#76 The Beagle and the Hit Man

by Neil Tarpey

I’m a hit man. You got a problem with that?

I’m no avenging angel, just a guy doing a job. When my handler—call him “Vincent”—contacts me, I don’t care why his people want somebody killed. I only need to know how much it pays and when it needs to happen. But Vincent occasionally provides specific instructions.

Like after they figured out Phil the chauffeur snitched on Dapper Danny, Vincent said, “Strangle that stoolpigeon.” So I garroted Phil in his limo in a Boston parking garage.
And because Salami Sal kept screwing Guido’s wife despite being warned to stop, Vincent said, “Whack ‘em both. Make it messy.” So I blasted Sal and the wife with a shotgun in their Las Vegas motel room. Fahgeddaboudit.
Harvey was a smarty-pants Chicago accountant who embezzled union pension funds. I stabbed him with a steak knife in his kitchen.

But on my way out, I spotted the dog. It was a beagle puppy with brown eyes and long ears, wagging her tail.
“Leave no witnesses,” I thought instinctively. I took off my glove to let her sniff my hand and scooped her up from her bed. She smelled my face and licked my nose.

Vincent heard that Detective Nigel Valken smiled when he saw the empty dog bed at Harvey’s house and told his crew to check with local vets and pet food stores.

But by that time me and my little sweetheart had driven across three states and disappeared.