“I want you to kill my wife.”
The man sitting across from me, Lyle Tibbits, stared into my eyes like a dog stares at the steak you're eating. He was mid to late thirties, a few inches taller than my six feet, wearing jeans and a button down shirt that pinched his thick wrists.
I sipped some coffee and asked why he wanted his wife dead.
“Do you care?” he asked.
I shrugged. “No. As long as I get paid.”
Lyle smiled, exposing gray smoker's teeth.
“I didn't think it mattered. When I called you, I heard you did anything for money.”
I rubbed my nose. My nostrils were sore from all the coke I'd been snorting lately, and I'd been getting nosebleeds.
“Any particular way you want it done?”
He looked around Maxie's Coffee Shop—his choice for the meeting place—and leaned forward on his forearms, causing the table to shift and the cheap silverware to rattle.
“You break into my house, discover her home alone, then rape and kill her.”
Jaded as I was, this made me raise an eyebrow.
“Rape her?”
“The husband is always a suspect when the wife dies. Either he did it, or he hired someone to do it. The rape will throw the police off. Plus, I figured, with your condition, you won't care about leaving evidence.”
He made a point of glancing at my bald head.
“Who gave you my number?” I asked.
“I don't want to say.”
I thought about the Glock nestled between my belt and my spine, knew I could get him to tell me if I needed to. We were on Damon and Diversey in Wicker Park, which wasn't the nicest part of Chicago. I could follow him out of the diner and put the hurt to him right there on the sidewalk, and chances were good we'd be ignored.
But truth be told, I didn't really care where he got my number, or that he knew I was dying of cancer. I was out of money, which meant I was out of cocaine. The line I'd done earlier was wearing off, and the pain would return soon.
“I get half up front, half when it's done. The heat will be on you after the job, and you won't have a chance to get the money to me. So you'll put the second half in a locker at the train station, hide the key someplace public, and then give me the info when I'm done. Call from a payphone so the number isn't traced. You fuck me, and I'll find you.”
“You can trust me.”
Like your wife trusts you? I thought. Instead I said, “How would you like me to do it?”
“Messy. The messier the better. I want her to suffer, and suffer for a long time.”
“You've obviously been living in marital bliss.”
“You have to hurt her, or else we don't have a deal.”
I made a show of thinking it over, even though I'd already made my decision. I assumed this was a way to cash in on life insurance, but what life insurance policy paid extra for torture and rape?
“You have the money on you?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Pass it under the table.”
He hesitated. “Trust goes both ways, you know.”
“I could just walk away.”
Like hell I could. I needed a snort worse than Wimpy needed his daily hamburger. But I'm a pretty decent bluffer.
Lyle handed me the paper bag he'd brought with him. I set it on the booth next to me and peeked inside. The cash was rubber-banded in stacks of tens and twenties. I stuck my fingers in and did a quick count.
Six grand, to take a human life.
Not bad for a few hours work.
“When?” I asked.
“Tomorrow night, after 10pm. I'll be out, and she'll be home alone. I'll leave the front door open for you. I'm at 3626 North Christiana, off of Addison. Remember, rape and pain.”
He seemed to be waiting for a reply so I said, “Sure.”
“And Mr. Troutt...” Lyle smiled again, flashing gray. “Have fun with it.”
#
After the diner meeting, I called a guy about securing some fake ID. Then I called my dealer and scored enough coke to keep me high for a while. I also bought some tequila and refilled my codeine prescription.
Back at my ratty apartment, Earl and I had a party.
Earl is what I call the tumor growing on my pancreas. Giving my killer a name makes it a little easier to deal with. Each day, Earl eats a little more of my body. Each day, I try to prevent Earl from doing that. There's chemo, and radiation, and occasional surgery. And in the off-times, there's illegal drugs, pharmaceuticals, and alcohol.
Earl was winning.
Luckily, being a drug abuser has some excellent side benefits, such as not caring about anything, erasing all emotion, and helping to forget the past.
Just a few months ago I had a well paying job in the suburbs, a beautiful fiancée, and a life most would be envious of. Earl changed all that. Now, not even the roaches in my tenement building were envious of me.
I drank, and popped, and snorted, until the pain was gone. Until reality was gone. Until consciousness was gone.
Earl woke me up the next morning, gnawing at my left side with jagged, rabid teeth.
I peeled myself from the floor, stripped off the jeans and underwear I'd soiled, and climbed into a shower slick with mildew. I turned the water as hot as it would go, and the first blast came out rusty and stung my eyes. I had no soap, so I used shampoo to scrub my body. I didn't eat well, if I remembered to eat at all, and I could count the ribs on my hairless chest. I made a note to eat something today. Who would hire a thug that weighed ninety pounds?
After the shower I found some fresh jeans and a white t-shirt. I did a line, choked down three painkillers, and dug out an old Chicago phone book.
“Walker Insurance.”
“I had a couple questions about life insurance.”
“I'll transfer you to one of our agents.”
I took my cell over the fridge and listened to a Musak version of Guns N Roses while rummaging through the ice box. Nothing in there but frost.
“This is Brad, can I help you?”
“I'm thinking of taking out a life insurance policy on my wife. We live in a nice neighborhood, but she has this unrealistic fear—call it a phobia—of being raped and killed. I'm sure that would never happen, but do you have policies that cover that?”
“Accidental death includes murder, but not suicide.”
“And rape?”
“Well, I've heard of some countries like India and Africa that offer rape insurance, but there's nothing like that in the US. But if she's afraid of being attacked, a good life insurance policy can help bring some peace of mind.”
“What if she doesn't like the idea of insurance? Could I insure her without her knowing it?”
“For certain types of insurance, the person covered doesn't need to sign the policy. You can insure anyone you want. Would you like to schedule an appointment to talk about this further?”
I thought about asking him if he covered people dying of cancer, but I resisted and hung up. My next call was to the 26th District of the Chicago Police Department.
“Daniels.”
“Hi, Jack. It's Phineas Troutt.”
“Haven't seen you at the pool hall lately. What's up?”
“I need a favor. I'm looking for paper on a guy named Lyle Tibbits.”
“And I should help you because?”
“Because you're a friend. And because he owes me money. And because I probably won't live to see Christmas.”
Jack arrested me a few years back, but she'd been cool about it, and we had an on-again-off-again eight ball game on Monday nights. I'd missed a few lately, too stoned to leave my apartment. But I'd helped Jack out a few times, and she owed me, and she knew it.
“Let's see what Mr. Computer has to say. Lyle Tibbits. Prior arrest for—it looks like trafficking kiddie porn. Did a nickel's worth at Joliet. Paroled last year.”