Do Wah Diddy Die

Chapter 1-2

Arthur Maxwell studied the new shoes in the mirror. The shine was satisfactory, though it could be a touch brighter. The fit—he wiggled his toes—was good, though he wouldn’t know for sure until he walked in them. He backed up, then walked toward the mirror. No pressure points. He backed up again to get the whole picture. Did the shoes fit with his suit? He stroked the fabric, enjoying the feel of expensive fabric. Silk was still too new for him to take for granted.

Prosperity suited him, he decided, smoothing an errant bit of hair back into the smooth line of his expensive hair cut. It suited him down to his toes.

“I’ll take them,” he said, turning to the sales clerk who was giving him a look with which he was all too familiar. Awe, admiration, a touch of lust. Women of a...certain age...had been reacting to him the same way since his hormones kicked in. It hadn’t taken him long to realize there were benefits to be had from reacting back. Now it was second nature to smile with just a hint of shy to temper the charm. His eyes twinkled on schedule and her jaw went slack. She’d have been his, he knew, if he bumped up the stakes a bit, but he didn’t need to anymore. He had money and he had Helen. “Let’s box up my old ones, shall we?”

Well, he’d have money if Artie and Fern took care of Luci Seymour before she could get to her aunts. Which they would. He’d dangled a lot of money in front of his old cellmate, enough to get him to defy his ball and chain. Fern was the only woman alive of that certain age who was immune to Artie’s particular brand of charm. Odd, unexpected, but overcome with cash, like most of life’s problems. He might even pay them like he’d promised. He didn’t have many friends and, well, Artie was a bopper. One didn’t stiff a killer for hire unless...

It was a dangerous business and accidents did happen.

He smiled at the clerk, slackened her jaw again, as he counted out the exact number of bills needed to make the shoes his.

Outside, he unlocked his car and slid in. It didn’t go with his suit, but it didn’t matter. He had a nicer one waiting at home with Helen. He pulled his old shoes out, pausing long enough to sadly rub the scratch on the glowing surface before tossing them in the back seat with his other rejected shoes.

When he pulled out into traffic, he was only somewhat aware of the flurry of irritated honks and screeching tires. With any luck, it would be finished tonight. He could get his money and go home to Helen a free man. He should stop off and check his post office box. He made the turn without signaling and got another flurry of honked objections.