Garrett sat at a park bench, his view overlooking the Boardwalk and its surrounding hotels plus a restaurant or two. He saw what was, remembered what used to be. Two rollercoasters side by side, where only one had been. He’d liked the old one, doubted he’d like it now.

He’d grown old. Just paid 60 bucks for a massage, happy ending not offered. He never did believe in those. It had felt great, those middle-aged Chinese hands rubbing his back and legs, but he wished she’d spoken better English, maybe clarified what she meant when she asked if he wanted more time. More of what they’d done, or rubbing more of his body. If she’d meant more of his body he’d have paid, but of course there was no asking. She’d answer in stilted English even if she spoke it perfect, in case he was a cop.

He smiled. Him, a cop. Years ago, the cops would have wanted that. He’d have made Dirty Harry wince. Would probably mean a suspension with pay. He was good at killing men, hated killing time.

The park was near empty but people threw balls to dogs, a young couple with a long lead training their dog and running with it, two women down his end doing yoga. A woman in a Rogan 2024 shirt smiled at him as she passed. He hoped he radiated sufficient disdain, realized he had for years and it had gotten him laid a few times.

Garrett sat because the massage, although only a back and leg rub, had worn him out. He’d hit the water fountain on his way out of the park, drink from a glass when he got home. The day was warm and a beer sounded great, only he couldn’t drink no more. He’d got too good at it. The choices a man on his own had to make. Even a bad man, if he wanted to live. Garrett wondered about that at times.

He stood and the woman in the Rogan shirt smiled at him again. Dammit.

He remembered a gal named Lupe. She didn’t have no teeth.

“You should get with her,” Richie said. “She gives a great blowjob.”

Only he liked girls with teeth.

That was a lot of years ago. Garrett might settle for Lupe now. But he had money. He wasn’t in the mood was the problem. He wanted to work, at least talk about work. He’d grown too old for the speedy getaway, at his age felt lucky to walk without a cane. Seventy-four, he thought, that was how old he was if he remembered right. Didn’t remember every day of his life, but his mind eroded at a typical pace, not an accelerated one. Not Alzheimer’s.

He was cranky because he couldn’t do shit, and he was never one to smile much. Where he took pleasure was walking down the sidewalk knowing people he’d never met thought he was a mean old man. Hell, he’d been a mean young one, no reason to change now.

Made it home, changed his shirt, this one sweated through. Washed up too, didn’t want to offend the girls if his mind changed. Wasn’t his mind that needed changing, just the subconscious part that kept his dick at bay. When he was young, and he knew this for a fact, when it wasn’t in use it was at the ready. There were times he had no use for it, say during a job, but he didn’t do those anymore. He’d been retired, though not violently, not forced out of the game. That could change any time so he tried to stay alert, but he also tried to enjoy his retirement, as much as absence of action could be enjoyed.

No longer permitted to drive after the time he’d hit and run a stop sign—who knew anyone saw? And permitted to drive? He’d never needed permission for anything. There were rules, they led to that honor among thieves bullshit, but it was the opposite of honor. There were things you couldn’t do because you’d be cheating other criminals. Rules punishable by death.

He walked downtown, past where the Woolworth’s used to be. Now it was the shoe store on the corner and the three shops next to it at least. Now he walked, no destination in mind. Knew exactly where that would lead.

The whorehouse wasn’t known or open to the general public. He was not a member of that. He had long been a criminal, in attitude would always be one. If the boredom of not working hit too hard he could always go back to drink, die that way, one drink after another because he never could stop.

Downstairs, a restaurant. There was a back entrance, up a set of stairs. He was a master of chopsticks, a pale old master of chopsticks. For eating with, not fighting: he was no Jackie Chan. This afternoon he’d skip the food, had no appetite for it. His appetite for a woman had returned.

It was just a block beyond where the Woolworth’s had been. An easy walk, even for an old man, but he found it difficult. Not physically, he still walked fine. A little slower, steps slightly shorter, but it was memories that visited every time he came here. He came here fairly often. She was gone and her memory hurt but he needed her.

What he saw was different. Beautiful but different. She was pretty for a Japanese. She had no ass of course, must not have been exposed to enough American food. That’s what he meant by “for a Japanese.” He loved a good ass. But this girl, Yamanichi or whatever she called herself, was otherwise beautiful. He forgave her and her lack of ass, would rely on imagination when he grabbed it.

He liked the women he paid for. They faked it so well.

 

“This never used to be a problem.”

“It will not be for long. Lie down.”

He sat on the bed, yanked his legs onto it and lay on his back.

