. . . No sense in letting this guy think I was going to the meet with a grand in my pocket. That'd be a sure way to get ripped off, if not killed. And, since I didn't know where I was going, carrying that much cash was asking for trouble.

We got off on Independence and he instructed me to turn left, toward Charlotte. The boulevard was a main artery and carried a lot of traffic, mostly headed away from the direction we were taking. After a couple of miles he instructed me to turn right, at the next light, and I hit the blinker.

The turn took me into one of the most run down sections of the city. Project style housing was mingled with decaying single family types and the entire area reeked of poverty. It took no imagination to see that I was being led into the depths of an entirely black neighborhood, with emphasis on the "hood" part. I wondered if I had made a very bad mistake. The local citizenry, lazing near the sidewalks and on grungy front porches, looked desperate, beaten down, and hostile.

"Make a lef", Gold Teeth said. "Then turn raht. Into the parkin' lot. Back by the dumpsta."

Visions of my body being found, after the dumpster was emptied into some godforsaken landfill, flashed through my mind. Followed immediately by "I shoulda brought my gun." I was glad I hadn't brought the cash. They might let me live if they thought they still had a shot at the dough.

Though, somehow, there was a calm in my outward demeanor. I didn't let it show that I was on the verge of freaking out inside. "Where's the guy?" I asked. "I don't see anybody." I lit another cigarette, immediately noticing my hands were steady. "Good sign," I said to myself as I scanned the parking area Gold Teeth had indicated.

There were half a dozen other blacks hanging around, any of which could be the contact. All had the edgy look of desperate lowlifes, but that point of view was coming from a middle class white boy who realized he had no business in this neighborhood. The fact that I had a black passenger eased the apprehension a little, but didn't completely take away the nerves.

"There he be," Gold Teeth said as he opened the door. "Ah stand outsi' an' let you tawk. Be chilly." With that as his final comment he exited the car as another male approached.

Chunky, about five eight, clean shaven, skin the color of molasses, wearing an undershirt, flip flops, and a pair of shorts. He didn't look like I'd pictured in my mind, but what did I expect? Some Wesley Snipes / Snoop Dog mixture? A guy with a scar down his face and a pistol hanging out of his pocket?

To tell the truth, I didn't have the faintest idea what a killer for hire was supposed to look like. It seemed a little disconcerting that someone who would end the life of another human being, just for money, could look so. . . . I don't know. Normal, I guess.

Gold Teeth had left the door open and the guy climbed in. He extended his hand and said 'Mah names' . . ."

"I don't wanna know your name," I interrupted. "That way I can't tell anyone what I don't know. Let's keep this strictly on a business level. You don't need to know mine and I damn sure don't wanna know yours. All we're doin' is a business deal.

Okay?" I was surprised that my voice had come out so calm and direct.

He nodded and glanced outside at Gold Teeth, who was busy looking inconspicuous leaning against the dumpster. I kept watch on the skinny go between, out of the corner of my eye, while talking to the shooter. I didn't know exactly how this was going to play out, but I didn't want to get taken from the blind side by some kind of two-on-one ripoff. I looked back at the shooter, noticing for the first time that one of his eyes looked in a different direction than the other. They both pointed at the same area, but one looked slightly out of sync with the other. Like off to one side and kind of downward. Kinda googly.

This was more like it. A physical flaw that made him much more believable as a thug. Being black, googly eyed, and obviously poverty stricken was enough to make this guy truer to what I'd been looking for. Add in overly muscled arms, hanging out of the sleeveless undershirt, and the picture began filling out nicely.

"What kine of bidness we talkin' abou'?"

"I want somebody taken out. As in permanently. Forever. No more.

You get what I'm sayin'?"

Googly nodded. "When you wan' it done?"

"After the weekend. My kid's birthday is comin' up and I don't want him tying his birthday to the memory of his mother's gettin' killed. That'd be too cold."

"Uh huh.

Look. Ah do it whenever you say. Ah got three pistols an' a assaw' rifull. No problem."

I nodded back. "Can you get a shotgun?"

He put on a puzzled look. "Mah kuhzin got one. Why?"

"No ballistics," I replied.

He gave a perplexed look in response.

"Look. You seen all them cop shows where the cops recover a bullet and then match it to a gun?"

Googly's brow wrinkled as he slowly nodded.

"A shotgun leaves no ballistics. You got all them pellets flying out and no marks on them. They coulda come from any shotgun. Not just the one that killed her.

Besides, you don't have to be that accurate with a shotgun. Just point it in the general direction and you hit what you pointed at. No misses. With one bullet you could miss and cause a real mess."

"Ah ain' gone miss. Ah done this kinda shit befo'. Ah done killed befo'."

I nodded in reply. "Let's talk money."