The Good Assassin

It didn't take that long for David to drive to the one-stop market outside of town. No one was at the fuel pumps out front, but several pickups were parked at the door, and an old battered 1970's muscle car sat to the side. A red neon OPEN sign blinked on and off in the front window. There had been stories for years about illegal gambling at Shorty's. Nothing had ever come of it. In a dry county, with not much else to do, he suspected the law knew and kept watch so it didn't get out of hand.

David navigated the swinging door and stood inside until his eyes adjusted. The small market held the usual assortment of economy size items on racks across the front. A game room opened to the back, where pinball and video machines circled two full size pool tables. Over the electronic beeps, bells and squeals of the game machines, a juke box valiantly sang out a mournful country tune. The atmosphere was filled with smoke. The blue haze hovered overhead, obscuring the faces of the players and spectators surrounding one of the pool tables.

Shorty himself was lounging behind the counter at the cash register. David asked for Buddy Adams, and was answered with a thumb pointing to the back as the man never took his eyes off a small television. David could tell without looking twice it was an adult channel.

Moving to the rear, he fought the urge to cough from the cloud of tobacco smoke faintly tinged with the sweet smell of marijuana. He recognized Adams as one of the pool players. The game was obviously going Adams way as he continued to run the table. His opponent was striding beside the table, pushing the watching men out of his way. Adams made snorting noises through his nose every time a ball dropped into a pocket. David found a corner table. Its one short leg, shored up with a saucer turned upside down, threatened to collapse when David leaned against the table to unhook his crutches.

The looser slapped money in Buddy's hand and slung his cuestick on the table. It was picked up by a challenger, but Buddy tucked the bills in his shirt pocket and pointed to David. He picked up a can of beer and came to the corner where David waited.

"How do, friend. Buy you a drink?" He held up the illegal beer.

David shook his head, "Let's keep this quick."

Buddy took a long swallow from the can, then sat across from David. He turned his head enough to view most of the room. "I want custody of Orville."

Even though he didn't believe he heard right, the first thing David noticed was the absence of the southern twang from Buddy's voice. "What are you talking about?" David asked, his own voice rising in pitch. "How could any self-respecting judge award custody of the boy to somebody who--" David bit his tongue when he realized he didn't know the first thing about Buddy Adams. He had only been going on gut feelings.

Adams answered with an easy smile. "Sure you won't have a beer? No? Okay, let's get out of here. He waited until David picked up his crutches and stood erect.

Buddy led the way to the door. "Hey, man, take it easy," he waved to Shorty and was rewarded with a grunt.

It was full dark as Buddy walked to the side of the building to the old car. The corner of the building cut off the overhead light at the door and only the scant light of stars illuminated the side parking lot. Muffled speech, filtered by the short distance, caught David's ear as someone followed them from the market. The air was warm, with heat rising from the asphalt, but David felt a chill go down his back as the hair on his neck stood on end. Like when they say someone walks on your grave, he thought. Buddy grabbed his arm, and pulled him around the corner.

David stumbled on the broken pavement, recovering with the aid of a crutch. "What the hell," he started.

Buddy held up a hand and shook his head. He listened for a moment then peeked around the corner. "You own a red Durango?" he said softly.

David nodded curtly and turned to start back to the front of the building. Buddy stopped him by the expedient maneuver of kicking a crutch out from under him. David wasn't prone to use profanity, but definitely not in the mood for any cat and mouse games. He caught himself on the car and threw a few choice words in Buddy's direction, then stopped cold when he saw the gleam of metal in Buddy's hand.

Buddy pressed the automatic in David's side. "You don't want any trouble, do you friend? Best be quiet about it. Let's go for a ride." He opened the passenger side door of the old car. "Get in."

They didn't call the 70's model automobiles muscle cars for nothing. Tires squealed as they turned out of the parking lot, driving without lights. Buddy went through the gears like a Nascar driver and the big 450 V-eight engine carried them out of range as gun shots rang out behind them. David was pressed back in the seat, speechless as the car picked up speed. When Buddy finally slowed, he still couldn’t speak.

Buddy turned on the headlights and swung the heavy car onto a side road. Around the bend, he pulled into the Center Hill Lake access area. He stopped the car on the gravel launching ramp and turned off the lights. Pulling a cigarette package out of the console, he felt around with a finger, then crumpled the empty paper and tossed it out the window. A sliver of the rising moon showed dimly over the opposite bank, streaking the calm water with fingers of pale light.

David found his tongue when it came unglued from the roof of his mouth. "If you would tell me what is going on," he said a little more politely than last time, "I might not kill you after all."