Pop Goes the Weasel

thick and greasy. The woman was a few pounds heavier than he liked, plumper than she’d looked from a distance in the flattering streetlights.
    “Off duty,” he said, and sped away. Both of them gave him the finger.
    Shafer laughed out loud. “You’re in luck tonight! Fools! Luckiest night of your lives, and you don’t even know it.”
    The incomparable thrill of the fantasy had completely taken hold of him. He’d had total power over the couple. He had control of life and death.
    “Death be proud,” he whispered.
    He stopped for more coffee at a Starbucks on Rhode Island Avenue. Nothing like it. He purchased three black coffees and heaped six sugars in each.
    An hour later, he was in Southeast. He hadn’t stopped for another fare. The streets were crowded to the max with pedestrians. There weren’t enough taxis, not even gypsies in this part of Washington.
    He regretted having let the Hispanic couple get away. He’d begun to romanticize them in his mind, to visualize them as they’d looked in the streetlight. Remembrance of things past, right? He thought of Proust’s monumental opening line: “For a long time I used to go to bed early.” And so had Shafer — until he discovered the game of games.
    Then he saw her — a perfect brown goddess standing right there before him, as if someone had just given him a wonderful present. She was walking by herself, about a block from E Street, moving fast, purposefully. He was instantly high again.
    He loved the way she moved, the swivel of her long legs, the exactness of her carriage.
    As he came up behind her, she began looking around, checking the street. Looking for a taxi? Could it be? Did she want him?
    She had on a light cream suit, a purple silk shirt, high heels. She looked too classy and adult to be going to a club. She appeared to be in control of herself.
    He quickly rolled the twenty-sided dice again and held his breath. Counted the numerals. His heart leaped. This was what the Horsemen was all about.
    She was waving her hand at him, signaling. “Taxi!” she called. “Taxi! Are you free?”
    He guided the taxi over to the curb, and she took three quick, delicate steps toward him. She was wearing shimmery, silken high heels that were just delightful. She was much prettier up close. She was a nine and a half out of ten.
    The cab door swung open and blocked his view of her for a second.
    Then he saw that she was carrying flowers, and wondered why. Something special tonight? Well, that was certainly true. The flowers were for her own funeral.
    “Oh, thank you so much for stopping.” She spoke breathlessly as she settled into the taxi. He could tell that she was letting herself relax and feel safe. Her voice was soothing, sweet, down-to-earth and real.
    “At your service.” Shafer turned and smiled at her. “By the way, I’m Death. You’re my fantasy for this weekend.”

Chapter 7
    MONDAY MORNINGS I usually work the soup kitchen at St. Anthony’s in Southeast, where I’ve been a volunteer for the past half-dozen years. I do the seven-to-nine shift, three days a week.
    That morning I felt restless and uneasy. I was still getting over the Mr. Smith case, which had taken me all over the East Coast and to Europe. Maybe I needed a real vacation, a holiday far away from Washington.
    I watched the usual lineup of men, women, and children who had no money for food. It was about five deep and went up Twelfth Street to the second corner. It seemed such a pity, so unfair that so many folks still go hungry in Washington, or get fed only once a day.
    I had started helping out at the kitchen years before on account of my wife, Maria. She was doing casework as a social worker at St. Anthony’s when we first met. Maria was the uncrowned princess of St. Anthony’s; everybody loved her, and she loved me. She had been shot, murdered in a drive-by incident not far from the soup kitchen. We’d been married four years and had two small children. The case has never been solved, and that still tortures me. Maybe that’s what drives me to solve every case I can, no matter how bad the odds.
    At St. Anthony’s soup kitchen, I help make sure nobody gets too riled up or causes undue trouble during meals. I’m six-three, around two hundred pounds, and built for peacekeeping, if and when it’s necessary. I can usually ward off trouble with a few quiet words and nonthreatening gestures. Most of these people are here to eat, though, not fight or cause trouble.
    I