before you put someone's eye out?”

He stared dumbly at me, then glanced down at the knife. Slowly, he set it on the white tabletop.

“You okay, Pete?”

He nodded, distracted.

“You don't seem okay,” I said.

He met my eyes for a moment, then looked away.

“You see the news?”

“Yeah.”

“So why didn't you come see me?”

“I was busy,” Pete said, staring at the concrete floor between us.

“Busy with what?”

“The funeral.”

“You went to his fucking funeral ?” I whispered, surprised. Now that took balls.

He shook his head. “Not his. Hers.”

“Come again? Whose funeral?”

“Ellen's.”

“Your wife? She died?”

Pete nodded. Tears streamed down his face.

“When?”

He made no effort to wipe the tears away. “Eight days ago.”

I did some quick calculation and realized that was the day after I hired Val.

“Jesus, Pete,” I said. “I'm…I'm sorry. How did it happen?”

“Drunk driver,” he told me, his voice thick with tears. “Crossed the center line on Highway 395 and hit her head on.”

I couldn't believe it. There were so many goddamn wrecks on that highway I just quit paying attention when they were reported.

“Pete…I…”

“I really gotta get back to work,” he said and turned around. He picked up the knife and resumed slicing.

I left. What else was I supposed say to the guy?

***

For the rest of the day, every time I thought of Pete I caught a phantom whiff of raw meat. I thought about how the poor bastard leveraged his retirement in order to get that cop clipped. How he did it for his wife, because he loved her. Then she turns around and dies on him before the hit even goes through. Now the poor son of bitch is without a wife and he has a crippled pension. Life can be a cold, hard ride sometimes.

I wondered if I should tell Val about it. I knew the Russians loved sad stories. It was all they ever told, it seemed like.

Anyway, it was too bad that Pete was miserable, it really was. But, in the end, I had twenty thousand reasons not to give a shit.