Murphy followed the woman to a sprawling apartment complex on the west side of town. He tailed her through the labyrinthine gardens to a ground-floor condo, where the woman crossed the patio and let herself in through the French doors. She closed the doors and pulled the drapes behind her, and Murphy stood in the shadows and watched.
An hour later, a man arrived. He was dressed preppy, but carried himself like a street stiff, and from the shadows Murphy could see the man's eyes darting, left and right. The man pressed the doorbell at the front door of the woman's condo, and as he waited he scanned the gardens. Murphy shrank back into the shadows, and the man did not see him.
The woman opened the door, the man went inside, and Murphy's stomach muscles tensed. He took his hand from his pocket and placed it behind his back, and carefully traced invisible patterns in the air. Old juju from his days in the Orient. Superstition. Murphy smiled to himself at the stupidity of it, but he felt his gut relaxing all the same.
Four hours later, the French doors opened. The man emerged from the condo and headed for the exit. Murphy waited for the man to pass, then detached from the shadows and crossed the twenty yards between them.
"Excuse me," said Murphy, as if about to ask for directions, and as the man turned, he forced a wadded kerchief over the man's mouth and the tip of a stiletto into the man's back.
"For Johnny," he whispered, and drove the knife home.
He lowered the body to the path, the last gasps of life hissing in the man's throat, the man's hand twitching, as if chasing random patterns in the air, searching too late for his own juju, or perhaps just reaching out for help that would never come.
Murphy took a small striped red-and-white candle from his pocket, and placed it in the man's hand. The man clasped the candle and stared at Murphy, who met the man's gaze with his own stare. The time for talking was done, Johnny was done, and now Johnny's killer was done too.
Blood pooled on the cement. The light in the man's eyes faded and died. Murphy walked away.
Sticking to the alleys and the many vacant lots, he walked the three blocks back to his car, then he drove home, taking the long way around as the adrenalin wore off and the jitters came. He took a shower, went to bed, and did not sleep.
In the morning two policemen came to the door of the ground-floor condo. One held a photograph of a dead man, and the other pushed the doorbell. The woman answered, and the policeman showed her the photo. Inside, later, having recovered from the shock, a detective asked the woman if she knew whose birthday it had been yesterday. "Yeah," she said. "Yesterday was Johnny's birthday."
An hour later, a man arrived. He was dressed preppy, but carried himself like a street stiff, and from the shadows Murphy could see the man's eyes darting, left and right. The man pressed the doorbell at the front door of the woman's condo, and as he waited he scanned the gardens. Murphy shrank back into the shadows, and the man did not see him.
The woman opened the door, the man went inside, and Murphy's stomach muscles tensed. He took his hand from his pocket and placed it behind his back, and carefully traced invisible patterns in the air. Old juju from his days in the Orient. Superstition. Murphy smiled to himself at the stupidity of it, but he felt his gut relaxing all the same.
Four hours later, the French doors opened. The man emerged from the condo and headed for the exit. Murphy waited for the man to pass, then detached from the shadows and crossed the twenty yards between them.
"Excuse me," said Murphy, as if about to ask for directions, and as the man turned, he forced a wadded kerchief over the man's mouth and the tip of a stiletto into the man's back.
"For Johnny," he whispered, and drove the knife home.
He lowered the body to the path, the last gasps of life hissing in the man's throat, the man's hand twitching, as if chasing random patterns in the air, searching too late for his own juju, or perhaps just reaching out for help that would never come.
Murphy took a small striped red-and-white candle from his pocket, and placed it in the man's hand. The man clasped the candle and stared at Murphy, who met the man's gaze with his own stare. The time for talking was done, Johnny was done, and now Johnny's killer was done too.
Blood pooled on the cement. The light in the man's eyes faded and died. Murphy walked away.
Sticking to the alleys and the many vacant lots, he walked the three blocks back to his car, then he drove home, taking the long way around as the adrenalin wore off and the jitters came. He took a shower, went to bed, and did not sleep.
In the morning two policemen came to the door of the ground-floor condo. One held a photograph of a dead man, and the other pushed the doorbell. The woman answered, and the policeman showed her the photo. Inside, later, having recovered from the shock, a detective asked the woman if she knew whose birthday it had been yesterday. "Yeah," she said. "Yesterday was Johnny's birthday."
