“Listen, lady, I didn’t order a pizza.”
The last words an angry little man ever said to me.
He glared at me in the doorway, pupils like graves and skin marred by decades of vitriolic bile. Behind him, a cluttered desk, a filing cabinet. No photos. A dullard no one would miss, but still…I hesitated.
Was it worth it?
How embarrassing would it be if this were the kill that ended my career? After a decade of taking out mafia bigwigs and politicians and old money patriarchs, what if the contract I got locked up over was Bob Nobody Miller, annoyance to one anonymous person with enough collateral to scrape together my fee?
Still, a job’s a job, so Bob stained his unfinished letter to the editor, quick and quiet enough that the neighboring offices wouldn’t notice until the body or the pepperoni started stinking up the place.
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