It was dark.  In the distance a train whistle made its mournful cry.  A man stood on a bridge looking down into the water.  A Burger King bag floated by underneath him.  The taste of a Whopper filled his mouth. 

Another man slowly walked towards him and stopped about about 6 feet away.  “Are you Rico?” he asked.

The man continued staring into the water.  “Who’s asking?” he replied.

“I’m a friend of Sean’s.”

He turned and looked at the newcomer.  “Yeah,” he said, “I’m Rico.”

Sean’s friend leaned on the railing next to Rico.  “Sean explained what I’m looking for?” he asked.

Rico nodded.

“The target is a guy named Walter Kurl.  He works for the Glass Paper Company.  He’s–”

“Glass paper?”

“It’s not paper made of glass, Glass is the name of the family that owns the company.”

“Huh.  They should’ve gone into the glass business.”

“Yeah.  We get that all the time.  Anyway, Walter Kurl is a supervisor there.”

“We?  You work there too?”

“Yeah.  Kurl is my boss.”

“Pretty sick of him, huh?”

“You have no idea.  He’s got this coming, and then some.”

“Okay.  Where’s the place located?”

“At a deserted warehouse on the edge of town.  Kurl  works late every night, then he walks–alone–through the parking ramp to his car.”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“A ’68 Rambler.  Maroon and white.”

“Really?  What kind of engine?”

“I don’t know.  Never looked under the hood.”

“Hmm.  I suppose I’ll be in too much of a hurry to take a look.  Oh well.”

“Anyway, I figure you can hide somewhere in the ramp and get him when he comes out.”

Rico nodded.  “I’ll push him down for you.”

“Hard.” said Sean’s friend.  “I want him pushed down real hard.”

Rico turned and looked at him.  “You must really hate this guy.  Get a bad performance review or something?”

“Never mind why.  Just push him down for me.”

“You bring the money?”

Sean’s friend nodded and reached into his pocket.  “$17.50, right?”

Rico nodded.

“Here’s a twenty.  Keep the change.”

Rico crumpled the bill into his pocket.  “You got a picture of Kurl?”

A photograph appeared from a pocket.  “That’s him on the left.  The guy with the bow tie.”

Rico stared at it.  “I didn’t know handlebar moustaches were coming back.”

Sean’s friend sighed.  “They’re not.”

At 5:40 the next evening, Rico stood in the shadows in the parking ramp.  The ’68 Rambler was about 20 yards away.  No one was in sight.  An owl hooted.  Rico chewed gum, and waited.

At 6:12 he heard hard shoes on concrete, echoing in the ramp, slowly clop-clopping towards him.  He spit his gum out.  His body tensed.

A shape came into view.  As it passed under a light, Rico saw the handlebar moustache.  He silently moved into a course to intercept him just before the Rambler.

Walter Kurl approached his car and reached into his pocket for his keys.  A voice spoke behind him.

“Mr. Kurl?”

Walter Kurl turned.  Rico used the palms of both hands and pushed Kurl hard in the chest.  He went down on the concrete, his keys sliding away.  Rico chuckled, then turned and ran.

“Hey!” yelled Walter Kurl.  But it was too late.

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