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eBook Category: Suspense/Thriller/Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: An aging hitman invests his retirement money in a miniature golf course, inheriting three dysfunctional employees. Even the condo he buys isn't normal with an over-sexed neighbor who discovers his identity and has a price for silence. He's considering coming out of retirement.

eBook Publisher: The Fiction Works, Published: http://www.fictionworks.com, 2004
Fictionwise Release Date: February 2004

6 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [941 KB], eReader (PDB) [306 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [296 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [263 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [264 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [302 KB], hiebook (KML) [699 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [410 KB], iSilo (PDB) [242 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [308 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [58 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [402 KB]
Words: 89755
Reading time: 256-359 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Eddie Carpis jutted his jaw and scratched an itch in the cleft of a scar on the underside of his chin; a hesitance of literary deliberation. The scar, a harbor for shaving residues, was Eddie's security spot when he had troubling thoughts. His remarkably nondescript features gathered themselves into a frown as he looked at the gray clothbound ledger book he was using as his private repository of past sins; this process of writing a tell-all diary was not proving as simple as he had first imagined.

I'm fifty now. I own this condo which cost more than I wanted to pay but I bought it and the damage is done and I can't do anything about that now. I live in a big city the name of which I don't think I better mention. I'll just say the sun shines a lot here and there's not much cold weather which is good because I think I got arthuritis. It didn't take a mountain to fall on me to know I slowed down a lot the last few years. That's why I quit. I could have turned up dead meat on my next job or made a dumb mistake and spent the rest of my life with my fingers wrapped around the bars or even worse. No thanks. I like it this way better even if there's not much juice to it the way there used to be.

In the beginning, Eddie had attached a fantasy to the scheme. The words, he told himself, would spill forth in a great gush of truth. In this act of cleansing, he would finally make a kind of peace with himself and his conscience.

I've been alone for most of my life. I was married once when I was twenty-five but she wanted a regular home and kids and she picked the wrong guy, that's all. There's nobody I'm close to. When my sister was still alive I wasn't even close with her. She never told anybody she even had a brother. That made it easier for her to brush me off, I guess. It was okay if she wanted to pretend we weren't related. I didn't want anybody to know about me or what I did.

Eddie felt a tug of hurt memories hidden behind the words he'd just written. He looked up from the ledger and let his gaze escape down the long Formica bar top separating the kitchen area from the unfurnished dining room of his new condominium. He warily peered at the accumulation of documents and business forms pinned to the bar by a large unopened can of tomato juice, his temporary filing cabinet. This unruly mess of papers seemed to be nagging at him in their inert silence; they were a terrifying reminder that Eddie Carpis was at the threshold of a new and uncertain life.

"Sonuvabitch."

This particular utterance, usually delivered under his breath as a hoarse grunt, was Eddie's all-purpose expletive; it covered every contingency. "Sonuvabitch" was also, in this instance, the bewildered cry of a lonely man trying desperately to escape from his own lonely world.

Eddie restored himself with the determined resolve of a writer not certain what next to say but certain he must say something and his pen arrowed back to the ledger.

I got some money invested in a little business thing. I signed some papers and it cost me most of my savings. Escrow closes day after tomorrow and then my butt is in a sling for sure.

Eddie had chosen the accounting ledger as his medium of confession because it came with faint blue lines on the pages to guide a labored penmanship--and also because it possessed an inconspicuous cover. He had always figured the angles, it was a lifetime habit. He knew if somebody ever happened to see the ledger and asked what it was, he could say it was only for "business purposes." The prospect, however, of anyone ever catching a glimpse of his private confessional was, he was certain, strictly the longest of long shots.

Eddie Carpis was a man meticulous about details and it took a careful search through the condo before he found the perfect place to hide his ledger. In his bedroom closet, near floor level, he noticed a panel attached by screws to the back wall. He removed the panel and discovered a small cavity which offered access to the bathroom plumbing on the opposite side of the wall. This inconspicuous place, Eddie decided, would become a secure vault where he could hide his dangerous truth from curious eyes.

I used to fix people and I was paid a lot of money to do it. One time I tried to count up all the customers I fixed but I couldn't remember. I sure as hell didn't keep records. When you're in my business you don't need a reason to do the job. All you need is enough money to make it worth the risk. But it's not like I don't have feelings. That's why I always told myself the customer had it coming or why else would somebody want him fixed.

I kept to myself when I was working. I never had a regular girlfriend. I rented furnished apartments and drove plain cars and wore dark suits. I looked like a businessman, which is what I was. I was in my own business. I knew anybody who saw me wouldn't remember me. That's how I wanted it. Mister Nobody. Fix the customer and get out quick.

I got my mail at general delivery and I paid for everything in cash. I never let anybody get to know me too well. That can be dangerous. Every three or four months I moved to another place. Sometimes I even moved to another city. I never paid income taxes in my life. I wonder what would happen if they read that line on the form where it asks for occupation and I told them.

Eddie knew he was at a place in his life where truth had begun to matter. That's why he wanted to tell his story the way it really happened, even if he suspected the world would not be sending him any valentines for the effort.

The little cafe had outside tables under a red canvas awning. It was a warm day with a light breeze coming in from the ocean and the customers sitting at the tables were dressed in the casual beach garb familiar to the area. The man, sitting with the woman at the table farthest from the other customers, wore a dark suit and clip-on sunglasses. He had a pale out-of-town look to him and his general persona clashed sharply with the woman's deep tan and her lavender beach pullover. She'd tried to tuck her long browned legs beneath the table and out of view, but the effort had not been totally successful--nor had she wanted it to be. The woman's pullover barely pulled itself over most of what she owned and several of the café's regulars were enjoying their vantage point or repositioning themselves for a better one.

