THE MORNING SUN BOTHERING HIS EYES. HE SITTING in a diner across from where he follow that Chinese bitch with the baby to last night, smoking a cigarette and watching. Watching and waiting, long as it took. With the look he give the waitress when she refill his coffee cup, she ain’t hassling him about no cigarette. She know he hurt people, he hurt her if she give him an excuse. She look in his eyes and see that. He love the second when they figure it out.

But it piss him off when they think he stupid. Muscle and no brains. Now, how you gonna think that, with how small he was? How somebody his size get to be the most fearsome killer in five boroughs? Brains, that’s how. Brains and planning. But people never see the work he put in, never give him credit. They think he just show up and do the drama, shooting and cutting. Killing is a tough game, takes mad planning. You need to scope your marks. You got to know when they come and when they go. Who else live in the house. What kind of firepower they got. When they sleeping and when they awake listening, waiting on you. You need the careful work first-then you do the drama.

Okay, the drama the best part. The look on their face when they beg for mercy. The noises they make when he slice through their flesh with his knife. He saw shit nobody else ever saw, felt like God with life in his hand. Life and death. Death with a capital D. But that the payoff, and you only get paid after hard work. He do the hard work alone. He case and he plan. The only one he ever brang was the dog, No Joke. So when it came to the killing, even if four or five shorties be on the job with him, he do it himself. He do the work, so he deserve the payoff.

The coffee taste like shit. The diner next to a bus stop. The exhaust fumes coming in the front door hurt his head. The morning after, he always fucked up, though. Crashing from the high. He spend days getting ready for last night’s job, sitting quiet, nerves mad twitching. Watching the mark walk around like he all that, like he different than anybody else. Fucking joke. The only difference is, he overconfident. He stupid as a pig to know what he know and not see it coming. Most marks got the sense to know you coming, but not him. The connect at Queens Auto fix up the van to look like it from a flower shop. He sit on that house three days running, and still this motherfucker ain’t catch on. A nigga in a flower truck sitting on your house for three days, you better fucking notice. If you don’t, you see what happen.

He slam his cup down and laugh. A woman at the next table look up, snap him back to reality. Fuck, he so busy patting himself on the back, he forget to case. The building on a side street, diagonal-like from where he sitting. He pick this diner so he can watch the door, see if he spot that Chinese bitch again. The architect.

He don’t like sitting here in the open, but he don’t wanna bring the van too close to last night’s job. This diner just a few blocks north from that house. Not that he listen to shit about don’t return to the scene of the crime. Show you what TV know about the street. He always go back. It never give him trouble. He check out the scene the next day, see what the police up to, watch them looking for him. Get right up in their face, they don’t even pay no attention. But they stop him last night, him and No Joke, so today he being careful.

Okay, shit go bad last night. One motherfucker screw up the whole scenario. First he show up late. That mess with the plan right there. Then, when the time come to do the deed, he lose his nerve. With all the delay, they hear sirens. They got to break out real fast. So they don’t tie shit up neat the way they should. They all split in different directions. He take No Joke and go pick up the van where he parked a few blocks down, drop his mask and gloves in a trash can. He walking down the street, just chilling. But then he notice his shoes all covered with kerosene. His hands, too-that shit went right through the gloves. The sirens was coming, and he got concerned. Not nervous, just a little concerned. The residue and shit, they use that for proof if they catch you. So he take off his shoes and throw ’em under a car. And his hands, the only thing he could do was piss on ’em. A police come up. There he was, barefoot, pissing on his hands, No Joke looking like one nasty motherfuck. So what the cop did? Give him a desk appearance ticket for indecency and send him on his way. Can you believe that? It just make you laugh.

Now he planning Phase Two. Every job cast a shadow. Maybe somebody see too much or know too much or get in your way. Part of being good at killing is being thorough. You got to clean up afterward, even if you tired and don’t feel like it. It bother him that he didn’t get a chance to do it last night. That motherfucker gonna pay for that, ’cause now he was sitting in this diner casing again when he rather be home, sleeping it off. But you got to do what you got to do, and there was more of ’em to take care of. A few of ’em, matter of fact. Going about their business right now, not knowing they had an appointment with him down the road. He stubbed out his cigarette and threw a dollar down on the table. Fucking bitch waitress deserve to get ditched, but why attract attention with something stupid? Eyes on the prize. Time to check out that building across the street.

MAYA SAT IN HER BOUNCY SEAT WITH HER FAVORITE stuffed bear tucked in beside her, watching Melanie try on and reject garment after garment. This happened sometimes when Melanie was really exhausted. She just couldn’t figure out what to wear to work, and it was never a good sign for the rest of the day. At least Maya seemed happy. Normally she fussed in that seat, much preferring the freedom of lolling on her back on a blanket, kicking her pudgy legs.

“Qué chica buena, sitting so nice for Mommy,” Melanie cooed.

Maya gave a drooly smile, her dark eyes shining like two little coals, and grabbed her bear with her plump hands. She managed to get its ear up to her mouth. Melanie couldn’t help smiling despite her bleak mood.

“You’re getting awful good at that, nena,” she said. “Teddy’s ears are in big trouble.” She knelt down and hid her face momentarily in her daughter’s neck, drinking in her milky fragrance. If only she could stay here forever and forget everything-her husband, her job. Call in sick and snuggle under the covers with Maya. But how could she? The minutes were ticking away. With her marriage in trouble, she couldn’t afford to screw up at work. She pulled on a skirt and blouse that vaguely matched and quickly applied some lipstick. She’d do her eyes in the taxi. She was late already, and she had to face Bernadette this morning about the Benson case. That, she suspected, was the real reason for her trouble getting dressed.

It wasn’t only Melanie. Everybody in the office was afraid of Bernadette. She was one of those bosses who gloried in persecuting their unfortunate underlings. She was obviously an unhappy person, but knowing that didn’t make her any easier to deal with. Melanie was pretty unhappy herself these days, but she still treated people decently. Bernadette, on the other hand-one minute she was sweet as candy, but the next she was blasting you till it hurt. You had to respect her, though, because she was good at her job. Every once in a while, Melanie would set herself the challenge of figuring Bernadette out, getting along with her, even winning her friendship. It worked for a while. Bernadette would reward her with praise or a juicy assignment, and Melanie would be thrilled. Bernadette was her mentor, her role model-for a day or a week. It never lasted. Bernadette turned on her, every time. If Melanie’s work was less than perfect, she wasn’t worthy. If it was perfect, she was a threat and needed to be put in her place. Either way Melanie lost.