Page 56 of Assassin Anonymous

The empire lorded over by the Five Families may have crumbled to dust, but there are still pockets of mafiosi around, and Amato is apparently a big player who managed to piss off another big player, and that other big player is looking for someone to take him out.

Amato is wearing a tan coat, his graying hair slicked back. He’s built like a linebacker who let himself go a bit. He’s sitting a few tables over with an attractive young woman. College-aged. Maybe a mistress. The two of them talk and sip cocoa and I tell myself I shouldn’t try to pull double duty on a date, but it’s hard to say no to a hit of the adrenaline.

Sara finishes up what she’s saying about helping people and I tell her, “That sounds like a really rewarding job.”

“It is,” she says, her eyes narrowed at me. “Sometimes I volunteer in the pantries. It’s a good workout. We can always use a strong back. Mostly the volunteers are seniors. We need someone for when the fifty-pound bags of potatoes come in.”

“That could be fun,” I tell her.

She puts down her cocoa. “You okay? You seem like you’re somewhere else.”

Weird, I’m usually better at multitasking. Amato gets up from the table and moves in the direction of the restrooms, so I tell her, “Yeah, this is a little embarrassing to share on a first date.”

She raises her eyebrows and takes another sip, like she’s waiting for a hammer to fall.

“My stomach is a little wonky.” I hold up the cup. “I got a dairy thing.”

She sighs out a stream of relief. “Jesus, I thought you were going to tell me you were married or something. We could have gotten something else, you know.”

“Yeah, but your heart seemed set on this.”

She leans forward and pats my arm. “Everybody poops, it’s okay. Do you want to use the bathroom in my office building?”

“Nah, bathrooms here are pretty nice. I’ll be back in a few, okay?”

“Ice-skating after?”

“I told you I don’t know how to ice-skate.”

She gives me a smirk and a wink. “I told you there was a trick.”

I put down my cocoa and get to my feet. “I’ll consider it.”

She leans back in her chair and crosses her legs in front of her, then whips out her phone, promptly disappearing into Instagram.

The bathrooms are at the far end of the park, and I make my way over, hoping I’ll get lucky. On the way, I pull out my phone and hunt for the original post, find it, and text the number attached:

Accepted, will report back shortly

By the time I make it to the bathrooms, I get a response.

Picture plus payment info

Normally I’d say who I was and ask for the whole payment up front—no one ever says no—but I don’t feel like getting into that now. Sara seems pretty understanding about the potential of intestinal distress, but the longer I’m in here, the more it may chip into my chances of taking her home tonight. Some mental images can’t be unseen.

The bathroom is a trailer with a loud humming generator. Two doors, one for men and one for women. There’s a traffic cone nestled in some brush, so I grab it and drop it in front of the door as I step into the men’s side. Amato is standing at a urinal. I give a quick peek underneath the stalls and don’t see any feet. There were no visible cameras on the walk over, since we’re in the park, far from the street.

I lock the door. The shunk of it is loud and Amato spins around, his fly still down. Considering he has a contract on his head, I’m sure he knows exactly what’s going to happen. I know I’m right when he charges at me. I try to sidestep but get blocked by a sink; the space is too tight. He grabs me around the waist and whales on my side, aiming for my kidneys and liver. Despite his age, he’s a brawler, and brawlers do well in tight spaces.

I get a knee up to create some distance and consider headbutting him, but that could open a cut on my head, and head wounds bleed like crazy, which would be complicated to explain, so instead I throw a fist into the side of his throat. The human trachea has the same tensile strength as a soda can, and you can’t fight if you can’t breathe.

He chokes a little and backs up, his eyes wide.

“Please,” he says, gasping. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll pay more.”

I don’t know what he did. I usually know what people did before I kill them. It helps to know sometimes. But I have to figure whatever got him a $25K contract on his head wasn’t good.

“Sorry, bud,” I tell him. “Math, you know?”

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