Sprinkles and Swamps

"Let me put this simply. I want him dead. I don't care how you do it, just kill him and make sure no one finds him, or at least identifies him."

How I even let it get this far, I don't know, but it was the lesser of two evils. An acquittance told me he knows someone looking for a person of questionable character for an equally questionable job, he thought of me.

I'm not a bad guy, just low. Low in everything, money, smokes, friends, job prospects. I do enough side work to pay the rent, most of the time anyway. If it weren't for my mother I'd be couch hopping.

But she's dying, there's no nice way around it. Soft tissue sarcoma. Just call it cancer, it don't need a fancy name. The doctors say there's no point in treating it, it's too far gone. But mom is a fighter. She's fought all her life, for herself, for me, for the doctors to do something.

That's why I need to kill this man. The fight is now for drugs, needles full of hope, no matter how little the chance is, we need it. Mom can't do it alone. I'm the only one who can help, and there's no time for job applications and waiting periods and group interviews.

"Are you listening to me? It's 20 grand. You need this or not?" his voice is muffled, but strong enough I make out every word. I don't know him, or who he wants dead. I pray I'm talking to the good guy, who needs a scumbag killed but is too weak to do it himself.

"Yes. I'll do it. Now what?"

"Write this down, exactly as I say it. " I grab my moms black notebook, skip the telephone messages written down and stare at the fresh page, my heart beating so fast I think I'll pass out, "Ok, I'm ready."

"Dave Simmons, he owns the pawn shop on Sparrow Road in Winnie, every night he locks up alone, at midnight sharp. I'll text you a picture when I hang up. Do the job, send me proof, and I'll leave 20 grand in cash on your doorstep before you get home. " I know I should say something, but before any words can form I hear the click, my contractor is gone.

It takes nearly an hour before I get the text, the number is blocked, as it was when we spoke. The man is small, pale, with curls so tight they could be springs in a mattress. I also get more instructions, reminders to make sure no one finds the body, put mud all over my car and license plate so won't be identified. I write everything down in the little notebook, and as I'm told to I delete the messages after I've copied everything down. I'll have to burn my phone and these pages after the job is done.

The job. Murder, assassination, hit. I briefly imagine this is my life now, my new career. Maybe I'll offer punch cards like the ice cream shop across town, nine kills and the tenth is free. Sprinkles on the corpse no extra charge. Maybe that'll be my signature, sprinkles on the body. I can even have holiday ones for seasonal jobs.

I didn't have time to mull it over, no, I did have time, mom didn't.

My car was barely a car, with so many dings and dents and rust, it was closer to a soda can than a vehicle. But it was quiet, and could get me to Winnie, 2 hours away.

The gun was my own, or rather my mothers. She'd bought it from a neighbor when I was a kid, after a rash of break-ins spooked her. As I got older I loved taking it to the swamp behind our house and shooting the trees and any gators that happened to swim past. I was a decent shot.

The waiting was the hardest part.

11 p.m.

I looked around the parking lot. It served a large shopping plaza. A Spanish grocery store and a credit union sandwiched Simmons Pawn. Dim lights told me it was still open, but the parking lot was empty except for myself. Maybe this guy took the bus home?

The rest of the street was dead, except for mosquitos and scattered street lamps. This should be easy.

I spent the next 47 minutes planning. Be fast, no hesitation. As he's locking the door, pull in front of the store. Shoot him in the face. Shove him in the trunk. Then drive home. Throw the body in the waters behind the house. My corpse disposal was the gators, they eat anything. I didn't have time for something better.

I was gripping the steering wheel tight when the tap on my window flushed me out of my plan.

It was him. The springy hair was hard to miss. He had an amused smiled on his thin mouth, like he was delighted to see me.

"You're the new one huh? He's so predictable. He always sends me the most inexperienced little things." his accent was foreign, some sort of European, I wasn't smart enough to place it.

"What?" I must have sounded as stupid as I looked.

"You're here to kill me. I must say you're very bad at it. You're not even stealthy, sitting out here in the open. I'm most disappointed. Why don't you come in for a drink, hm?"

The back office of the pawn shop was surprisingly clean, unlike any of the shops I'd been in. He served me coke in a pretty little crystal glass, it could've been worth a fortune for all I knew.

"Is this an undercover thing? Am I in trouble?" I'd always been calm under pressure, and this was too confusing to really scare me yet.

"I won't give you all the details. But an old friend and I have a bet. Whoever kills the other first is the winner. And my friend sends assassins to do his dirty work. He can't afford a good one clearly, no offense."

I had so many questions but I couldn't figure out which one to ask first. So I sipped my coke. The crystal glass made it taste better than anything I'd ever drunk before.

"How much was he paying you to kill me?" he asked me, still sounding amused.

"20 grand. I needed the money for my mother, she's dying." I figured honesty was the best I could do with my brain so fried from this conversation, and my own exhaustion, which was creeping in now that the adrenaline of my failed work was seeping away.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother. You were doing a bad thing for a worthy cause, I respect that." he was silent a moment before speaking again. "This whole meeting tonight was recorded, if you ever contact me again, or come near me, the police will find you, I'll be sure of it. My friend will not contact you again. Forget this ever happened. As a thank you for agreeing to leave peacefully, I'll let you keep that cup you're drinking out of, believe me when I say it's worth quite a bit."

I believed him. I nodded slowly, and without another word he walked me to the door. I clutched the crystal glass to my chest like it was gold bar.

The drive home was the longest of my life. I would look into selling the crystal in the morning, no time to waste.

I threw my last cigarette into the water, along with the little black book. I'd need to buy mom a new one. The cicadas were drowning out my thoughts. I was so tired I decided to sleep right there on the dock, the stagnant scent of swamp coupled with the humidity made my eyes heavy. A slap in the water told me something was moving nearby, a frog or gator, a friend or foe, no way to tell the difference in the dark. I tried to slap a bug off my face, but I was so tired my arm didn't make it all the way up. I didn't feel any more bites that night.