The community had held a fund-raiser for him. Collected a few thousand bucks. It was all sitting in a bank account untouched. Taking the money would have seemed to him to be an act of betrayal for those he had lost, so the money sat, though he certainly could have used it. He was getting by, barely. But barely was all he needed. Because barely was all he was now.

He settled back against the wood of the bench and shrugged his coat closer around him. He was not here by accident.

He was here on a job.

And as he looked to his left, he saw that it was time to get to work.

He rose and headed after the two people he’d been waiting for.

Chapter

3

THE BAR WAS much like every other bar Decker had ever been in.

Dark, cool, musty, smoky, where light fell funny and everyone looked like someone you knew or wanted to know. Or, more likely, wanted to forget. Where everyone was your friend until he was your enemy and cracked a pool stick over your skull. Where things were quiet until they weren’t. Where you could drink away anything that life threw at you. Where a thousand Billy Joel wannabes would serenade you into the wee hours.

Only I could drink a thousand drinks and never forget a damn thing. I would just remember every detail of the thousand drinks down to the shapes of the ice cubes.

Decker took a seat at the bar where he could see himself in the reflection of the big mirror behind the stacked rows of Beam and Beef, Glen and Sapphire.

He ordered a dollar draft, clutched the mug between his hammy hands, and studied the mirror. Back corner and to the right. They had sat down there, the couple he’d followed into the place.

The gent was late fortyish, the girl half that. The man was dressed in the best he had. A pinstripe wool three-piece, yellow tie dotted with blue flecks in the shape of what looked to be sperms on their way to fertilize an egg, and a dandy pocket handkerchief to match. Hair swept back revealed a lined, mature brow—attractive on a man, less so on a woman, but then life had always been unfair that way. Impressive diamond rings on the manicured fingers. Probably stolen. Or fakes. Like he was. His toenails were probably clipped too. His shoes were polished, but he’d missed the backs. They were scuffed, which came much closer to the man’s actual nature. He was scuffed too. And he only wanted to impress on the way in, not on the way out. After the way out, you’d never see the prick again.

She was doe-eyed and dough-brained. Pretty in a vacuous, seen-it-a-thousand-times sort of way. Like watching a 3-D movie without the requisite glasses; something was just off. The lady was so blindly faithful and oblivious that part of you just wanted to walk away and leave her to her fate.

But Decker was being paid not to do that. In fact, he was being paid to do the opposite.

She was dressed in a skirt and jacket and blouse that probably cost more than Decker’s car. Or the car he’d once had. The bank had gotten that too, as banks often did.

She came from old money. She was so used to the privileged life that was attached to such status that it made her incapable of understanding why someone would work so hard to snatch from her things she simply took for granted. That made her a potential victim every minute of every day of her life.

Such was the current moment: the shark and the dummy. Decker saw him as a six, a dirty number in his mind. She was a four, innocuous and uninteresting.

They touched hands and then lips. They shared drinks—he a whiskey sour, she a pink martini.

Figured.

Decker nursed his beer and bided his time. He looked at them without seeming to. In addition to the number tag, to him she was outlined in orange, the guy in purple, the same color he associated with zero, an unwelcome digit. So the guy really represented two numbers to him—six and zero. It seemed complicated, he knew, but he had no difficulty keeping it straight because it was just there in his head as clear as an image in a mirror.

And it wasn’t that he saw them exactly in those colors. It was the perception of those colors. That was the best and only way he could explain the sensation. It wasn’t like they taught a class on this. And he had come to it relatively late in the game. He was just doing the best he could. After all, he thought he’d left the world of Crayola back in kindergarten.

They continued with their lovey-dovey, hand-holding, foot-rubbing, heavy-petting afternoon fun and games. She obviously wanted more. He was unwilling to give it, because you teased a mark. Rushing could only mean bad things. And this guy was good. Not the best Decker had seen, but serviceable. He probably made a decent living.

For a purple zero.

Decker knew the guy was waiting to make an ask. A loan for a business prospect that couldn’t miss. Some tragedy in his extended family that needed financial remedy. He wouldn’t want to do it. Hated himself for it. But this was his last resort. She was his last chance. And he didn’t expect her to understand. Or say yes. The debate framed that way, what other answer could she give? Except, “Yes, my darling. Take double. Triple even. Daddy will never miss it. It’s only money, after all. His money.”

An hour and two more pink martinis later, she left him there. Her parting kiss was tender and moving, and he reacted in just the right way, until she turned away and his expression changed. From one of reciprocal tenderness and love to one of triumph and some might even say cruelty. At least that’s what Decker would say.

Decker did not like interacting with people. He preferred his own company. He hated idle conversation because he no longer understood its point. But this was part of what he did. This was how he paid the bills. So he told himself to get over it. At least for now.

Because it was time to punch the clock.

He carried his beer over to the table in time to put a massive hand on the man’s shoulder and push him back into the seat he was just about to vacate.

Decker sat across from him, eyed the man’s untouched whiskey sour—predators didn’t drink on the job—and then raised his own beer in praise.

“Nice work. I like to see a real pro on the job.”

The man said nothing at first. He eyed Decker, sizing up his unkempt appearance and looking unfavorably impressed.

“Do I know you?” he said at last, his tone snarky. “Because I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Decker sighed. He had expected something a bit original. It was apparently not to be. “No, and you don’t have to know me. All you have to do is look at these.”

He pulled the manila envelope from his coat pocket and passed it across.

The man hesitated but then picked it up.

Decker took a drink of his beer and said, “Open it.”

“Why should I?”

“Fine, then don’t open it. No sweat off here.”

He went to take the envelope, but the man jerked it out of reach. He undid the binding and slid out the half dozen photos.

“First rule of a con, Slick,” said Decker. “Don’t play on the sidelines while you’re on a job. And when I said you were a pro I was being charitable.”

His hand reached out and he tapped the photo on top. “She doesn’t have enough clothes on and neither do you. And by the way, that particular act is illegal in pretty much all states south of the Mason-Dixon.”

The man glanced up, his look one of caution. “How did you get these?”

Again, Decker felt disappointed by the query. “So now it’s just a matter of negotiation. I’m authorized to give you fifty thousand bucks. In return, you write this one off and move on to someone else. In another state.”

The man smiled, slid the photos back, and said, “If you thought these were a real problem for me, why not just show them to her? Why come here and offer me a way out with cash?”