Strangled Sunlight

I’d never killed a man in the daylight before. Murder is a night time thing. That’s what I told myself. The dark hides the killing. It hides it from witnesses. It hides it from the victim. It hides it from me. I can pretend it was just a dream. I don’t have to take it seriously.

Killing in the day is different. I can see everything. All the details stand out. The cracks in the pavement. The graffiti on the wall. Every beer can in the grass. The broken bottles. The clothes the victim wears. The colour and texture of his hair. His face. The sounds he makes. The grunts. The gasps. All of it is there, in my memory. It’s uncomfortable, for me. I like my memories covered in shadows.

It started as a simple hit.

“His name’s Crispin,” the boss tells me.

“What the fuck kind of name is that?” I ask.

“He’s young,” the boss says. “Stupid. He doesn’t carry a weapon. At least, he never did. No gun, no knife. He’s white. Brown hair. Vinnie took his picture. Wait. Vinnie, give us your phone.”

We’re in a pool hall. The kind that doesn’t let in strangers. If they get in, we chase them out. Or knock them out with a pool cue.

Vinnie is an enforcer. He’s big and scary looking. He can hurt you, but he doesn’t kill. I’m on the smaller side. I look like an insurance salesman. I kill.

Vinnie stands up from his stool. He waddles over.

“Here ya go, Derek,” he says.

I take the phone. There’s a picture of Crispin. He’s skinny, trying to smile. His teeth are all crooked. His lips are so thin, they’re almost not there. Crispin looks like an ugly fish. Nothing dangerous.

No need to discuss why he’s doomed. It’s always the same story. Crispin didn’t pay money he owed The Business. When that happens, enforcers try to scare him. When that doesn’t work, The Business sends me. I have to make an example. I have to clean it up.

“He looks like a loser,” I say.

“He is a loser,” the boss says. “They’re all losers. That’s why we kill them. If they weren’t losers, they’d have money.”

“No,” I say. “He looks worse than the regulars. A real loser. I don’t know. Just god awful.”

Something in Crispin’s face does it. Partly it’s the smile. When Vinnie takes your picture, you don’t smile. It’s usually the last picture anybody ever takes of you. Crispin was smiling. Not happy. Just trying to be friendly. Trying to fit in. Weak. Stupid. A loser.

“King of the losers,” Vinnie suggests.

I nod. “That’s it. Like he’s the king of the losers.” I hand Vinnie back his phone.

Vinnie looks at the photo. “Royalty,” he says, dreamy like. And smiles at his own joke. He pockets his phone and waddles away.

“Anyway,” the boss says. “The Idiot is holed up downtown. Some abandoned store. With his girlfriend, Tidbit. Who fucking works for us. Tidbit called it in. She’s not stupid.”

I know Tidbit. She’s a blonde. Tiny. Been around forever. Still pretty. Good stripper. Forty something passing for twenty something. At least with no bright lights in the room.

“Now, here’s the thing,” the boss says. “Crispin has a bus ticket. Greyhound.”

“A runner,” I say.

“A runner. Stupid fuck. His bus leaves today at 12:30. About three hours from now. Tidbit saw the ticket. Yeah, one ticket. Our boy is no romantic. He’s leaving his girlfriend behind. Said he’d send her money later. So she can join him. Like fuck. What the hell is Tidbit going to do in Florida? Dance for senior citizens? Anyway. Grab Crispin before the bus station. Tidbit will lead him down Prescott street. West side of the street. Pick an alley. There are tons of alleys around there. Grab him. Kill him. Dump him. It’s an easy hit.”

“Wait,” I say.

“What,” the boss says. But he knows. I can see it in his flat, expressionless face. He knows exactly what I’m going to say.

“You want him hit in the middle of the day.”

“Right. This one has a time limit.”

I don’t want to say it. It’s embarrassing.

“Look, Derek,” the boss says. “You’ve only killed at night. I get it. You’re used to that. But this guy is nothing. Less than nothing. You won’t even break a sweat. What, are you superstitious?”

