The Ethical Assassin

Each time he picked someone up- at the designated convenience store- Bobby would take the guy around to the back of the car and open the trunk to shield their conversation from the rest of the crew. Once they entered the car, you couldn’t ask if they’d scored or blanked. You couldn’t ask how they did. You weren’t allowed to tell stories about anything that happened to you that day unless the story was in no way related to scoring or blanking. Bobby and the other bosses knew there was no way to keep people from talking about it. If someone hit a triple or a grand slam- sometimes even a double- everyone in all the crews would know by the next morning, but you couldn’t say anything in the car.

These rules appeared not to apply to Ro

On the drives back to the motel, he’d tell us about how he’d scored, and he’d share with us some of the more implausible incidents from his colorful life. He’d tell us about how he’d filled in briefly for the bass player of Molly Hatchet, how he’d been asked to join the navy SEALs, how he’d finger-fucked Adrie

On the other hand, he bragged about things that were true, too. Like about how the last time we were in Jacksonville, when we’d stayed at the same motel, he’d stolen a passkey off the cleaning cart and slipped into half a dozen rooms, lifting cameras and watches and cash out of wallets. He’d laughed himself sick watching Sameen, the Indian man who owned the place, defending his wife- the hotel maid- from accusations of theft. He told us that the previous year, before the election, he’d put on a suit and tie and gone around soliciting donations for the Republican Party. He’d have people make out checks to “RNC,” and then he’d just write in the rest of his last name. Seedy check-cashing places on Federal Highway had no problem cashing his checks for R. N. Cramer.

Tonight he was going on about how some hot redhead had been begging for him while her husband watched, helpless to do anything about it.

“You sure it wasn’t the husband wanted you?” Scott asked, the words coming out as a high-pitched jumble of spit from his rather serious lisp.

“Yes, I’m thur,” Ro

For someone who’d just been insulted, injured, and mocked for a speech impediment, Scott took it all in stride. I felt a sympathetic knot of outrage on behalf of a guy I couldn’t stand.

“How would you know what a piece of shit smells like,” he asked sagely, “unless you were going up to them and sniffing at them?”

“I know what a piece of shit thellths like, you fucking pussy, because I’m thitting next to one.” Still, Ro

When we got back to the motel, we walked through its forlorn main parking lot, cradled between two parts of the two-storied L-shape. Here were the cars of the lost, the wandering, the short on gas, the long on fatigue, people who had left their dreams up north or out west and were now willing to let their lives take meaning from nothing more complicated than the absence of snow. In the light of day, the buildings were pale green and bright turquoise, a Florida symphony of color. At night it appeared desolately gray.

We filed into the Gambler’s room. His real name was Ke

He was probably in his fifties, though he looked younger. His slightly long white hair gave him an angelic cast, and he had one of those easy-gri

When I walked in, the Gambler hadn’t yet arrived. He was always the last to show, strutting into the room like a rock star coming out onstage. Ro

The Gambler’s Gainesville crew finally came in, strolling with the confident sense of superiority of a king’s retinue. The Gambler drove a van, so he had a large crew- nine in all- but only one woman. Encyclopedia sales held particular challenges for women, and even the good ones generally didn’t last for more than two or three weeks. Rare was the crew with more than a single woman. Long hours spent walking by deserted roadsides, going alone into strangers’ homes, lecherous customers, and lewd insinuations from the other bookmen dwindled their ranks, and I suspected, with great sadness, that this one wouldn’t last, either. Nevertheless, I’d been thinking about her since her appearance the previous weekend.

Chitra. Chitra Radhakrishnan. During the past week, I’d caught myself saying her name aloud, just for the pleasure of hearing its music. Her name sounded kind of like her accent. Soft, lilting, lyrical. And she was beautiful. Stu

I hardly knew her, I’d had only a single extended conversation with her, but those words had been electric. For all that, I couldn’t say why this woman should be the one to send me into a tumbling vortex of infatuation. There were other women in the group, though not many, and there had been, in a purely objective sense, far prettier ones in the past. I’d never had a crush on any of them.