LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 6

      There must be a better way to find some peace, Philip Hewitt thought as he wove his way from the backseat of his Uber ride to his front door, four gin and tonics, a screwdriver, and half a bowl of stale Bavarian pretzels sloshing around in his sour stomach.

      “Damned bitch.” He poked his key at the lock, missed his mark, tried again. The weaving didn’t help. “Damn bitch lock.”

      Quiet block, quiet neighborhood, especially at half past one in the morning on a Tuesday. His neighbors were probably all tucked in bed, not letting the bedbugs bite, Hewitt thought as he finally matched jagged key to jagged lock cylinder. The courtyard of his building was still, empty, or so he thought, as he twisted the small silver key, longing for the comfort of his own bed. But something wasn’t right. A feeling. Even with the gin buzz, he sensed something, someone, tuck in behind him, too close for him to feel easy about it. He turned to find the last person he ever expected to see on his humble doorstep. He was so surprised, he began to cackle like a loon.

      “Are you serious? I can’t get a break.” He tried correcting his weave, tried pulling himself together. “What’re you doing here?”

      But it was too late in the game for talk. Hewitt was a problem. His eyes grew wide as saucers, then slowly lowered from familiar eyes to the glint of gunmetal. “Are you crazy? Get the hell out of here.”

      He’d misjudged, but didn’t he always?

      Hewitt turned his back to the gun, a show of disdain fueled by alcohol, but his heart raced just the same, and his blood ran cold. “You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life. I’ll own you now.”

      But the mistake was Hewitt’s. This was no prank. Not a fake. This was a plan coming together, a mugging gone horribly wrong—or so it would appear later. Just another senseless tragedy, yet another life cut short by random violence. Remember to take his wallet and cheap watch.

      Hewitt turned back, jabbed an angry finger in a feeble attempt to intimidate. “You’ve picked the wrong guy.”

      He had always been a stupid man, had never been able to read the room. Good to know some people were consistent right to the end. And make no mistake, this was Hewitt’s end.

      A playful wave. Really, there was no reason not to say good-bye, was there? Hewitt almost laughed but couldn’t; he simply didn’t have the time. Too quickly, the hand thrust forward to press gun barrel to drunken forehead. There was a look of shock, one muffled pop, a single twitch. One languid slide to oblivion, and that was all. Hewitt lay wasted on cool cement, in a fast-expanding puddle of gore. Some of the human blowback had splattered across his front door.

      Hard eyes assessed the carnage. Done. “Such a ridiculous fool he was.”

      * * *

      Highland Health Club was the place to breeze through a sedate workout, celebrity watch, or close a million-dollar deal over an endive salad and imported water. Allen skimmed the Wall Street Journal from a large elliptical, glancing occasionally at the big-screen televisions mounted to the wall, ignoring me. I watched her from a spot a few feet away, off to the side, where I could see the entire room and Allen, too. The whole place smelled of perfumed sweat, damp towels, and just a whiff of pomposity.

      Every machine here was designed to tone, sculpt, and tighten whatever sagged or jiggled, and there were toning classes, nutrition counseling, massage rooms, a sauna, and an assortment of European-inspired body wraps utilizing everything from Swiss mud to emulsified kale. And none of it was bargain basement. The hefty membership fee alone discouraged pretenders.

      I’d reluctantly left my bed at five-thirty to get to Allen’s place by the time she set. Ben tried starting some light conversation in the limo on the way here, but Allen wasn’t interested. It was now a little after seven and the room was already packed with stick-figure people, who rushed from apparatus to apparatus, trailing dry towels along behind them. The televisions were tuned to the morning news reports, and one station was running a story on an overnight robbery-homicide, the details of which I could not hear, since the sound was channeled through headphones that plugged into the machines. Everyone moved with a purpose; everyone stared at me and found me interesting. No one tried to hand Allen any flowers or notes. I’d opted out of working out with her. This was business. I didn’t like her well enough to blur the lines.

      After a half hour, during which time Allen never broke a discernible sweat, the buzzer on her elliptical machine sounded. When the pedals slowed and stopped, Allen tucked her paper under her arm and headed for her massage. She didn’t say a word to me, which was just as well. I wasn’t lonely. She was a little miffed I hadn’t brought my “workout togs.” I’d nearly snorted when she said, “Workout togs.” As a rule, togs wasn’t a word many black folks used a lot, and I wondered what Allen was trying to prove. I was dressed instead in a black blazer, a silk shirt, black slacks, and shoes I could run in, if I had to, without twisting an ankle—“bodyguard togs.”

      Allen kept up the pointed silence all the way to the massage room, where a smiling blond woman with bright blue eyes and a silver nose ring met us at the door, dressed in a formfitting pink tank and spandex

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