Hello. Hello Gene. It’s me, Tom.

What time is it?

It’s two-thirty in the morning, Gene. Sorry I’m calling so late. I was thinking of you and that boat you got, he said. The fishing boat with the Blackbird motor on it. The hundred and twenty-five hp.

Look. Can we talk about this tomorrow? Gene asked. Just come by the house tomorrow. I’ll be around.

Well. That’s the thing, Gene. I need it tonight.

What’re you talking about?

Can I write you a check? Tom asked. I’m good for it.

It’s two-thirty in the morning. I’m not going to sell you a boat at two-thirty in the morning.

Damn it, Gene. You’re my last hope. I need you to do this.

What’s going on, Tom?

I need to go out on the river. Drop something off.

You gotta drop something off at this hour? On the river.

More like in the river, Gene.

What did you go do now?

I killed him, Gene. Tom stated.

You what?

I took a shotgun and killed him. Tom said. He had it coming. Ever since we were kids, he’s had it coming. I’m going to buy that boat and then take off down the Mississippi. I got it all planned out. Heading to New Orleans. Drop our friend off about midway. Gene? I need you to do this for me.

You’re crazy. One crazy sonofabitch. No, Gene said. I’m hanging up now. Get some sleep.

Gene? Gene? Just this one time, and you’ll never hear from me again. Come on, Gene. I’ll be right over. Gene?

Gene’s voice went silent. There was a busy signal. Tom placed his finger in the holes to dial Gene’s number again. Nothing but a busy signal. He looked over in the corner of his garage at the slain man. A family man. Respected in the community. Tom popped open a beer and just looked at him with the blood still coming from his body, drying on the concrete floor.  Tom began to call Gene again. And again. Nothing but a busy signal. A frog croaked in the background.