its clear, seductive notes. The money was my only thing. I'd grown sick of trundling the smoky power mower back and forth over grassy acreage day after day. Mr. Ogg gave me a "clean piece"—a 5-shot .22 bearing a 2-inch stainless steel barrel, custom-made PVC silencer, and textured rubber grips—with specific instructions on how to put it to effective use.
First, I was to ride, he told me, in a yellow-top taxi to her enclave, hop out three blocks away from her mansion, and stroll off, clipboard in hand. I played a meter reader or pollster. Was I with him? I nodded I was. At that hour of the day, she'd be at home alone when I knocked. After she answered the door, I chunked two caps in her heart. Did I know where the heart was in the chest? I nodded I did. I then pocketed the .22 and strolled away, the clipboard still as my prop. This ballsy drama unfolded in broad daylight. I knew the deal was legit when he paid me half the cash (one tax-free grand) up front. No wad that big had ever greased my palm. We shook on it. Mr. Ogg lit up a jay (he smoked grass back then), but I passed on his offer for a toke.
The job started out as we'd planned it. The yellow-top taxi was air-conditioned. You had to like that. The cabbie didn't say squat until he braked and barked out my fare. I over-tipped him to forget my face, and we’d never met. The day was brisk, the sky painted china blue. For a more realistic touch I'd clasped a few tally sheets to the clipboard.
If I'd any second thoughts, I kept no memory of them. My skin rash would ravage me later. Still a virgin, I gripped the gun steel, and my skin was unblemished. How did I feel? Later on I'd drop Ecstasy, and the tingly bliss buzzing through my body felt as I did on that morning.
Naturally I got turned around on the unfamiliar streets. Lame, right? After I looped the same block twice, I paid a yardman pruning a rose on a trellis for the directions to the mansion I sought.
Noting the demolition red TR7 parked at the mansion's curb, I knew Mr. Ogg's pest was at home. Game on, Tommy Mack . I consulted my clipboard as if verifying I had the correct address. Unlike Mr. Ogg's big lawn, hers was a strand of manicured green centered by a blue stone fountain of nude cherubs spritzing up chlorinated water. I wondered if lovers flipped their lucky pennies into the pool. Sticking on the dull but able face of a pollster, I clacked a pewter horseshoe, her notion for a door knocker.
The pest matching Mr. Ogg's photo appeared in the doorway. She was a tall drink, and a whiff of a pre-lunch gin wafted off her. She'd financed several face-lifts, stretching her mottled skin to the point where her ears jugged out near the back of her skull. That amused me, but I didn't laugh. I wasn't clear on why she had to die, but I wasn't paid to ask questions. My hand slithered into my pocket, and my fingers wrapped to the grips of Mr. Ogg's clean piece.
She switched on a look of pained annoyance. "You people again?"
"You people…?" I said.
"You pollsters are terribly inefficient. This is too much. I'm having a No Soliciting sign staked out by the fountain."
"Just a few more questions for the record."
"Why? My opinions haven't altered."
"We're double-checking. The computer data has to be accurate. Garbage in, garbage out. See? Please bear with us."
"Perhaps you misunderstood your supervisor." Her condescending tone griped me. "We use our best patience with you people ."
There she went again. "You people…?" I said.
"Don't be disingenuous. You know. You people . Negroes. Blacks. Afro-Americans. Or whatever you go by now."
"Do you like it living in this 'hood?"
"It's neighborhood, and, yes, I do like it fine. Work hard, and someday all this can be yours, as well."
She was a doozy, and Mr. Ogg had good reason to dislike her , I thought.
"Look, I'm running late. Can we wrap this up?" she said.
"As you wish it." My hand clutching her death sentence emerged from my pocket.
Her last utterance was,
First, I was to ride, he told me, in a yellow-top taxi to her enclave, hop out three blocks away from her mansion, and stroll off, clipboard in hand. I played a meter reader or pollster. Was I with him? I nodded I was. At that hour of the day, she'd be at home alone when I knocked. After she answered the door, I chunked two caps in her heart. Did I know where the heart was in the chest? I nodded I did. I then pocketed the .22 and strolled away, the clipboard still as my prop. This ballsy drama unfolded in broad daylight. I knew the deal was legit when he paid me half the cash (one tax-free grand) up front. No wad that big had ever greased my palm. We shook on it. Mr. Ogg lit up a jay (he smoked grass back then), but I passed on his offer for a toke.
The job started out as we'd planned it. The yellow-top taxi was air-conditioned. You had to like that. The cabbie didn't say squat until he braked and barked out my fare. I over-tipped him to forget my face, and we’d never met. The day was brisk, the sky painted china blue. For a more realistic touch I'd clasped a few tally sheets to the clipboard.
If I'd any second thoughts, I kept no memory of them. My skin rash would ravage me later. Still a virgin, I gripped the gun steel, and my skin was unblemished. How did I feel? Later on I'd drop Ecstasy, and the tingly bliss buzzing through my body felt as I did on that morning.
Naturally I got turned around on the unfamiliar streets. Lame, right? After I looped the same block twice, I paid a yardman pruning a rose on a trellis for the directions to the mansion I sought.
Noting the demolition red TR7 parked at the mansion's curb, I knew Mr. Ogg's pest was at home. Game on, Tommy Mack . I consulted my clipboard as if verifying I had the correct address. Unlike Mr. Ogg's big lawn, hers was a strand of manicured green centered by a blue stone fountain of nude cherubs spritzing up chlorinated water. I wondered if lovers flipped their lucky pennies into the pool. Sticking on the dull but able face of a pollster, I clacked a pewter horseshoe, her notion for a door knocker.
The pest matching Mr. Ogg's photo appeared in the doorway. She was a tall drink, and a whiff of a pre-lunch gin wafted off her. She'd financed several face-lifts, stretching her mottled skin to the point where her ears jugged out near the back of her skull. That amused me, but I didn't laugh. I wasn't clear on why she had to die, but I wasn't paid to ask questions. My hand slithered into my pocket, and my fingers wrapped to the grips of Mr. Ogg's clean piece.
She switched on a look of pained annoyance. "You people again?"
"You people…?" I said.
"You pollsters are terribly inefficient. This is too much. I'm having a No Soliciting sign staked out by the fountain."
"Just a few more questions for the record."
"Why? My opinions haven't altered."
"We're double-checking. The computer data has to be accurate. Garbage in, garbage out. See? Please bear with us."
"Perhaps you misunderstood your supervisor." Her condescending tone griped me. "We use our best patience with you people ."
There she went again. "You people…?" I said.
"Don't be disingenuous. You know. You people . Negroes. Blacks. Afro-Americans. Or whatever you go by now."
"Do you like it living in this 'hood?"
"It's neighborhood, and, yes, I do like it fine. Work hard, and someday all this can be yours, as well."
She was a doozy, and Mr. Ogg had good reason to dislike her , I thought.
"Look, I'm running late. Can we wrap this up?" she said.
"As you wish it." My hand clutching her death sentence emerged from my pocket.
Her last utterance was,
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