Greg Gifune - Night Work

"Meet me at my apartment tomorrow at nine." Frank hung up the phone and poured himself another drink.

The way he felt, he was sure he couldn't get drunk fast enough.

Frank staggered into his apartment well after night had fallen. He put a bag containing two bottles of vodka on the table and got himself a glass from the cupboard. He drank quietly for a while before stumbling into the bedroom.

On the bureau was a large frame containing a picture of him and Sandy on their wedding day. He picked it up, squinted in an attempt to focus.

"This isn't the way I wanted it," he mumbled, and hurled it across the room. In a rage he cleared everything from the top of the dresser with a wild backhand, then spun around and punched the wall. His hand broke through up to the elbow and pain shot from the tips of his fingers to the top of his shoulder. Afraid that he'd broken his hand he yanked it free, lost his balance and fell back onto the kitchen floor.

Eventually Frank regained his footing. He checked his hand, clenching and releasing it until he was certain there were no serious injuries, and had himself another drink.

He stared at the wall phone. If something went wrong in Vermont he might never see Sandy again.

"Hello?"

Despite his condition Frank recognized his father-in-law's voice instantly. They had never been close, and Frank always referred to him by his first name. "Phil, it's Frank. Is Sandy there?"

"I suppose."

After a moment Sandy came on the line. "Frank?"

"Yeah. Hi."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said hesitantly. "It's almost over, honey. I just need you to stay there for one more day, okay?"

"What's happening? I'm scared to death. You never told me what was – "

"Just one more day," he said again. "It'll all be over by then and I'll be able to come and pick you up." He could hear her breathing into the phone, nothing else. "Okay?"

"Okay," she sighed. "Have you been drinking?"

"A little."

"It doesn't sound like a little."

"I guess it doesn't feel like a little either."

It was a long time before either spoke again, but it was Sandy who finally broke the silence. "Are we safe?"

"Yes."

"Are you?"

"Yes," he told her. "I'll come by and get you probably sometime during the afternoon. Late afternoon."

"All right."

"I love you," he said, voice breaking.

"I know you do."

The line went dead, and Frank stared into what was left of his drink.

A light drizzle had begun to fall when Benny pulled into the parking lot. He saw Frank standing in the doorway to the apartment building, saw him motion to the far end of the lot, and parked there. Frank followed, dashing through the rain.

"All set," Benny said as Frank hopped into the seat next to him.

"Everything cool?"

"No troubles." Benny handed him a small canvas bag. Inside, Frank found a pair of gloves he'd requested and a snub-nose. 38 revolver wrapped in a small cloth. He pulled the gun free, surprised by its weight. "Be careful," Benny warned. "It's loaded."

"Is it clean?"

"As clean as they come. No serial numbers."

"Good," Frank muttered.

"Just be sure you're right on top of the target if and when you fire it. It's a good piece but it's very loud, and about as accurate as a phone psychic. You probably couldn't hit a bull in the ass with the thing from twenty paces."

Frank nodded, put the gun away and glanced around the unfamiliar car. "What's the deal with the wheels?"

"Legit papers and ready to burn as soon as we're through."

"And Bertalia?"

Benny gazed through the rain-blurred windshield. "I got a buddy who does computer hacking. It's amazing how much shit you can dig up with only a name these days."

"What do you need, Ben?"

"Five bills should do it."

"Here's a thousand."

Smiling, Benny revealed a set of large teeth. "You don't have to do that, man."

"Just take the fucking money, Benny," Frank said, holding out the wad of cash. "Please."

Benny scratched his chin, stuffed the money into his coat pocket. "Thanks."

"Where is the sonofabitch?"

"Richland," Benny told him. "Little town about ten minutes over the border. He runs a little tire shop, gas station – some shit like that – it's perfect. Shouldn't take us more than a few hours."

Frank looked at him. "Us?"

"I got nothing else to do."

"I didn't expect you to come, Benny."

"I know," he said quietly.

Frank cracked the window; felt splinters of rain hit his face like little pins and needles. "You could've had a piece of the business. Why did you side with me over Vincent?"

"I didn't. I sided with me."

"But Vincent's offer was the better deal. It was the logical business move."

Benny shrugged. "Maybe."

"I'm talking strictly from a business angle," Frank told him. "Most guys would've jumped at the chance."

"There's more to life than business, Frank." Benny took a chocolate bar from his coat and unwrapped it. "This was a hell of a ride while it lasted, but I'm not cut out for all the rest. I'm just a petty criminal, Frank, and that's the way I like it. Petty criminals live longer. Besides, Vin's fucking nuts. He's a good guy and all, but he's nuts. I made a couple dollars, saw a couple places, met some cool people, did my job and didn't make my exit feet first. You got to know when to fold up your tent and go home, Frank. I'm not saying I didn't think about Vin's offer, but Christ, I got a wife and two babies at home. I don't need that shit, you know what I'm saying?"

Frank lit a cigarette, exhaled through the opening in the window. "I know exactly what you're saying."

"You always treated me with respect," Benny said, chomping the candy bar. "If you've got some business to take care of, I want to help you out. I figure I owe you that much."

"You don't owe me a thing, Ben."

"I'm glad you feel that way." Benny crumpled the wrapper, tossed it on the floor. "Because after today, I'm done."

"So am I."

Benny nodded. "Then let's go."

The snow, it seemed, had gotten heavier since Frank had gone inside. Benny continued to watch the mirrors, hoping that the road would remain clear.

He jumped; the sound of the. 38 was unmistakable. The blast must have been deafening in such a small place, he thought.

"Come on, Frank," he said aloud, looking to see if the boom had caused suspicion at the convenience store across the street. "Come on."

Frank stepped back. The gun was still smoking, and he looked down at Artie Bertalia through the quickly dissipating cloud. He had plastered himself against the wall where he'd fallen, and once he realized Frank had shot a hole in the wall behind him instead of directly into his mouth, he began to cry again.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he sobbed, his hands running over his plump bloodied face as if to make certain everything was still intact. "Jesus Christ, sweet, sweet Jesus Christ." He adjusted his glasses, peered through them at Frank. "Please, I didn't – I did some things I shouldn't have done to your mother, but – I'm very ashamed of those things, really, I – please, I – I didn't kill anyone – I didn't kill anyone. It was a long time ago, I – I was just a kid myself."

Frank ran a hand through his damp hair. His ears were still ringing. "Shut up, asshole."

"I don't deserve to die – not like this – please, not like this. I'll do anything you say, but – please."

Frank pointed the gun at him a second time. "Shut the fuck up."

"Okay," Artie gasped. "O-Okay."

Frank focused on the blood, then the puddle of urine, then his own hands. They had begun to tremble, the odd steadiness a thing of the past. His mind replayed hundreds of images, and all he could be certain of was that at that exact moment, he was totally, completely, helplessly insane.