Frank carried a small backpack. His Chevy pickup was parked in the lot. Sal’s was farther up along the curb. They always met at Revere Beach. Frank had talked about being followed and being careful, and at first Sal had thought that sounded smart. But now he thought, who the fuck was going to follow them? Earlier Sal had meant to tell Frank that tonight was his last job, but he didn’t know how to bring it up without sounding chickenshit. Then he thought, why say anything? The next time Frank called, Sal would say he couldn’t do it, that he’d had enough. Then he thought of moving, getting a whole new place, so he wouldn’t have to see Frank again. The more he thought that, the more he liked it. He liked the idea of Frank calling and there being nobody home.

“Did I tell you the one about the two cannibals who cook themselves a clown?”

“Yeah, you did,” said Sal. “‘This taste funny to you?’ I liked it.” He tried laughing again but his throat hurt. The sand curving ahead of them was divided into two shades of darkness, showing how far the tide had climbed the beach.

Frank was laughing. He put his arm across Sal’s shoulder again, hugging him to him. “You know, I did a guy the other night.”

“‘Did a guy’?” Sal felt Frank’s fingers gripping his shoulder.

“Yeah, I fixed him.”

“You shot him?”

“Doesn’t matter how I did it. It got done, that’s all.” Frank kicked up a spray of sand. “What’s more it felt good. Felt like I was creaming my jeans. He was a guy I’d known a long time. I hadn’t seen him for a while, but he’d been in my head. He was from Manchester, like me. Buddy Roussel—shit, I’d known him way back in school. Ran into him in a club.”

“What’d he do?” Sal tried to step away and got his feet wet.

“Jesus, what didn’t he do? He got me in trouble in school when some equipment was stolen, a bunch of bats mostly, a couple of old gloves. Then he told this girl some stuff about me, that I’d slapped another girl, which was a lie. She’d tried to hit me and I’d put up my hand, that’s all there was to it. I couldn’t even get work because of him. There was a kitchen job I applied for and Buddy said something to the owner. I couldn’t find out what he’d said, but it was total bullshit. I’d done lots of cooking. I was good at it. But it didn’t make any difference. Buddy’d already been at the guy. A fast-food joint, what do they cook anyway? Burgers and ice cream—that’s not food, not real food anyway.”

“Sounds like a long time ago.” Sal’s stomach felt like it got when he was outside in the car and Frank was in the liquor store with his gun—partly it was cold, partly it was fluttery.

“Yeah, what goes around comes around. Course I was willing to let bygones be bygones, but he had to shoot off his mouth. He said he figured I was locked up somewheres. What’d he have to say that for? He had a girl with him, like he was saying it just for her. So I made like I was leaving and waited outside. I got him when he came out. Just like the end of a movie. Boom—The End of Buddy Roussel, starring Francis LeBrun. He was still with the girl, but she didn’t see my face. Shit, she was too busy screaming at Buddy to get the fuck up off the sidewalk, like she didn’t even know he was dead yet, the stupid cow. But I don’t know what Buddy might have told her. Like my name or where he knew me from. Anyway, now I got to change my game plan sooner than I meant to. I got a cousin north of Plymouth and I’d already been talking to him about a job, something legitimate. The trouble is, it means the end of our party. No more liquor stores for a while. I hate to disappoint you.”

A young couple were wrapped up in a blanket with only their toes showing. The men didn’t speak as they walked past. Frank was still scuffing his heels as if he enjoyed making cuts in the sand that the tide would erase. No more liquor stores, thought Sal. He wondered why Frank was telling him this stuff. Again he thought how he wanted to get his share of the money and go home. Tomorrow he’d start looking for a new place. Even Providence wouldn’t be too far away. It didn’t matter that Frank was leaving. He could always come back.

“This cousin of mine, Larry, he’s never been in trouble. He’s a real good cook and even took some classes up in Vermont, at least for a while, but it was too chichi, you hear what I’m saying? Fuckin’ sauces up the wazoo. Now he’s cooking at a school. He said he’d give me a job any time I wanted, full time, part time, it didn’t matter. Larry’s dad was the brother of my old man, the cocksucker. Both dead now, but he was okay. Worked in a hardware store. He gave me my first hammer when I was six or seven. Means a lot, your first hammer.” Frank paused to light a cigarette.

Sal saw Frank’s face flare in the light of the Bic: dark eyes squeezed half shut against the smoke, dark hair combed back from his forehead. Why’s he telling me this? Sal asked himself. He glanced back at the couple on the blanket about fifty feet away.

“That’s too bad about you going away,” said Sal. “We were doing all right.”

“Yeah,” said Frank philosophically. “Everything gets fucked sooner or later.”

“You really killed this guy?”

“Deader’n a doornail.”

“Didn’t it bother you?” Sal tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Sometimes there’s a fuss, and I hate fuss. This time there was no fuss. First he was there, then he wasn’t.”

Sal wanted the night to be over. He wanted to be someplace with other people and lots of activity. “It’s about time to split up the money, wouldn’t you say?” They were again walking side by side on the packed sand. Frank’s cigarette made a red streak as he moved it to his mouth. Sal could feel his wet socks bunch between his toes.

“I got bad news about that,” said Frank, sounding apologetic.

“You mean about the money?”

“Yeah, the money.”

“You mean you didn’t get as much as you thought?”

“No, I got it all right. He had a whole bunch of fifties.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I just don’t want to give you any.”

Sal didn’t think he’d heard right. “Say again?”

“This going-away business, I don’t know how much I’ll need. So, you know, I’m going to keep your share.”

“I thought you’d be getting a job.” Sal forgot that his feet were wet, hardly heard the splash of his footsteps.

“Actually, I got two jobs. I met a guy who offered me a sweet deal at this place. He looked me up a couple of weeks ago. Wants me to do a number. I didn’t have to go find him or anything. He’d heard of me in Portsmouth. Where I was before here. Did I tell you what they call a female clone?”

“Yeah, a clunt. I thought you were going up to this school to cook.”

“Jesus Christ, can’t you keep anything straight? Why the fuck would I stick myself up there in the boondocks unless I had a good reason? The number came first, the cooking came second, Buddy Roussel came third. The school’s going bust; they’re dying for students. They’ll take anybody day or night. It made the whole business a piece of cake.”

“ I still don’t see why you can’t give me the money. I want to buy a dog, a greyhound.” His stomach was hurting again

“Jesus, you’d be better throwing the money into the street. I’m doing you a favor.”

“By not giving me the money?” Sal stopping walking. They were both in the water.

Frank flicked his cigarette through the air. It made a red arc into the surf. “I fuckin’ told you. You fuckin’ stupid? I’m in a jam and got to move fast. And this other job, the big one, after I take care of it, then I’ll have to disappear. Get up to Quebec or someplace and live fat.”

“I could lend it to you.”

“You’re not going to be lending it to me, asshole, I’m going to be taking it.”

“What about me?” Sal thought about what Frank had told him about killing that guy Buddy something.

“You, nothing,” said Frank. “You don’t even exist. Jesus Christ, you’re dumb. Did I ever tell you how you brainwash an Italian?”