She rolled him over with one small, strong hand. Thin, short fingers pulled his legs apart. She sat on his ass, rubbed his back, each finger inordinately strong. He felt it crack, felt his entire body relax. Her hands worked his neck then down his back again. She moved down off his ass and rubbed it hard, eased her fingers between his legs. He felt the flab in his thighs as she brushed the backs of her hands against them, down the legs and back up.

Several minutes of that. By the time she flipped him over he was hard. Not dead yet he thought, but he didn’t say it, just let her manipulate him as close to ecstasy as he got these days. It was good to feel like a man, even though it wouldn’t last. Like he used to feel after a completed job, although then the fear of apprehension would linger long after. He needed that fear, that adrenaline. Anything less felt like death. And this death felt like Hell.

Outside he looked around. Daylight remained as he walked past business after business, tried to come up with a scheme he could pull off on his own or at least be in on. The fleecing of the comfortable had always struck him as a noble act. He wanted—needed—to feel noble again. In triumph there is life; the reverse could never be true.

Mere existence. He walked past shops with barely a glance. Small businesses did not deserve to take a loss. There were others that deserved it so much more. It was good that he had done well enough in his career of robbery, assault, and murder that he didn’t need the cash from any of these places. He knew how bad the security would be in many of them, how easy it would be to breach, even at seventy-four. He didn’t need their pennies; he didn’t want them. He wanted a job that would keep his blood racing for months.

As he checked shop after downtown shop he recognized the folly. He had grown too old for this, or any activity that required enterprise. Walks were his activity now. If he at least maintained the same speed he should go on a while. Keep up the morning stretches, but this pace wasn’t one he wished to continue; he wished only not to die, despite the times he wanted that more than anything. He’d already outlived all his old friends.

Seventy fucking four, and it was the fucking that kept him going. He hoped he looked younger than he felt. He needed to do more than pass the time between fucks and walking to and from them. What he wanted was a larger town so he could extend his walks without boredom. That was the real death.

 

Garrett spent too much of his mornings in bed, but he always felt too cold to get up. Partly due to his apartment, partly due to having lost whatever had made him a hotblooded youth. His best afternoons were when the Giants had day games. He’d followed them since he was a kid and they brought up Willie Mays. Not that he remembered Willie’s rookie year; he was three in 1951, but he was able to watch games in 1954, when Willie robbed Vic Wertz in the World Series. The Giants were still in New York then, but Willie was his favorite player. When the Giants moved to San Francisco, he’d easily talked his dad into taking him to games.

Willie was an old man now, even older than Garrett. He didn’t like to think of that, didn’t like to see him old. Didn’t like old people in general; they reminded him of his own age. An age when he felt he could look back on everything, since the world began. His world, at least. Not a world before time, or even before baseball. It wasn’t baseball season yet, but almost. He should get outside early before it got too hot for him. Seemed like it was always too hot or too cold.

He grabbed a mask before he went out, didn’t give a fuck if COVID killed him but he didn’t want to suffer, didn’t want to spread it to anyone else. He’d get his coffee in a to-go cup, plus a pastry or two, and sit outdoors with it, walk away after a bit if it wasn’t too hot out. He sat in the sun to test his theory.

Not bad, and if it got that way he could always leave. Not much shade to walk in, but there was enough at the park, just blocks away. And here, if he’d chosen a table with an umbrella. But he wanted not only the fresh air but the sunlight. With limits on its heat, which he could not enforce any more than he could tell Tenny to fuck off. And who the Tenny of the skies was, he had no idea.

Tenny had been the boss when Garrett worked. Too young for that job, he’d say, although Tenny would only be fifty by now. Took charge young, that was all. While Garrett was assaulting punks, Tenny had been constructing plans to take everything, and would probably run the area until he died.

There had been a time when Garrett could feel an idea and know it was right. Know when it was wrong, too. Those ideas were about work, always. He’d never known how to function in society, didn’t have much use for it. When he’d been young enough to work he had a fake income set up through Tenny, so he could pay taxes without getting hassled. That used to be all he cared about, not getting hassled so he could get on with the work.

He used to feel things, things that weren’t good for his job. He cared too much, liked the victims or hated them. He’d had to get past that and he had. Killing Tillman was the first one he remembered. He’d always liked Tillman. It wasn’t a hit, just a consequence. Any violence on that job was supposed to stop well short of death. Tillman wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t even considered for the robbery. Only he happened to be in the bank, said hi to Carlos before he knew what was going on. Before he knew what was going on, he was dead.

That had saddened Garrett; he did the killing. You always hurt the ones you love, he chuckled with a grimace. Life rarely made him happy for long.

He remembered someone talking about Americans playing bumper cars at a German amusement park. The Germans seemed shocked at the Americans’ violent driving. He’d been to Germany during the war, was astounded that the nation that spawned Nazis disapproved of American violence. Now it was different, America had its own Nazis and they were proud. If he was younger he’d kill as many of them as he could. Assholes shouldn’t advertise.

