In 2005 I decided that I knew so many thriller authors I should edit an anthology. It developed into a collection of hitman stories called These Guns For Hire. I’m hugely proud of that antho, which was published in 2006 by Bleak House. I also discovered that the easiest way to get published is to stick one of your own stories in the anthology that you’re editing.

“Why should you care? Guys like you got no scruples.”

If I had any scruples, I would have fed this asshole his teeth. Or at least walked away.

But he was right.

“Half up front,” I said. “Half at the scene.”

He looked at me like flowers had suddenly sprouted out of my bald head, Elmer Fudd-style.

“At the scene?”

I’d been through this before, with others. Everyone seemed to want their spouse dead these days. Contract murder was the new black.

I leaned back, pushing away the red plastic basket with the half-eaten hot dog. We were the only customers in Jimmy’s Red Hots, the food being the obvious reason we dined alone. The shit on a bun they served was a felony.. If my stomach wasn’t clenched tight with codeine withdrawal spasms, I might have complained.

“You want her dead,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “The cops always go after the husband.”

He didn’t seem to mind the local cuisine, and jammed the remainder of his dog into his mouth, hoarding it in his right cheek as he spoke.

“I was thinking she’s home alone, someone breaks in to rob the place, gets surprised and kills her.”

“And why weren’t you home?”

“I was out with friends.”

He was a big guy. Over six feet, neck as thick as his head so he looked like a redwood with a face carved into it. Calloused knuckles and a deep tan spoke of a blue collar trade, maybe construction. Probably considered killing the little lady himself, many times. A hands-on type. He seemed disappointed having to hire out.

Found me through the usual channels. Knew someone who knew someone. Fact was, the sicker I got, the less I cared about covering my tracks. Blind drops and background checks and private referrals were things of the past. So many people knew what I did I might as well be walking around Chicago wearing a sandwich board that said, “Phineas Troutt–He Kills People For Money.”

“Cops will know you hired someone,” I told him. “They’ll look at your sheet.”

He squinted, mean dropping over him like a veil.

“How do you know about that?”

The hot dog smell was still getting to me, so I picked up my basket and set it on the garbage behind out table.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Battery.”

He shrugged. “Domestic bullshit. Little bitch gets lippy sometimes.”

“Don’t they all.”

I felt the hot dog coming back up, forced it to stay put. A sickening, flu-like heat washed over me.

“You okay, buddy?”

Sweat stung my eyes, and I noticed my hands were shaking. Another cramp hit, making me flinch.

“What are you, some kinda addict?”

“Cancer,” I said.

He didn’t appear moved by my response.

“Can you still do this shit?”

“Yeah.”

“How long you got?”

Months? Weeks? The cancer had metastasized from my pancreas, questing for more of me to conquer. At this stage, treatment was bullshit. Only thing that helped was cocaine, tequila, and codeine. Being broke meant a lot of pain, plus withdrawal, which was almost as bad.

I had to get some money. Fast.

“Long enough,” I told him.

“You look like a little girl could kick your ass.”

I gave him my best tough-guy glare, then reached for the half-empty glass bottle of ketchup. Maintaining eye contact, I squeezed the bottle hard in my trembling hands. In one quick motion, I jerked my wrist to the side, breaking the top three inches of the bottle cleanly off.

“Jesus,” he said.

I dropped the piece on the table and he stared at it, mouth hanging open like a fish. I shoved my other hand into my pocket, because I cut my palm pretty deep. Happens sometimes. Glass isn’t exactly predictable.

“You leave the door open,” I told him. “I come in around 2am. I break your wife’s neck. Then I break your nose.”

He went from awed to pissed. “Fuck you, buddy.”

“Cops won’t suspect you if you’re hurt. I’ll also leave some of my blood on the scene.”

I watched it bounce around behind his Neanderthal brow ridge. Waited for him to fill in all the blanks. Make the connections. Take it to the next level.

His thoughts were so obvious I could practically see them form pictures over his head.

“Yeah.” He nodded, slowly at first, then faster. “That DNA shit. Prove someone else was there. And you don’t care if you leave any, cause you’re a dead man anyway.”

I shrugged like it was no big deal. Like I’d fully accepted my fate.

“When do we do this?”

“When can you have the money ready?”

“Anytime.”

“How about tonight?”

The dull film over his eyes evaporated, revealing a much younger man. One who had dreams and hopes and unlimited possibilities.

“Tonight is great. Tonight is perfect. I can’t believe I’m finally gonna be rid of the bitch.”

“Till death do you part. Which brings me to the original question. Why don’t you just divorce her?”

He grinned, showing years of bad oral hygiene.

“Bitch ain’t keeping half my paycheck for life.”

Ain’t marriage grand?

He gave me his address, we agreed upon a time, and then I followed him outside, put on a baseball cap and some sunglasses, escorted him down a busy Chinatown sidewalk to the bank, and rammed a knife in his back the second after he punched his PIN into the enclosed ATM.

I managed to puncture his lung before piercing his heart, and he couldn’t draw a breath, couldn’t scream. I put my bleeding hand under his armpit so he didn’t fall over, and again he gave me that look, the one of utter disbelief.

“Don’t be surprised,” I told him, pressing his CHECKING ACCOUNT button. “You were planning on killing me tonight, after I did your wife. You didn’t want to pay me the other half.”

I pressed WITHDRAW CASH and punched in a number a few times higher than our agreed upon figure.

He tried to say something, but bloody spit came out.

“Plus, a large ATM withdrawal a few hours before your wife gets killed? How stupid do you think the cops are?”

His knees gave out, and I couldn’t hold him much longer. My injured palm was bleeding freely, soaking into his shirt. But leaving DNA was the least of my problems. This was a busy bank, and someone would be walking by any second.

I yanked out the knife, having to put my knee against his back to do so because of the suction; gravity knives don’t have blood grooves. Then I wiped the blade on his shirt, and jammed it and the cash into my jacket pocket.

He collapsed onto the machine, and somehow managed to croak, “Please.”

“No sympathy here,” I told him, pushing open the security door. “Guys like me got no scruples.”