Why? he asked. What’s it got to do with me? he flagged down a waitress to fill his coffee. I seldom get involved in these sort of things. I like to keep my nose clean. You, on the other hand, you, my friend, run in the opposite direction.

How so?

You seek it out. You look for trouble. The waitress poured more coffee. He added cream. His friend took it black. Chet Baker sang Funny Valentine in the background.

I seek it?

Yes.

I go out and look for it on my own? That’s what you’re saying.

Correct.

I take that as an insult. Almost calling me an amateur. I am a professional.  Do you hear me? A professional. 

I hear you.

These things fall into my lap. These opportunities. What am I supposed to do? he poured sugar in the cup. Miles Davis now played It Never Entered My Mind.

Right.

You know. You come to me with a hell of a problem here. Asking me to fix it. We haven’t discussed money or the job itself. You tell me you want this woman killed. Why?

Just forget it. Forget I said anything.

Sure. I’m supposed to forget. Just let it go. And then the next week, maybe a month, I read about some dead broad on the Southside where there’s a million dead broads that usually don’t get reported or solved. Except this time, the job was done on the cheap. The killer or killers didn’t get it right. They made mistakes. Right?

What kind of mistakes?

Anything. Fingerprints. A gun thrown in a dumpster. They were followed. Too loud when they killed her. Too much noise. Could be a number of things. That’s what you get with amateurs. Savvy?

He nodded. Took another drink. Slid a small sack of money across the table.

I’ll be in touch.