I shake my head.

“How many? Since you started?”

I look at my fingers. Not to count. To picture my hands squeezing around all those necks.

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen in two years. Nothing to sneeze at. All at night. You’ve never failed me. When I give you a nail, you hammer it. So now, mix it up a little. Branch out. Swat a fly during the day. All right?”

“All right,” I say.

“All right,” the boss says. Discussion closed.

But I’m not happy. There’s no explaining it. Even to myself, it makes no sense. The night is safer. What happens at night is only half real. The dark keeps it out of my head. I don’t have to carry it around. It’s buried in shadow.

But I don’t have words for it. None I can say out loud.

Prescott street. There are dozens of alleys to choose from. Just like the boss said. One particular dead end alley seems best. There’s an out-of-business vacuum store on one side. On the other, a scummy bar. It won’t open for hours. There’s a high wooden fence. Empty lots on the other side. There’s a bend at the end of the alley. A dumpster tucked in a corner. No one from the street will see us. Back here, it’s a world to itself.

I stand at the mouth of the alley. I wait. I lean against a concrete wall. It’s gray. I’m gray. I have cultivated a gray quality. It’s part of my job.

The street is quiet. Businesses have failed. No reason for cars to drive here. Little foot traffic.

An hour later. I see Crispin and Tidbit. They’re slow. And they’re on the wrong side of the street. East side. The boss told me west. I curse under my breath. Tidbit fucked up, maybe. Or the boss got it wrong.

I’ll have to leave the alley I’ve grown to love. Cross the street. I’ve planned for the alley. I’ll stick with it. Just have to move Crispin. Get him to the alley. What if he runs?

I cross over. I wait on the sidewalk. Tidbit is carrying one suitcase. Crispin is carrying the other. As they approach me, I hear him talking.

“Baby, you know I love you. When I get to Florida, I can fix things. Relatives will help me. My uncle is big. Big! He’s got connections. There’s a casino. He’ll help me. You have to trust me. I’m not ditching you. Don’t be sad. It’s not goodbye. Listen to me. Listen. Come on, TeeBee. Don’t be like this. Come on.”

On and on like that. Tidbit says nothing. Clearly Crispin can’t figure it out. She’s acting like he’s dying, not leaving. Why would that be? So he keeps trying to convince her.

Of course, he really is dying. He just doesn’t know it yet. Everyone knows it but him.

They get close enough.

“Crispin?” I say casually.

He stops. He looks at me. Not wary. Just curious.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

“Sure,” he says. He smiles his loser smile. “I got time.”

Tidbit stops. She puts down the suitcase she was carrying. She doesn’t look at me or Crispin. She just leaves. Back the way she came. Not fast, but not slow. Determined.

“Where’s she going?” Crispin says to himself. He calls out, “Hey! TeeBee!”

Tidbit doesn’t look back. She turns a corner. She’s gone.

“Goddamn it,” Crispin says. “She’s just sore. Because I’m leaving.”

I wonder if he’s on something. He seems friendly, innocent. Doesn’t suspect anyone. Not Tidbit. Not me. His eyes are huge, wide, but see nothing.

“You’re leaving town?” I say.

“Going to Florida,” he says brightly.

“Hmm,” I say. Like it’s a bad idea.

“Do I know you?” he asks me. Still without suspicion.

“We need to talk,” I say. I grab the suitcase Tidbit dropped. It’s not heavy at all. “Come over to my office.”

“I’ve got a bus to catch.”

“It won’t take long.”

I start walking, assuming he’ll follow. And he does. We cross the street. We go into the alley.

“What’s this all about?” he asks.

“This way.”

We go down the alley. We turn the corner. It’s that easy. I’m amazed.

After the enforcers visit, people are spooked. Every shadow is a threat. How can this guy be so dumb? He follows me meekly, curious. He really just wants to know what this is about.

