You look like a milkweed.

She started laughing, not sure why. She laughed so hard it almost hurt. Then, with her hands braced on the edge of the sink, she leaned forward and hung her head. She could feel her emotional energy drifting up to that ever-present knot of tension at the base of her skull. Her shoulders started to heave, and the laughter turned to tears. She fought it off and quickly regained her composure.

“You are a total wreck,” she said to her reflection.

She brushed off as much of the toilet paper as she could, fixed her makeup, and said the hell with it. Nothing was going to stop this meeting from happening. She took a deep breath for courage and exited into the bar.

The crowd surprised her, not so much its makeup, which was about what she’d expected, but more the simple fact that there was such a big crowd on a nasty night like this. A group of truckers was playing black-jack by the jukebox. Leather-clad bikers and their bleached-blond girlfriends had a monopoly on the pool table, as if waiting out the storm. T-shirts, jeans, and flannel shirts seemed to be the dress code for a seat at the bar. These folks were hard-core, and this was clearly a place that depended on its regulars.

“Can I help you, miss?” the bartender asked.

“Not just yet, thanks. I’m looking for someone.”

“Yeah? Who?”

Sally hesitated, not exactly sure how to answer that. “Just, uh, sort of a blind date.”

“That must be Jimmy,” said one of the men at the bar.

The others laughed. Sally smiled awkwardly, the inside joke completely lost on her. The bartender explained, “Jimmy’s the umpire in our softball league. They don’t come any blinder.”

“Ah, I get it,” she said. They laughed again at this Jimmy’s expense. Sally broke away and continued across the bar before their interest could return to the lost girl in the wet clothes. Her gaze fixed on the third booth from the back, near the broken air-hockey table. A black guy with penetrating eyes and no smile was staring back at her. He was wearing a dark blue shirt with black pants, which made Sally smile to herself. Never before had she laid eyes on him, but his look and those clothes were exactly what he’d described over the telephone. It was him.

She walked toward the booth and said, “I’m Sally.”

“I know.”

“How’d you-” she started to ask, then stopped. There wasn’t a woman in the joint who looked like her.

“Have a seat,” he said.

She slid into the booth and sat across from him. “Sorry I’m late. Raining like crazy.”

He reached across the table and plucked a shred of toilet paper from her sleeve. “What’s it raining now, fake snow?”

“That’s toilet paper.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Long story,” she said. “It was all over me. Five minutes ago I looked like a milkweed.”

“With breasts.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, well. Some things can’t be helped.”

“You want something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

He swirled the ice cubes around in his half-empty glass. Rum and Coke, she guessed, since that was the special of the night. The Coke looked completely flat, about what she expected from Sparky’s.

“I watched you drive up,” he said. “Nice car.”

“If you like cars.”

“I do. From the looks of things, you do, too.”

“Not really. My husband did.”

“You mean your second husband or your first?”

She shifted uncomfortably. They hadn’t discussed her marital status on the telephone. “My second.”

“The French one?”

“What did you do, check up on me?”

“I check on all my clients.”

“I’m not your client yet.”

“You will be. Rarely do the ones who look like you come this far and back down.”

“How do you mean, look like me?”

“Young. Rich. Gorgeous. Pissed off.”

“You call this gorgeous?”

“I’m assuming this isn’t your best look.”

“Fair assumption.”

“What about the pissed-off part. That fair, too?”

“I’m not really pissed off.”

“Then what are you?”

“I don’t see how my feelings are at all relevant. The only thing that matters is whether you want to do business, Mr.-whatever your name is.”

“You can call me Tatum.”

“That your name?”

“Nickname.”

“Like Tatum O’Neal?”

He grimaced, sucking down his drink. “No, not like fucking Tatum O’Neal. Tatum like Jack Tatum.”

“Who’s Jack Tatum?”

“Meanest football player that ever lived. Defensive back, Oakland Raiders. He’s the guy who popped Darryl Stingley and turned him quadriplegic. They used to call him Assassin. Hell, he liked to call himself Assassin.”

“Is that what you call yourself, too? Assassin?”

He leaned into the table, his expression turning very serious. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

She was about to answer, but the bartender was suddenly standing beside their booth. He glared at Sally and said, “What you meetin’ with this guy for?”

“Excuse me?” she said.

“This piece of dirt sittin’ on the other side of the table. What you meetin’ with him for?”

She looked at Tatum, then back at the bartender. “That’s really none of your business.”

“This is my bar. It’s definitely my business.”

Tatum spoke up. “Theo, just put a cork in it, will you?”

“I want you out of here.”

“Ain’t finished my drink yet.”

“You got five minutes,” said Theo. “Then be gone.” He turned and walked back to his place behind the bar.

“What’s with him?” asked Sally.

“Tightass. Guy finds some lawyer to get him off death row, thinks he’s better ’n everyone else.”

“You don’t think he knows what we’re here talking about, do you?”

“Hell no. He probably thinks I’m pimping you.”

Her rain-soaked blouse suddenly felt even more clingy. “I guess I brought that on myself.”

“Never mind him. Let’s cut the crap and get down to it.”

“I didn’t bring any money.”

“Naturally. I didn’t give you a price yet.”

“How much is it going to be?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How complicated the job is.”

“What do you need to know?”

“For starters, what exactly do you want? Two broken ribs? A concussion? Stitches? Mess with his face, don’t mess with his face? I can put the guy in the hospital for a month, if you want.”

“I want more than that.”

“More?”

She looked one way, then the other, as if to make sure they were alone. “I want this person dead.”

Tatum didn’t answer.

She said, “How much for that?”

He burrowed his tongue into his cheek, thinking, as if sizing her up all over again. “That depends, too.”

“On what?”

“Well, who’s your target?”

She lowered her eyes, then looked straight at him. “You’re not going to believe it.”

“Try me.”

She almost chuckled, then shook it off. “I’m way serious. You are really not going to believe it.”

Her day had finally arrived.

Sally felt a rush of adrenaline as she sat at her kitchen table enjoying her morning coffee. No cream, two packs of artificial sweetener. A toasted plain bagel with no butter or cream cheese, just a side of raspberry preserves that went untouched. A small glass of juice, fresh-squeezed from the pink grapefruit that her gardener had handpicked from the tree in her backyard. It was her usual weekday breakfast, and today was to be no different from any other.

Except that today, she knew, would change everything.

“More coffee, ma’am?” asked Dinah, her live-in domestic.

“No, thank you.” She laid her newspaper aside and headed upstairs to the bedroom. The house had two large master suites on the second story. Hers was on the east side, facing the bay, decorated in an airy, British Colonial style that was reminiscent of the Caribbean islands. His was on the west, a much darker room with wood-beamed ceilings and an African motif. Sally didn’t like all the dead animals on the walls, so they used his room only when he wasn’t abroad, which was about every other month for their entire eighteen months of marriage. The arrangement had lasted just long enough for her to reach the first financial milestone of an elaborate prenuptial agreement. Eighteen months equaled eighteen million dollars, plus the house-big money for Sally, chump change for Jean Luc Trudeau. Lucky for her, she’d had the foresight to take the eighteen million not in cash but in stock in her husband’s company, which promptly went public and-kaboom!-she was suddenly worth forty-six million dollars. She could have earned another quarter-million for each additional month, and there were certainly worse men to be married to than Jean Luc. He was rich, successful, reasonably handsome, and plenty generous to his third and much younger wife. But Sally wasn’t happy. People said she was never happy. She didn’t apologize for that. She had her reasons.