Gin Palace 02 - The Bone Orchard

on the gloves and stepped out, closing the door quietly. My denim jacket was nowhere near enough. I backtracked up the dark street and stepped onto the lawn, then walked carefully toward the cottage. I reached it and took a look through one of the front windows. All I saw was a narrow porch cluttered with old furniture and piled cardboard boxes.
    I could see that the front door to the house was blocked by an upended and battered couch. I looked behind me to see if anyone was passing on the road, then I walked around the side of the cottage to the back door. I took another look around, then tried the knob with my gloved hand. It turned smoothly and the door eased inward.
    I stood there and listened for a long time. I could sense nothing, no movement, no breathing, nothing. The cottage felt empty to me. I waited a moment more and then took a few steps inside. I was in the kitchen. It was clean and neat, so much so that I began to wonder if anyone had been here in a while. Everything seemed too ordered to be lived in.
    The air was stale and smelled sharply of must. I walked through the kitchen and down a narrow hallway, past the bathroom, and into the front room. I moved slowly, a step at a time. The floorboards creaked several times. I winced at each one. When I reached the end of the hallway I stopped. I could barely see through the darkness, but after a moment I made out the shape of someone lying on the couch.
    My eyes were better in the dark now. I saw on a coffee table in front of the couch a near-empty bottle of Cutty Sark. On the wood floor below it a plastic glass lay on its side, as if it had been dropped and then rolled. I got close to the figure and took a smell of his breath. It reeked of Scotch. But I realized quickly that the smell was coming out his pores. There was no breath. I could see the shape of a small lamp in the corner of the room and went to it and switched it on. The bulb was dull, the lamp shade thick. Yellowish, muted light filled the small room.
    I looked down at the man lying dead on the couch. He had short black hair and a broad face. He looked no different from anyone I had met in the past few days. I guessed that he was maybe a light-heavyweight and not much taller than I. He was lying on his left side. The cushions beneath him were soaked with blood that looked fresh. It was clear that his throat had been cut. I could see the bulge of his wallet in his right back pocket. I reached for it with my gloved hand and pried it free with my fingers and opened it.
    He had a New Jersey driver’s license. The name on it was William Townsend, the photo was of him. I put the license back and looked through the wallet for anything else. Nothing, no business cards, no scraps of paper with names I recognized, nothing. I counted his money; there was well over eight hundred dollars in cash. I thought of the nine hundred in my pocket and only realized then just how far into this world of hurt for hire I had gone.
    Suddenly I wanted out of it. I was hit with the urge to bolt. I looked at Townsend’s lifeless face once more and saw hints of Frank and the Chief, even Augie. I began to wonder if I really looked any different.
    One last look down at Townsend, and then I turned to get out of there. I moved fast, my strides long, my feet light on the linoleum.
    I was halfway through the kitchen, nearly at the door, when something burst out of a side pantry. It--whatever it was--moved parallel to me at first, was just a sudden blur of noise and motion and force. Then it quickly changed direction and knocked over a chair as it rushed to intercept me. We came together like two cars at an intersection. The figure crashing into me was in dark clothes and knit mask and gloves. As he collided with me he lifted me upward and sent me sideways, heaving me against the refrigerator. There was no mistaking that he moved like a football player, charging low and hard. I felt as if I had been caught by a huge wave. My body folded like a doll and I smacked the refrigerator door with back of my head. I heard glass tumbling off shelves and shattering inside.
    Then the man in the mask was all over me. He moved in, crowding me. I smelled cologne mixed with sweat. It was a cologne I had smelled before, but this wasn’t the time to try to remember when. I saw his right arm come up suddenly. I saw a flash of metal in his hand. I saw the hand and the metal in it move and come down, making a sweeping half-moon arc, angling toward the