Sixkill

61

It was late. The rain was still raining. We sat at my kitchen counter with a siphon of soda, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of scotch.

I raised my glass toward Z.

“Pretty good,” I said.

Z nodded.

“Ever kill anybody before?” I said.

“No.”

We both drank some scotch.

“How you feel about it?” I said.

“Less than I thought I’d feel,” he said.

“How you feel depends on stuff,” I said.

“They would have killed me,” he said.

“They would,” I said. “And that helps with how you feel. Also, whether you knew them or not. If they died fast or slow. How close they were. What they looked like. It’s easier at a distance.”

“It was easier in the dark,” Z said.

“Anything that distances you from the human fact of them,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean I liked it,” Z said.

“Good,” I said. “Stephano would have liked it. But it’s worth remembering about yourself that you are the kind of guy who can stick a knife into someone in the dark.”

“Are you like that?” Z said.

“Yes,” I said.

“You wish you weren’t?”

“No,” I said. “But I keep it in mind.”

“Why?”

“So I won’t be that way when I don’t have to be,” I said.

Z nodded.

“You took Stephano out pretty nice,” he said.

“I’m supposed to,” I said.

“Yeah.”

We didn’t talk for a while. We finished our drinks at an easy pace, and made fresh ones. I could hear, faintly, the sound of the rain outside my front windows.

“Whaddya gonna do now?” Z said.

“I’m going to tell Quirk that I don’t think Jumbo killed Dawn Lopata.”

“You believe Jumbo?”

“Yes.”

“Remember,” Z said. “He’s a lying fuck.”

“Of course he is,” I said. “But it’s a plausible story, and nothing any of us knows contradicts it.”

“Okay,” Z said. “Then what?”

“Then Quirk does what he does,” I said. “The DA does what he does. Jumbo’s people do what they do.”

“Can Quirk keep him out of jail?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“What if he doesn’t?” Z said. “What if they send him to jail?”

“I did what I could. I did what I said I’d do. That’s all there is to do.”

“Would it bother you?” Z said.

“Some,” I said. “But I’d get over it.”

“He probably should do time, anyway, for being a creep,” Z said.

“Probably,” I said. “Maybe he can make a deal.”

“Swap Nicky Fellscroft for a light sentence?” Z said.

“Might,” I said. “If they press charges.”

“They might kill him,” Z said.

“Also possible,” I said.

“Easier than killing us,” Z said.

I nodded. I could hear the rain outside my front windows. Z looked at his half-full glass.

“Ain’t a lot of happy endings here,” he said.

“There often aren’t,” I said.

“That’s how it is,” Z said. “Isn’t it.”

“’Fraid so,” I said.

He nodded and sipped his drink and kept nodding slowly, as if in some kind of permanent affirmation.

“That’s how it is,” he said.

I don’t think he was talking to me.