Crispin reminds me of turkeys. When it rains, they stare up at the sky. Rain amazes them. They stand with mouths open. And they drown like that. Or so I’ve heard. It’s probably bullshit.

I feel better in the alley. He’s where I want him. There will be no running. I open the dumpster and throw his suitcase inside.

“Hey!” Crispin says. “What did you do that for?”

I punch him in the chest. One fast, sharp pop. It’s all I need. He’s small. He drops his suitcase, falls back against the fence. He slides to the ground. Now he’s sitting there. Legs out. Back against the fence.

“Ow,” he groans. “Fuck.”

I pick up the other suitcase. I throw it in the dumpster.

It’s noon. Or close to it. The sun is right above us. Hot, white light fills the alley. Everything is ablaze with light. The old graffiti on the fence glows. The pavement in the alley is so greasy, it shines. There are tufts of grass here and there. Broken bottles. Cans. Crispin is looking up at me. His mouth is trembling. His face is bathed in light.

“What is this?” he asks. “What did I ever do to you?”

I’m used to these kinds of questions. Voices in the dark. No faces. I hear them all the time. They think I’m doing this to them. They don’t get they did it to themselves. They feel cheated.

And they never believe they’re going to die. Never. No matter how much they owe. No matter how badly they fucked up. They all think they’re immortal. Even as I strangle them in the dark. They can’t believe it. It’s all a dream. Someone will stop this, they think. There will be a last minute rescue. They’ll wake up soon. But they don’t.

That’s how it goes, in the dark. But this sunlight. Something is different. The world is different. Darkness doesn’t answer questions. But sunlight. What does sunlight do?

“You owe money,” I say. I don’t like to talk, but I’m talking. “They told you to pay. You didn’t pay.”

And Crispin laughs. He’s relieved. He’s actually relieved.

“Oh that,” he says. “I explained that to Vinnie. And the other guy. I told them.”

“You don’t explain to Vinnie. You pay him.”

“But I can get the money. I’m going to get it. I have relatives in Florida.”

Crispin is calm, now. Sprawled on the alley floor. His chest still aching. Hands propping up his scrawny body. His voice is confident. This is a misunderstanding. He can fix this. His certainty annoys me. As does the trembling smile. Always smiling, this moron.

“Do you know why we’re in this alley?” I ask. “Do you know why we’re here? What’s about to happen?”

“What?” Crispin asks. He really has no idea. Everything is a surprise.

“I’m going to kill you,” I say. I wait for the words to sink in, but they don’t. He looks almost skeptical. So I say, “I’m here to kill you.”

“No,” Crispin says. He’s dismissive. He can’t believe it. “No. That doesn’t make sense. I can get the money. Don’t they want the money? I can pay. I told them I can pay. This doesn’t make any sense. Listen. I’ve got an uncle. He lives in Florida. He works for a casino.”

I cut him off. “None of that matters now. It’s too late. You’re dead. When you see me, you’re dead. I kill people. Do you understand?”

Crispin still can’t believe it. “You’re going to kill me? I don’t believe this. That’s crazy. This can’t be happening.”

“It’s happening.”

“No,” he says, with wonder.

I find myself wanting to kick him. I’m not a cruel man. But his stupidity makes me angry.

“How do you think I found you?” I ask.

He blinks. It never occurred to him. “How?”

“Tidbit called us. She led you straight to me. I was waiting.”

“No. Why would she do that?”

“She works for us. She led you to me. As soon as she saw me, she left. So I could kill you.”

“But I love her. She knows I love her. Why would she do that?”

Not angry. Not sad. Simply not understanding.

“She’s a stripper. A whore. She works for us. Who can she trust? You? We pay her rent. What do you give her? You’re leaving. You don’t understand anything. This is the world you live in.”

“I was going to Florida. I’d get money, I’d send for her. We’d spend some time there. Then we’d come back. I’d pay my debts.”