Her showmanship was a natural instinct, she practiced it automatically. Today, however, she was trying to be sedate, this was serious business and she was determined to ignore the stir she had caused. The man was silently attentive as he watched her read through some typed pages, waiting until she finished the last page before he gestured.

"It took some doing to get that, Mrs. Treonis."

The woman looked up with a disappointed pout and folded the pages and tucked them into an envelope.

"Wasn't there anything else? A name? A witness?"

The man leaned forward over the remains of his bay shrimp salad in a tacit reminder to keep their conversation at a discreet level.

"This is the report from the original investigating officer, that's all there is. It describes everything exactly the way it was when he got to the scene."

His hands punctuated the explanation in a gesture of futility. "It's been a long time, most of the files on this case have either been lost or destroyed."

"It still doesn't tell me what I need to know." The woman was not impressed with his explanation.

His smile was bolstered with a forced patience. "You won't get any proof, Mrs. Treonis. If there had been proof, they would've identified a suspect."

She managed a bleak shrug. "I suppose you're right."

The man looked at her curiously. He was impressed, not by the woman's cautious wordplay, but by the steeled dedication he saw in every movement of her face as she spoke--the faint twist of an eyebrow, the tiny downturn at the corner of her mouth, the pretended smile where a smile did not belong. She was carrying a much larger burden than she wished to betray and the man knew it. But there wasn't any reason to pursue hidden mysteries, the job was finished for him, he tossed his napkin aside.

"Well, unless there's something else, Mrs. Treonis."

The woman composed herself with a sip of her Bacardi as she peered at him over the rim of the glass.

"I don't use that name anymore. I've gone back to my maiden name. Womack."

He nodded. "All right, Miss Womack, whatever you say."

She reached for the beach bag at her feet and picked up the envelope containing the typed pages.

"I'll keep this."

The man smiled. "Of course. You paid for it, it's yours."

The business between them was concluded. The woman rose from her chair and the man quickly rose with her. He felt vaguely dissatisfied; he wanted to somehow soften her disappointment.

"I could always keep digging."

She dismissed the offer with a shrug. "No, you've been very helpful, Mister Huckins." She started to reach for the check but he waved her hand away.

"Please, this one's on me."

"Thank you." She gave him a perfunctory smile and started to turn away, but he reached out to take her arm.

"Miss Womack, when I leave here, whatever happens, I don't know you, I never saw you."

"That was the arrangement."

She said it simply, without emotion, then eased her arm from his grasp and stood there waiting to hear whatever else he had to say.

Huckins hesitated, studying her, trying to probe behind the blank expression. "I'm curious about something, that's all."

"Curious?"

"What happens now? Are you going to give it up or what?"

The woman stared at him impassively, determined not to show even the faintest flicker of reaction.

"You're not the only one, you know. I've hired others to get me information."

"Yes, I assumed you probably had."

Huckins was operating on a professional instinct; he could read the deep corrosive anger the woman had so skillfully camouflaged. It made him feel an uneasy compassion for her; he wanted to penetrate the barrier and dissipate it with plain cold fact.

"Look, I'll throw in some advice for free. You've spent seven years running down every possible lead. Seven years, ever since it happened."

"Yes?"

"There was never any hard evidence. No fingerprints, no positive make, nothing."

"Is that all, Mister Huckins?" The woman's gaze had crystallized into a bland impatience.

"The police think it was a professional hit." Huckins reinforced himself with a reluctant frown. He was committed and he had to finish his free advice. "So do I, Miss Womack. I think you're wasting your money."

The woman looked at him in silence for a moment, as if she hadn't heard his version of the hard truth. It didn't matter what he said because she knew something Huckins didn't know. She'd made a vow to herself seven years ago and she wasn't going to let him, or anyone else, alter that vow. Her expression loosened into a minimal smile.

"Thank you for your concern."

"Just part of the service." Huckins suddenly felt uncomfortable, he tried to retreat from his charitable act. "I was only trying to help."

The woman offered a nod of pretended gratitude. She needed him to believe he had convinced her, that he was reasoning with a woman at the end of a long and hopeless mission.

"Maybe it's not as important as it used to be, maybe I don't care that much anymore."

She tagged her statement with a thin smile and a shrug, as if forever discarding the subject, and turned and walked away from the table.

Huckins watched her go, his expression suspended in a skeptic amusement. He glanced at the check, pulled several bills from his pocket and left them on the table, then looked around toward the street.

The woman had reached her car at the curb, a new emerald-green Chrysler convertible, and she knew that he was watching her. Men always watched her, she had an unerring sense about this. The top was down on the convertible and she settled herself behind the wheel to play out her charade; she didn't want to convey to her observer any sense of frustration or anger. She started the engine and let it idle as she adjusted her sunglasses in the rearview mirror. This was followed, in a carefully unhurried sequence, by a touch-up coat of gloss to her lipstick and a studied restoration of an errant wisp of curl which had strayed from her luxuriant red mane.

Huckins stood on the cafe patio, savoring the performance. The lady had class, he'd give her that. He watched the convertible ease into traffic as his mind played over the final words she had said before she walked away: "Maybe it's not as important as it used to be, maybe I don't care that much anymore."

Huckins' professional instincts were at work again; a wry glint came into his gaze as he said it softly to himself.

"You care, lady. You care so much your ass is on fire."