Savin Hill

11 O'Clock

"Eddie Livingston," I muttered under my breath as I took another pull from my beer. "What I'd give to see the look on that cocksucker's face right about now."

I'd been sitting in my living room for the better part of two hours with nothing but the ricochet of raindrops bouncing off cheap vinyl siding and the rhythmic chime of an old grandfather clock as it announced the coming of another hour to penetrate the silence. With any luck the ringing of the telephone would soon add to this medley of ambient sound and I'd be free to turn in for the night, content with the knowledge that I'd awake in a few hours fifty-five thousand dollars richer.

I'd fixated myself so intently on the silence of the phone's receiver that I almost didn't recognize the low rumbling of a fist pounding against the outside of my front door as it punctuated the harsh weather. "Sully, you fucking idiot," I shouted as I made my way toward the foyer. "I made it implicitly clear that you were to call me after you'd finished the job." As I reached to unlock the clasp on the deadbolt a crack of lightning illuminated the night sky, affording me a good look through the narrow glass windowpane at the man standing on my doorstep. Though I could only make out a stocky frame within the split-second afforded to me, I felt the bile rise to the back of my throat as I'd come to realize my earlier wish had been granted.