He was giving himself a headache, called Lawrence. Lawrence was young like Tenny, still had a hand in the game. Garrett liked his cell phone, an older model, portable and not too complicated.

“Wonderful invention,” he said when Lawrence answered.

“What is?”

“Cell phone. How you can carry it around and call someone.”

“You didn’t call to talk about your phone.”

“No. I’d like to talk, though.”

“Where you at? I’ll pick ya up.”

Lawrence was like that, happy to talk when he wasn’t busy. Garrett was glad he wasn’t.

 

They rode. “Where we headed?”

“To a place you can drink coffee. And I can drink.”

“Good. You know, Lawrence, it’s difficult for me, not being able to keep a hand in.”

“You need a card game or somethin’.”

“Maybe. But it ain’t the same.”

“No shit. Too bad you don’t drink.” He pulled into a garage, parked third floor. They waited for the elevator to take them down.

“That ain’t the same neither.”

“No,” Lawrence said, “it ain’t active violence. How much of that can one body take?”

The doors opened and they stepped in. “I’d love to find out.”

“So what are your days like? Walking and fucking whores?”

“Never knew how to keep a woman. Or a friend my age.”

“Well,” Lawrence said after a minute, stepping through the doors as they opened, “that’s on them, ain’t it?”

“Don’t make me less lonely.”

They walked, were soon in daylight.

“At least,” Garrett said, “I got the Giants.”

“Good team.”

“They were a couple years ago. We’ll see. But I didn’t call ya to talk baseball.”

“You asking for a job?”

“You got one?”

“What,” Lawrence said, “can you do?”

They’d walked slow together, with plenty of pauses in their conversation, and were in the bar of a Mexican restaurant.

“Fuck. Was hoping you’d tell me.”

He spoke in a tone that made it inappropriate to laugh.

Lawrence tried to give a gentle look. “Don’t have a job for a man with hope.”

“Only for a job. Not for the future.”

“Sure you don’t want a drink? Just one?”

“No, I’m sure I do want a drink. But I can’t have just one. Like one shot to a junkie.”

The bartender came over. Lawrence ordered a drink for himself, and a coffee, black, for Garrett. “Makes sense.”

Both men had their wallets on the bar.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lawrence said. “What’s he gonna charge for your coffee? Two bucks?”

“I can afford it. I make more than you.”

“Used to, not now.”

Garrett stared him down until Lawrence put his wallet away. “So, you got work?”

“For you? This ain’t Oceans Eleven. Only specialists that work are muscle.”

“I got muscles.”

“You gotta not fall down when you throw a punch, and you gotta run away after.”

Garrett tilted his head, smiled. Both men could be insanely hostile; this was pleasant, joking conversation. Something neither man was all that good at, probably couldn’t do at all with a stranger.

“You good at keeping books?” Lawrence said.

“Ain’t what I do.”

“Yeah, but you gotta change what that is.”

“I can still thump a guy…” His voice tailed off as the bartender brought his coffee and Lawrence’s bourbon rocks. “Keep it,” he said as he paid.

His eyes ranged down the empty bar. “How’d you know this place would be open?”

“Nice joint, full drink menu in the restaurant, gotta have a bartender on full-time.”

“Okay. So, I can still thump a guy, still hold a gun.”

“But you’d need an electric wheelchair to get away.”

“I can get one,” Garrett said. “Nice one.”

“I was joking.”

“I ain’t. I need work. And I’m muscle, always been muscle.”

“I know. Only, ain’t no one hirin’ out of sympathy. You got friends in the industry, but none of us is stupid.”

“Some of my friends are definitely stupid.”

“Not when they hire.”

Garrett raised his cup, Lawrence his glass. Their conversation going like this surprised neither of them. Details were different, level of stress on Garrett’s part higher each time they talked, but nothing important had changed. Garrett wanted work; Lawrence couldn’t offer any.

“Find me one stupid enough. I need work.”

“Don’t know who you know.”

Garrett stood and leaned, grabbed a pen from behind the bar, started scrawling on a napkin. He handed it to Lawrence.

“Start with these guys. They ain’t interested, I can double that list. Known a lot of idiots. Get me their numbers, I’ll make the calls.”

 

Home. He’d leave his phone on overnight for a change, didn’t want to miss a call. Nothing to do but think, nothing on TV he cared about. He had a cable package, but only for the sports. Basketball did nothing for him, football not much more. He was of that rare breed, grateful that baseball season went on so long.

