The Killer's New Wife

out at a light, if she were fast enough, and maybe she could get lost in the crowds in Center City. I doubted it though. I was good at following people, assuming I’d follow.
If she was thinking it, she didn’t try. I appreciated that. Sooner or later, she’d make an attempt, but it was nice that she was playing the game for now. I drove around City Hall and headed north toward Fairmount. I turned right and rolled toward the river.
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” she asked as I pulled up outside of a nondescript tan building. The windows were covered over with paper, and there was a simple sign up above the red door: Larry’s Club.
“We’re here to see Larry,” I said, killing the engine.
“Who the hell is Larry?”
I got out and headed toward the door. She followed reluctantly, but kept her distance. I pushed the door open and stepped into a short, dark hall that opened up through some thick velvet curtains that smelled like smoke into a large open room with a stage at one end and a bar on the right. The silver pole glittered, even with the house lights up.
Larry sat at the bar, drinking coffee and counting out cash. He was always there, day and night. He loved his goddamn club, with its worn-out strippers and its drunk clientele. Someone got beat up and robbed in this place at least once per week, but Larry couldn’t give it up.
He was heavyset and older, well into his sixties. His was nearly bald on top but he still wore what was left of his hair long and pulled into a ponytail. His goatee was trimmed carefully, and his Hawaiian shirt looked like it had enough cloth for a sailboat. He looked over as I approached, and Tara lingered near the door, looking disgusted and uncomfortable.
“Ewan,” he said, and gave me an awkward laugh. He definitely wasn’t happy to see me. Not that I could blame him.
We both knew I wasn’t there to be friendly.
“Hello, Larry,” I said and approached across the sticky floor. In the far corner, a bald guy in his fifties sat on a stool. He wore sunglasses and was staring down at a phone cradled in both his hands. Ralph the bouncer was a fixture at Larry’s joint—but I didn’t need to worry about him.
“What can I do for you?” Larry asked, and glanced back toward where Ralph sat, nose still buried in the phone. Larry’s face was locked in a smile, and it turned into a grimace when he realized Ralph wasn’t paying much attention.
Tara lingered back near the door, and I could feel her watching me closely. If she wanted to run, now would be a good time.
“We need to talk,” I said, and stopped a few feet to the side of him. He swiveled and spread he hands out nervously.
“What about? You doing okay? I keep saying, you’ve got to come down to my club sometime and take advantage of—”
I moved faster than he could react. His long ponytail was the perfect target as my hand flashed out and grabbed it tight. I halfway expected it to come right off—whether Larry wore a wig or not was a matter of some debate between Dean and me—but when I yanked as hard as I could, the hair stayed put.
Dean owed me fifty bucks.
Larry toppled backwards off the stool. He crashed to the floor and dollar bills fluttered up into the air. I slammed him into the dirty linoleum floor and his head bounced off with a crack. He groaned and I held on to his ponytail, raising my head to stare at Ralph.
The old bouncer tilted his sunglasses down, frowned at me, then went back to typing on his phone.
“What the fuck?” Larry groaned. “Oh, fuck, I think you broke my goddamn fucking back, you piece of shit scumbag. Oh my god, oh, fuck.” He rolled side to side like a pig in mud. “Ralph! What are you doing, you dumb asshole! Waste this motherfucker!”
“Ralph is apparently much smarter than he looks,” I said, and knelt down onto Larry’s rotund chest.
Normally, this sort of work was beneath me and the Don knew it. When I was a younger man, I did a lot of intimidation work, and made a name for myself. I was brutal but efficient, and fair when I could be. I caused only as much pain as was necessary to make a point, and didn’t lose myself in bloodlust. I quickly moved up into killing work, but the old instincts never quite left.
I had a feeling this job was a sort of gift and a punishment at the same time, a lot like Tara. I glanced back over my shoulder, and she was still there, staring at me with wide, horrified eyes. She probably never saw something like this before. It probably scared the hell out of her.
Good. I wanted her to watch this. Maybe then she’d understand.
“God damn it,” Larry moaned. “You’re going to kill me. I think my head’s bleeding.” He reached up to touch it.
His head was definitely bleeding.
“You know why I’m here,” I said. “And you know I don’t normally do this sort of thing, so you really pissed off the Don. How much do you owe him?”
“I don’t owe him anything,” he said, and stared at the red on his fingertips. “Fuck, I’m bleeding. I’ve got a concussion. Ralph, I need the hospital quick.”
I slapped him in the face then and pulled his hair harder. He groaned and touched his cheek with his bloody fingers, leaving red trails from his ear to his mouth.
“Pay attention, Larry, because this is going to get worse very fast if you can’t think,” I said, staring into his piggy eyes. “How much do you owe the Don?”
“Thirty,” he said. “But I can—”
I slapped him again, harder, and he groaned, eyes tearing up. He was about to cry, the fat piece of shit.
I wanted