“That was never going to happen.”

“That’s what I was going to do! My uncle lives in Florida. He works at a casino.”

“There is no uncle,” I said. “There is no casino. There isn’t even a Florida.”

“What?”

I let out a long sigh. I hate talking. I hate explaining. But this sun. It gets to me. The hot sun. And his dumb face. Staring. Like a turkey. And I’m the rain. I’m going to drown him.

“You would have got there. A place called Florida. But it’s not the Florida in your head. Your uncle. He’d tell you to fuck off. Say you got some money. Somehow. Dumb luck. You’d tell yourself it wasn’t enough cash. Not for you. Not for your dreams. It’s never going to be enough. You can’t call Tidbit until you have more. So you’d gamble. And you’d lose. You’d go into debt again. And then someone else would kill you. Some Florida killer. Some guy like me. But with a tan. You’d die under a palm tree. Instead of next to a dumpster.”

“No,” he says. “It wouldn’t happen like that.”

But he knows it would. I can hear it in his voice. His certainty is gone. So is the smile. It’s all so new to him. He gets it.

“No matter where you go, it leads here. To this alley. To your death.”

“It wouldn’t happen like that,” he says again. Weaker. He can’t make it stick.

“That’s what always happens. That’s why I have a job. That’s why I kill losers like you. So people know how it is. Pay your bills. Or you die. Like Crispin died. Strangled and thrown into a dumpster.”

His big, dumb, blue eyes are wide. He’s in shock. He looks at the dumpster. His coffin. He looks back at me.

“Is that what you’re going to do? Is that what’s going to happen to me?”

I don’t answer. I step forward, lean over, and grab his throat. And I squeeze. We stare into each other’s eyes. There’s no struggle. He’s given up. This is his fate. He knows that now. Maybe it’s the sunlight. He can see his fate. He can’t hide from it. This is no dream.

His face goes purple. I see it. A faint eggplant colour taints his face. Red floods into his large, blank, blue eyes. His tongue sticks out slightly, swelling. I can feel the pulse in his neck. It’s wild, then slows. His hands reach up, then fall back. His legs kick a little dance.

It’s one of my easiest kills. The boss was right. I don’t even break a sweat. I let go. He falls back, sitting against the fence. Dead.

I search him. I take the bus ticket. I don’t know why. I take the wallet. No money, no credit cards, no pictures. A few receipts. His back pocket holds a pack of gum. I throw it on the ground. Some scraps of paper. Not much else. I pick him up by his waist. He’s small, but still surprisingly light. I throw him in the dumpster. I move the suitcases around. Now the body is covered. Maybe no one will ever see him.

I change my mind. I take out the suitcases. I go through them. Nothing of interest. Crappy clothes. Extra pair of shoes. All of it second hand crap. I rip out then suitcase lining. Nothing. No secrets.

What am I looking for? I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t find it.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in a convenience store. There’s a payphone. I call the boss.

“It’s done,” I say.

“Good,” he says.

I hang up.

And it’s all done. Finished.

But it stays with me. For days. For weeks. Everywhere I go. Walking the street. Hanging at the pool hall. The killing stays with me. I can’t shake it.

Crispin’s face. The stupid conversation. The alley. The graffiti. That hot noontime sun. The broken bottles in the grass. The bus ticket to Florida.

I’ve killed seventeen people. I barely remember the others. It was dark. It was quick. I didn’t talk to them. I just strangled them and walked away. Didn’t even search them. There was nothing personal about it. Like washing dishes. Peeling potatoes. A chore.

Killing Crispin stays with me. Not that I feel bad. I just remember. I can’t shrug it off. I see visions of his face. Before and after. I see the time we spent together. I hear his stupid excuses. I get to feeling like he’s a friend of mine.

Maybe it’s a good thing. That’s what I’ve decided. I’ve seen it. Up close. Well lit. I remember it all. It’s not a dream. It’s real.

I know what I do. I know the world I live in.