Kiss Of Evil

32

His car smells of old onions. I hadn’t expected showroom cleanliness from the man, yet I had expected a certain order, considering his profession. You would think as much.

And yet it is good news. A car in such a state is never scrutinized.

I clip the inexpensive wireless transmitter-one that allows me no more than a three-hundred-foot range, but operates well above the FM band-under the passenger seat, draw a deep breath, savoring his essence, and step back into the frozen night.