The Art of Disposal Read Free Page B

unexamined life is not worth living.'”
    “The examined life is even worse,” Dan the Man said. Then he asked me if I felt bad about doing Crazy Al, and that if I did I should let him know right that second, because it meant I was far too soft for wet-work and that maybe I'd be better use to Eddie doing laundry and sweeping floors.
    I told him to put a sock in it, that I didn't feel a damn thing about Crazy Al except I was glad he was gone if that was how Eddie wanted it. A guy has to lie to get through life. I'm sure Dan the Man sometimes sees all those glassy begging eyes when his head hits the pillow.
    We sat there at my back window, watching that fat hillbilly broad yell at her kids and smoke cigarettes.
    “Yeah, she'll do,” Dan the Man said.
    “What about it though? How close she lives?”
    “Ehh. No sweat,” he said. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked around the room. “I'll learn you something valuable.”
    “What's that?” I said.
    “The art of disposal.”
    I nearly gagged just imagining that big dead mama in her birthday suit, laid out in my bathtub, and me standing over her with a shiny new hacksaw from Home Depot.
    “They'll be asking questions,” I said. “The cops'll be all over me.”
    “Not if he did it,” Dan the Man said, holding back the curtain and staring like he was at a public aquarium.
    I heard that foul-mouthed husband right away, cursing and giving the backhand to his doomed hillbilly kid the way he always did when he wandered outside. The broad had called out her skinny old man to teach the kid some manners. This is what's wrong with the world. The nitwit, deadbeat losers are the ones who never wear rubbers.
    I wasn't watching, but I'd seen it all before, so I could tell what was happening just from the sound of it. F this and F that. Even the guys I work with don't use that kind of language around kids.
    Dan the Man swallowed hard. A single drop of sweat blossomed on his forehead and zig-zagged its way down to an eyebrow. His eyes got narrow and there was an eerie electricity in the room, almost the way it feels before a lightning storm. He let the curtain drop.
    “Yeah, that's our guy. A tasty murder-suicide. No questions.”
    “Sounds good,” I said.
    Dan puffed his cheeks and shook his head. “Boy are you dumb. A pro don't bother making things look like an accident. Who cares if it looks like a hit? You walk up to the guy and put two in the back of his head. Or you strangle him if you need it quiet. But you never, ever whack someone just because. Boy are you ever dumb.”
    Dan the Man sat there and swilled some beer around in his mouth. When he swallowed, it looked like it took some effort; like it caused a minor pain. A cool breeze was making the curtain sway like the white gown of a dancing lady.
    I felt like a chump. All this time he'd just been teasing me. I'd asked about getting rid of that noisy broad—she was driving me nuts—and to him it was a big joke.
    “Tell me why she's off limits,” he said, sounding like a college professor.
    “She's lives too close. It's personal.”
    “Did Eddie or Frank give you a contract on her?”
    “Nope,” I said and looked away.
    “We don't kill willy-nilly,” Dan said.
    “Was he with Joey Bones?”
    “Who?” Dan said.
    “Willy Nilly.”
    “Get outta here,” Dan said, but he laughed.
    I stood up and grabbed two more cold ones from the fridge. Dan the Man took one of the bottles and gave me a crisp nod.
    “Let me tell you somethin' else,” Dan said. “What I done back on that hike: that ain't right. That's what punks do, killing for kicks. I was different back then. You done it the right way. Crazy Al was a job. You got paid for it.”
    Dan the Man got his briefcase off of my sofa and set it on the table. He took a long swig of beer, and then he popped the briefcase clasps and the lid sprung open. He handed me a knife, and as I unbuttoned the leather sheath and pulled it out, I knew what it was and the hairs