"But what if? What would you do?"
Debra came right back at my jugular. "Where did you learn to kill? In the military?"
I said, "Watching TV. Same place everybody learns it."
She loathed me. "How many people have you killed?"
"How about you? How many have you killed? Corky's wife ... how many does she make for you?"
"Tell him to fuck off, Corky!"
Caught between us, Corky found speech impossible.
I was disgusted. "You make a great pair. Which one of you will crumble first?"
"Neither of us will," Debra vowed.
"I don't do it if I think either of you will crumble," I pledged.
"How do I know you're not a cop?" Debra snapped.
I was fed up. "You make it easy." I turned to Corky. "That grand is mine, pal. You don't get a dime back." I walked away.
Corky came after me. "Wait!"
"Let him go, Corky!" Debra called.
I walked away from them. In my mind I had already erased the hit. I was busy thinking how palm trees looked better in Hawaii than in Las Vegas. That discovery surprised me. I looked out at the waves and wondered how much money it would cost to live in Paradise for the rest of my days. There were other islands, too. I wondered ...
Corky grabbed my arm and stopped me. "We need you, please!"
Debra was alongside. She was brutally pragmatic. "Let's talk about killing his wife," she said.
"What do you want done?" I asked her.
"Don't you have any ideas of your own?" she asked.
"Fake a traffic accident," I said. "A routine traffic accident out along the Hana Highway."
"You could cut her brake line," Corky said.
I shook my head. "First thing they check." Thoughtfully, "I can remove one of her motor mounts."
Corky was surprised. "You think that works?"
Debra interrupted us. "What are you talking about?"
"Inside your car," I told Debra, "your engine's held in a metal cradle. When a motor mount goes, your engine twists sharply from the torque. The linkage from the carb gets twisted, too, wrenched out of shape. Your gas pedal goes straight to the floorboards, and your engine's suddenly going full throttle. If you're in gear at the time, you're suddenly moving like a bat outa hell!"
She could visualize that. "I like that, Cork!"
I had a caveat. "That's okay on the freeway, but on something like the Hana Highway, with all its twists and turns and switchbacks, you're out of control at high speed."
Corky scoffed at that. "And all she's gotta do is turn off the ignition and coast to a stop."
I turned to Corky. "Have you ever lost a motor mount? Would you--instantly--know what to do? How many motor mounts has your wife lost?"
Corky gave up. "What if she doesn't die immediately?"
"She'll die fast," I promised.
Debra faced me. "Make it look like an accident," she said, "but make sure she's dead."
I was already grinning. "She'll be dead enough even for you."
Debra smirked back. "You think you're something special, don't you?"
I stood up to Debra. "Are you going to be with Corky when the shooting starts?"
Debra was somber. "That may be too much to ask for."
"I know how we can be together," Corky told her. "I'll be having a drink at the bar. You'll be working behind the bar, pouring the drinks. Sure. That's a legitimate excuse for us to be together."
Debra blinked at that logic. But before she could frame any answer, she heard my laughter mocking them.
Ollie Salazar and I sat in the bank president's office.
He was trying hard to be blank-faced. "Well, yes, Mrs. Debra Lawson was married, but her husband died suddenly two years ago. They'd only been married a short time. There was some talk--still is, in fact--that his death was not ... accidental, which, of course, it was--"
"How did he die?"
"Auto accident. His was the only vehicle involved, actually. He'd been drinking, it seems, and the car slid through a turn and flipped over into a ditch. Could've happened to anyone."
"How much money was involved?"
"More than I expected from a sailor," Ollie said incautiously.
Then I went to the County Coroner's Office. I talked with Timothy, a beautiful young man who worked there. Timothy had gone out of his way to wait on me.
Timothy had a syrupy voice. "My name is Timothy. How can I help you?"
I ignored Timothy's syrupy manner. "I'd like to see the death certificate and the coroner's report in the death of Roscoe Lawson." I read my notes. "April 14th--"
Timothy already knew. "Two years ago."
He turned on his heels and went off for the file. A moment later he returned with a file in his hand. I took it, but didn't immediately open it.