The Killing Hour

‘That’s not my fault.’


‘No, but it’s your problem. Listen, I’m not an unreasonable man. You come with fifty grand tonight, and I give you an extra couple of days. It’s like layby. I’ll keep the goods while you keep on paying.’

I try to think how I could get that sort of money. If I actually had to. I try to sound as if I’m really struggling to come up with an idea but of course it isn’t a problem. Frank helped me out there. ‘I’ll take out another mortgage on the house,’ I lie. ‘I’ll get the hundred.’

‘See? No longer a problem.’ He hangs up and my cue to start the day has arrived.

I pull back the curtains to a typical summer morning. I have a fast breakfast containing nothing healthy before dumping the plastic bag of money onto the dining room table and counting it out. It takes me over thirty minutes and the final result is one hundred dollars short of one hundred grand. One hundred grand divided by two. That’s how much Kathy was worth. How much Luciana was worth.

I put the money back into the bag, walk to my bedroom and add another hundred dollars from my top drawer before hiding the bag in the ceiling. The rest of the money from my top drawer I stuff into my pockets along with the note I found in Frank’s mouth. I lock the house and make a mental note to ring somebody about the door as soon as I can.

It’s nearly midday, the sun already well on its way into a cloudless sky. A warm nor’west breeze blows across my face, suggesting the day will only get hotter. I have so much summer cheer it’s bleeding from my pores.

I climb into the rented Holden and push my thumb in on the cigarette lighter. I back out of my driveway and pause outside my house. I realise I haven’t even checked my mail for the last few days so I still don’t know what that kid jammed into my letterbox on Monday. There’s a whole bunch of other stuff in there now. Bills, probably. Perhaps some junk mail, crap like pizza vouchers and shop brochures. The cigarette lighter pops back out. I hold it against the hundred-dollar note. It starts to melt and I hold it out the side of the car as it shrivels away, surrounded by black smoke. Then I drop it on the road and run it over.

For the entire drive into town I contemplate the value of life. Jo is going to cost me a hundred grand, exactly what Kathy and Luciana cost Frank. Saving a life is twice as expensive as ending one. It’s all about supply and demand. Economics. You get what you pay for.

I get a park directly outside the gun store recommended by the army surplus guy with the flabby upper arms. When I approach the shop I keep glancing around the street to see if anybody is watching me. I don’t know who I’m looking for. Cyris, maybe. Or a cop. Another Landry. I swing open the door and step inside. A buzzer goes off somewhere letting staff know I’ve entered the premises. There are rows and rows of guns that look impressive, as though they could solve a lot of problems in this world. The air-conditioning is turned on full, the motor humming in the background. There are no customers, just one man behind the counter reading a newspaper with news in it that I helped to make.

I approach him but he doesn’t look up from his paper until I reach the counter. He looks around forty years old, a tall man with a joined eyebrow that makes the bridge of his thick glasses look like they’re growing a beard. His smile disappears when he sees the working over I’ve been given.

‘Morning, sir. What can I do for you today?’ He manages to sound both polite and unhelpful. His finger is holding the place where he’d been reading. He obviously wants to get straight back to it.

I ask for the name the five hundred dollars bought me.

‘I’m Arthur,’ he tells me, but he doesn’t sound excited about it, and looking at his eyebrow I don’t blame him.

‘I want to purchase a firearm.’

‘Oh? For hunting?’ His smile brightens at the prospect of a sale but his finger doesn’t move from the paper. It will brighten further when he sees what I have in mind.

‘Something like that. But I want something lightweight. Something I can carry easily.’

‘Well, we have a few nice weapons over in the cabinet here that might be ideal. We’ve got the Blaser R-93 bolt-action rifle, takes a three-shot magazine.’

‘I need something smaller.’

‘Well, sir, it depends on what you’re hunting. There isn’t a lot below forty inches. The reason for that …’

I stop him there. ‘Listen. Floyd sent me.’

He pauses for a second, then finally moves his hand away from the newspaper. He adjusts his glasses and through the lenses his eyes narrow. ‘Floyd? You’re the man he spoke to yesterday?’

‘Don’t I fit the description he gave you?’



‘What is it you want, mister?’