They flittered toward the neon, all energy and hope when they entered the boats, all sagged shoulders and bent backs by the time they left.

Gambling wasn't Henry's thing. Drugs were, and he needed new ones. Which ones? That didn't matter. As long as he could swallow it, smoke it, snort it, shove it inside his skin, it was fine.

Henry just needed a volunteer, someone to give him some.

It didn't take him long to find a candidate. It never did. This guy was skinny, the way addicts usually were, and he didn't follow the herd of losers to the boats. He veered to the left, to the spot where the street lamps didn't reach, the spot behind the wooden fence that hid the dumpsters.

Henry waited. He watched the man shuffle his feet, check his watch, shuffle some more and check his watch again. Henry dropped his cigarette, snuffed it with the toe of his work boots and tightened his grip on the ice pick.

Another man arrived. He nodded at the first. Hands moved, items passed back and forth, and the second man left.

That was Henry's cue. He got up from the car and walked to the dark place.

The skinny man heard him right away, heard Henry's heavy footsteps slapping on the pavement.

That was okay. If Henry didn't want the man to hear him, he wouldn't have let him.

The man didn't wait around. He walked quickly, kept his feet moving as he looked over his shoulder into the dark. When Henry began stomping even more heavily, the man broke into a jog. And when Henry stomped hard enough to jingle the metal buckles on his work boots, the skinny man broke into a run.

Addicts, though, are not in good shape. And when the skinny man reached the edge of the parking lot, he had to pause, had to rest his hand against the side of a black Plymouth.

And that's when Henry caught his moth.

He didn't speak. He never spoke. He just wrapped his left arm around the man's neck and plunged the ice pick into his temple.

Henry moved so fast that he wasn't sure if the junkie even had time to hurt.

He found it in the man's right pants pocket. A clear plastic package filled with white powder. Henry could taste it already, even before slipping it out of its plastic. And the body? He'd have to move it, have to drag it to one of the parking lot's more open spaces. That way someone--someone willing to blow an entire paycheck with three hours of pulling a handle, someone high on promise--could maybe trip over it, could see close up the hole torn in the side of his victim's neck.

They'd know, soon as they saw that skilled wound, that this was Henry's work.

Then, before Henry could enjoy his treasure, a voice snuck up behind him. "You're perfect."

Henry spun. A small man in a long coat smiled back at him. In the moonlight Henry caught a hint of thick glasses.

The man winced at Henry's face. "You're the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

Then he pointed something at Henry, a small square thing that looked like a television remote control. Henry heard a soft click. Then he felt as if someone was reaching inside him and ripping out his guts.

And that's the last thing Henry remembered for a long time.