He’s gone. Done away with like ashes in a bowl blowing in the wind on a cool autumn day. Finished.

There were no more frantic phone calls in the middle of the  night. His hoarse voice, scratchy, painful to listen to, pleading for a fifty, a hundred, anything to get him through, was now put out permanently.

Dig the hole. Burn the body. Be done with it. That’s what Jamie told the cops to do. I’m the closest to kin he’s got. There’s no one else. Mom and dad died a few years back. No aunts or uncles. Cousins. I was it. And he left me. So I guess I was nothing to him.

I see, said the official. All we have is this note. It says, thanks Jamie. I always loved you. And then a phone number, and that’s it.

Right, she poured a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette.

Can you come to New York and identify the body? he asked.

I can’t afford to just take off for New York, she blew out smoke. I’m afraid that’s all I can do is tell you that it’s probably Ben. Now, do what you gotta do. She hung up.

All those crazy calls, she laughed. From Canada, Vermont, Maine, Massachusetts, Philadelphia, D.C., some small town in Virginia, New York, all those fucking calls. Always about money. He always needed money. Hell, I guess we all do.

Jamie looked outside, and it was raining. She heard it hitting the tin roof. Saw it, making puddles in the dirt driveway. She wondered if it was raining in New York.