If an old movie was on, something with Bogart or Mitchum, he could watch. Didn’t know these new stars, all looked like little boys. He checked for old movies, no luck. Back to his baseball season preview magazine, which he’d found in a downtown bookstore, the big one that survived first an earthquake then a pandemic. Near as he could tell, the pandemic was still going on, would forever with idiot politicians in charge, changing mask rules back and forth. He fucking hated politics, thanked a God he didn’t believe in for baseball.

Between looks at the magazine he wrote names on a sheet of paper, a list of idiots he’d worked with, the list growing as their names came to mind. He should add the writers of this magazine to the list.

He’d call his list on his own but he only kept the numbers of his friends, who weren’t stupid. Lawrence would track down who he could, make a note of their names so he never used them again if he ever had. An idiot on the job is always trouble. Garrett knew that, but he needed work. The same work he’d done for years, scaring the shit out of most of the punks, beating the hell out of the rest, killing when needed. He didn’t want a murder rap, didn’t want to do time. He’d rather get killed on the job.

He read his magazine, jotted down names. He’d checked the Giants channel earlier, but they were showing basketball. He wished to hell he liked basketball, it could entertain him until ten, later if he watched the post-game show. But he didn’t like it, there was nothing. Nothing but a magazine and an evergrowing list.

By the time he thought he could sleep, he was up to around thirty names, counting the five he’d given Lawrence. He’d call again tomorrow, not to rush him on the names he had, but to give him these.

 

Looking through the list the next morning over coffee, Garrett thought of more names, remembered more jobs he’d worked, more idiots he’d worked with. He wrote them down too. Should get a final list together before making his call. It could wait, tomorrow was as good as today. He was eager to work, but knew there was no calling this whole list in a day. He should prioritize it, which idiots he’d prefer to work with.

Knowing everyone he’d listed was an idiot, he tried to remember which ones he could stand. With a list in front of him, that wasn’t difficult. All relative, he didn’t like any of them. A bunch of guys it would be a risk to pull a job with. It was like with each name, he was adding to the names of who he’d like to be with when he died. Not his intent, but hardly the worst thing that could come of this.

He narrowed the rot he’d written to five names, waited for the call from Lawrence. No sense waiting here, he could take his phone with him, along with a pen and scrap of paper. He walked in the opposite direction of where he’d gone a couple days before. No sense heading to the local massage parlor for sixty bucks and no handjob. He took a roundabout route to his whorehouse, walking away from the park, making sure to get in a couple of miles before stopping there.

As usual, he requested an Asian girl, waited until one was available. Not many Asians in this town, so they were in steady demand. He’d preferred them for years, since his first, a Chinese girl called May. Not all of them had been as lovely, but every one he’d been with had delicate skin; delicate, not frail.

He never cared what country they were from, although he liked it better when they had meat on their bones. Generally meant they’d lived in the U.S. a while, had consumed more meat than rice.

The girl he got was even more beautiful than the one the other day. He’d already paid for half an hour, no sense pretending he’d go longer, hoped she’d earn a good tip. He was old and sometimes hobbled when he walked, but he always carried plenty of cash and didn’t worry about it. Anyone wanted it could try to take it from him. He intended to always have plenty when he got to his girl, didn’t care what he had on the walk home.

She said her name was Erica, funny because she could barely pronounce it. He was an old man who had paid for a young woman’s time – he did not laugh.

He smiled. “Garrett.” He took off his sweater and shirt, didn’t wait for her to pronounce his name. Removed the rest of his clothes and sat on the side of the bed, waited for her to disrobe.

First she picked up his clothes, folded them and placed them on a chair. He didn’t know folding clothes could be beautiful. As she removed first her blouse, then her skirt, not that either covered much, she hung them on hooks. She wore no bra, no panties. Christ she was amazing. He felt himself get hard right away.

“You must have short sessions,” he said.

“I make them last.”

She smiled; he did the same. She approached, he rolled onto his side. He knew as they made love that this was a substitute for violence, but a far better one than he usually paid for. He didn’t know if he would ever get to be an enforcer again. He was enjoying the hell out of this fuck, and she was making it last. He’d always liked working with professionals.

They finished and he lay there, exhausted.

She lay beside him. “Want to go again?”

“I’m too old. But another time. Erica, right?”

“Yes.”

He got up slow and dressed the same, pulled his wallet from his pants, peeled off bill after bill. A five hundred dollar tip, the largest he’d ever given.

“Thank you.” She smiled, like he’d just done her a favor. She might have been better than the girl he remembered.

If he was young, he’d ask to meet Erica outside of work, but he understood it was a job for her and he was old. Still, she’d given him another reason to live. One day out of three maybe. If his money ran out, he had a pistol he could put in his mouth. No reason to die unhappy.