Drawing Dead by Pete Hautman

talk to the guy she’s seeing. I don’t even want to know who he is. I just want you to find him and get rid of him.”
    Crow jerked his head back. “You want me to kill him?”
    â€œI want you to
pay
him,” Wicky said.
    â€œYou want me to pay him,” Crow repeated, somewhat relieved.
    Wicky turned to the pad of paper and drew a dollar sign over his wife’s lover’s triangle. “Pay him to go away,” he said.
    Crow cleared his throat and looked off to the side. He felt as if Wicky was showing him a sore on his cock. Paying him to look at it. He was embarrassed to be in this sterile room with this lumpy man, taking his money, looking at his circles and triangles and dollar signs.
    â€œThis isn’t my sort of thing, Dickie,” he said, wondering as he said it what his sort of thing was.
    â€œJoe, I trust you.” Wicky caught Crow’s eyes and held on. “I know you can handle it. Professionally. If I tried to do it myself I’d lose it. I’d kill the son-of-a-bitch. I can sit here and talk about it with you all rational like and calm, but if I saw the guy face-to-face I just don’t think I could hold myself back. I’d be like a wild animal.” He paused, his little eyes flickering back and forth over Crow’s face.
    The image of Dickie Wicky becoming a wild animal was almost too much, but years of poker playing enabled Crow to hold his face rigid.
    Wicky continued. “Look, Joe, I can afford to make it worth your while. And you’d be doing me a huge favor. Wait. . .” He held up a palm, halting Crow’s refusal. “Don’t give me your answer now. I just want you to think about it. Would you do that for me? Think about it?”
    The way he put it, it seemed so reasonable and fair. Crow tried to shake his head no, but found himself nodding. Why was he so gutless in the hands of a salesman? Was it the eyes? Later, on the phone, he could say no and he wouldn’t have to look at those pale, quivering eyes.
    â€œOkay,” he said.
    Wicky stood up and gave Crow’s hand a firm, moist shake. “Thanks, Joe. Thanks for listening.”
    Crow felt as if he had just paid too much for something he didn’t need. Wicky was still holding on to his hand. He clapped his other hand on Crow’s shoulder. “Say, do you like to have a good time?”
    â€œNot particularly.” Crow pulled his hand away and stepped back. Wicky held his palms out, facing Crow as though to show him that they were empty, a magician about to perform sleight of hand.
    â€œWe're having a little wingding tonight. Lots of food and booze. Or whatever you want. I’ll even have some of that fake beer stuff that you drink. Bring a friend if you want, or come alone—there’ll be plenty of women there. Besides, it’ll give you a chance to get a look at Catfish. Here.” He produced an expensive-looking pen and wrote on the back of a business card. “You know where The Summit is? Where I live? It’s right downtown, right on the river. Here’s my address and security code. Just buzz yourself in and go right on up to the twenty-fifth floor. We got the whole floor opened up—swimming pool, game room, whatever—so come by anytime.” He held out the card.
    â€œI’ll try to make it,” Crow lied, dropping the card in a pocket, not looking at it. “What’s the occasion?”
    â€œIt’s my birthday,” Wicky said. “I'm going to be twenty-seven.”
    Crow blinked. Twenty-seven? He would have guessed closer to forty. “Congratulations,” he said, apropos of absolutely nothing.
    â€œThanks!” Wicky opened the conference room door.
    â€œWhat about my fee?” Crow asked.
    Wicky furrowed his brow, then brightened. “Oh, of course. How much was it?”
    â€œThree hundred.”
    â€œOuch! You want to flip for it?”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    Wicky opened