The neighbor needed killing. And soon. Like so much these days, the old man’s patience was wearing out. He wasn’t proud to know that about himself. Been through what he’d been through, seen what he’d seen, you’d think some patience might be in order. Yeah, well, you’d think that, wouldn’t you? Get to be old enough, smart enough, sick enough, you’ve just had enough, patience gets a little thin.
Like the January ice on Lake Michigan that father took his four-year-old boy ice fishing. The old man shuttered and thought to hug himself, just grab on and sing Sweet Jesus. All the terrible shit he’d done in his life, he had never taken his four-year-old son out onto the thin ice and didn’t send him back to the mother, his wife, to the rest of the boy’s bright years. How bad would that be?
The old man and his wife might’ve rushed into marriage. To tell the truth, they got married in a fever. Hotter than a Texas sprout, whatever that is. Sounds hot, doesn’t it. Was hot. Never had second doubts. Never so much as even had an argument. Been years now. Been a miracle really. The old man thought maybe he should throw salt over his left shoulder.
The old man secretly liked giving marital advice. I have so much experience, he’d say. A couple smart people get together, previous marriages so bad, they know what to do the next time. The old man told the girl of sparkle that very thing and she bought in. She knew it true. They didn’t rush into anything but happiness.
The old man heard a silent laugh and hollow chuckle was his. Happiness? Was he going soft? You bet. But not so many would know. He cried at the end of sad movies. He cried every time a pet found his way back home. He cried when a little child showed more courage than he’d seen in ten years in politics.
The neighbor needed killing and the old man needed something to do. Thought about going to church, not the kind of place people would go looking for him. That was their mistake. That was the whole point; never be where they thought you might be.
Hell, his life of crime started in church. Place was a gold mine. The old man became a Methodist as a young boy. His dad was Catholic. But The Church had turned its back on him and he had never forgiven. His mom was a Lutheran but the new town didn’t have all that many churches. And the Methodists had the cutest girls and a gym. Broads and ball, that’s what church meant to him. That changed when he got promoted to acolyte. And they left him alone with the offering.
God will understand, a young boy told himself. Just cutting out the middle man. Money supposed to help the poor and I’m poor. Funny thing, turns out while he was sifting through the plates for small bills and collector coins, his little girlfriend was rummaging around in the choir ladies’ handbags. Sitting in the movie balcony on Friday nights, they necked and giggled and tossed raisinets below.
Come to think of it, the old man thought, might have been the beginning of baroque sexual interests. Didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he imagined many worlds contained in those words. A three-letter poem, baroque sexual interest.
Never had been anything sexual about the killing. Just a job. A good job without an office or co-workers or appointments or some fucking boss who is always on your ass to cover his.
To make something sexual out of taking somebody’s life, that was just sick. Reason right there the old man was against the death penalty. Take a close look at the governor as he signs a death warrant. Forget the gleam in his eyes and the moist lips, check for a boner. That’s just not right, the old man thought.
But some people needed killing.