He didn’t know why he did it. He didn’t know why he agreed to take the job. Sitting in the car behind tinted windows Mikey looked out into the twilight that crept up on the day. The tree lined street looked surreal as shadows faded and the canopy of trees cast the road into a darkening tunnel. Lights flickered in the house he was watching. As he sat, waiting for darkness to chase the last remnants of daylight over the horizon Mikey fingered the pack of smokes in his breast pocket. He wanted to light up – to calm his nerves. Fighting the urge, his stubby fingers traced the outline of the box in his pocket. Fidgeting, her reached under the seat and pulled out the gun that was hidden there. Bringing it up slowly, he placed it on his lap. Pulling the pin that held the revolver’s chamber in place, he fingered each slot to insure that the bullets he had loaded were still there. The cold steel of the stub-nosed thirty-eight felt good against his hand.

This wasn’t the first time Mikey was called upon to take care of family business. He was good at it. Proficient was the word his Caporegime had used. The first time he heard the word it made him smile. Now he was having second thoughts. He didn’t want to be proficient. He just wanted to be somewhere else.

Perspiration formed on his brow. Absentmindedly he wiped it with the back of his hand. Peering into the rear view and then each side view mirror, he confirmed the lack of activity on the street. How could anybody live in such a quiet place? Mikey thought back to his childhood and how people sat on the stoop at night talking about the happenings of the day. The bustle of activity carried well into the night. Nobody came or went without somebody on the street seeing them. Now he wished that someone would come out and play neighborhood watchdog.

Running a hand through his the thick mane, Mikey fought back the mental demons trying to unnerve him. The first time he killed the demons warned him that he was on the slippery slope to hell. Funny, he thought. It didn’t feel like hell when the Caporegime handed him the envelope with ten grand in it. When he thumbed the bills the rush of adrenaline made him smile. Ten grand for an hour’s work, if this is hell, I’ll take the express next time.

Dusk arrived. A solitary window on the second floor spilled light across the front porch overhang. Mikey thought about the next move. He checked the mirrors again, hoping against hope that someone would appear to delay his action. Stepping out of the car his legs felt like lead. Checking the breast pocket of his sport coat he felt the familiar outline of the gun. Pulling himself out of the car he closed the door slowly, not wanting to call attention to himself. Attention he thought, I don’t think a bomb blast would call attention to me.

Walking up the slight incline from the street to the unpaved strip bordered by grass, he trudged towards the house. Checking addresses, he wanted to make sure he was going to the right place. One can never be too sure, he heard the voice remind him. Pebbles crunched under the tread of his rubber soled shoes. He learned early on to wear quiet shoes. He remembered the story about the guy who wore expensive Italian leather shoes to a job. The stiffness of the leather shoes slapped the ground when he walked. They buried the unfortunate soul in those same shoes.    Two houses down from the target he turned. Nobody behind me. Continuing to walk slowly he cased the house. No movement outside and still only one light on. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he felt that same wetness under his arms. He was glad he had applied an extra heavy coating of deodorant.

Now one house away, he felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Patting the paunch that threatened to overspill his belt, he tried to steady himself. Extracting the gun from the breast pocket, he slipped it into the exterior pocket with his right hand. His left hand was plunged deep into his pants pocket, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his meaty thigh.

When he reached the edge of the property that was his destination something startled him. He turned quickly, trying to act nonchalant. Mikey scanned the grayness for the source of the movement. Standing still, his eyes moved side to side until he spotted the culprit. A black cat crouched by the trunk of an Elm tree watching him with accusing eyes. Damn cats, I hate cats. Mikey remembered his aunt’s cat that clawed him when he was a child trying to play with him like he played with the terrier his parents had gotten him for his tenth birthday. He learned that day about cats and their temperament. The scars on his forearm had faded but the memory of the clawing produced a dull pain in his temples.

Mikey watched the cat as it watched him. When it scurried off he returned to the business at hand. Walking fast enough to not seem suspicious he checked out the front of the house. The porch was dark, the only light coming from the window above it. Circling to the right, he walked along the sidewalk that ran from the front porch around and down the side to the back of the house. He knew it was important not to leave any traces of his visit.

Now around back he spotted the door that led to the kitchen. Stopping for a moment he recalled the last time he was in the house. A birthday party for Johnny’s only daughter. She was lovely at eighteen. Johnny was so proud. He had given her a car and she insisted that Mikey take a ride with her. Mikey was her Godfather. The responsibility of the role weighed on him as he ascended the three concrete steps to the back door.

Extracting a key he inserted it in the lock, the nervousness having left him. As he opened the door he thought he smelled the aromas from the party. Trying to dismiss the aroma of sausage and peppers and meatballs in tomato sauce, he felt his mouth water. Closing the door he stood in the kitchen, eyeing the path to the front of the house.

Johnny, why did you have to do it? Why Johnny? Mikey wished he was anywhere but there. At that moment he wanted to turn and leave. He knew he couldn’t. The oath he took committed him to the act. It was either Johnny or him. Resolved, he stepped into the living room. The carpet was soft. There would be no sound. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped and looked up. The faint light spilling from the front bedroom gave him just enough visibility. He heard the sound of voices. Maybe he’s not alone. He wasn’t charged with killing anybody but Johnny. He knew that witnesses would be a problem. He hoped six bullets were enough ordinance to do the job. Stopping on each step he realized it was the television. Relief washed over him.

When he reached the landing he stopped again. Perspiration dripped from his armpits. Extracting the gun he wrapped his fingers around the butt, his index finger on the trigger. Approaching the doorway he spied into the room. Johnny sat on the edge of the bed engrossed in the television show.

Raising the gun, he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his left arm. Johnny’s head was in his sites. Stepping through the doorway he stood five feet away. Johnny turned. Seeing the gun pointed at him the color drained from his face. He wanted to speak. Words formed but his vocal chords froze.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t make this harder for me than it has to be. Get up slowly and lay face down on the bed.”

Johnny moved haltingly. When his victim was in position, Mikey moved to the side of the bed. Picking up a pillow he placed it between the gun and his victim.

“You know why I have to do this.”

Johnny raised his head about to respond.

“It’s a rhetorical question.” Johnny dropped his head into the pillow.

Tightening his grip on the gun and taking aim. Mikey fired one shot; wavering for a second before his body fell across the bed. Johnny screamed as he jumped to his feet. Standing on wobbly legs he looked at his friend’s lifeless body. He knew that his childhood friend had paid the ultimate price for Johnny’s betrayal.