Nigel Ashwood, at 23, ordered two coffees and tossed a wink to the woman in the next booth. She rolled her eyes and looked down at the menu. She was younger than Nigel. Maybe 19. From the size of her belly, it was clear she was eating for two. Nigel smirked. There was so much life in the world.

 And his hands were no longer shaking.

The bell above the door chimed. Nigel watched as the guy Baker shuffled the chill off his extra-wide bones. Baker noticed Nigel and headed for the booth.

Fat asshole, Nigel thought. Layered up like it’s the dead of winter. Fat peasant asshole.

Nigel gave Baker a pleasant smile. Baker didn’t reciprocate as he slid his flabby frame into the seat. The vinyl moaned under his weight. Baker’s gut pushed the table an inch toward Nigel.

“I got you a coffee,” said Nigel, leaning back in his seat. “It’s probably cold by now, punctual as you are. You want I’ll ask the waitress to warm it up.”

Baker arranged himself on the seat. It took a minute. He didn’t touch the coffee. “There hasn’t been anything in the papers,” he said. His honey BBQ voice was thick and low. “Nothing on the grapevine.”

Nigel frowned, confused. “Yeah, but, that’s like, a, very good thing, right?”

“It means you either did the job, or you didn’t.”

“Or it means I did the job and didn’t get caught. What was I supposed to do? Bring you her head in a bag? Maybe call up the cops myself?”

Baker chuckled in that patronizing tone Nigel detested. He’d chuckled like that the first time they’d met, in the back of the bar. It made Nigel’s blood boil. It was the chuckle of a man who thought he was better than Nigel Ashwood.

It wasn’t entirely Baker’s fault. He was just ignorant about Nigel’s lineage. Very few people knew about it.

“What’s so funny then?” Nigel sneered. He wanted to add fat man at the end of this question, but that would be bad for business, considering Nigel had not been paid the other half of the agreed upon fee yet.

“Nothing at all,” Baker said. “Go on and tell me all about it.”

“Didn’t put up much of a struggle. Almost like she knew it was her time and didn’t see the point of fighting. You know, some old timers are probably like that. Especially the lonely ones.”

“And you arranged things, like we discussed?”

“I left her in there in the tub. She sank to the bottom like a brick. I made the water real cold. I heard that prevents gases from forming, so the body stays down under the water. And I put the cigarette case in the bathroom.”

“Where?”

“In the bathroom, I said.”

“Where in the bathroom?”

“On the edge of the sink. Christ, you’re one paranoid cookie.” Who’s had one too many cookies, Nigel wanted to add.

Baker nodded down at the table between them. His fat fingers picked at the corner of the napkin.

“I kept things brief,” Nigel added. “Didn’t suffer none.”

“Where’s the tub?”

“Second floor. Right at the top of the stairs, shitter’s the first door. I got it down cold, big man. Just like I said I would.”

Baker took inventory of Nigel’s face. Deconstructing it. Looking for a lie, a nervous tic of a tell. What looked back at him was a phony smirk, punctuated by eyes of no particular color.

Wanting very much to be done with this slimy shit, Baker said, “What’s our balance then? Five thousand, right? On top of the five I gave you upon agreement?” Baker took a manila envelope out from his heavy topcoat.

Nigel nodded and accepted the envelope under the table. Call him an amateur, but he knew better than to count it here.

Baker kept his grip on the envelope. Nigel gave it a little jerk, Baker held on and said, “If it turns out she’s still alive, holed up in that old house, I’ll find you, and believe me, it’ll be anything but brief.”

The fat man didn’t frighten Nigel. If he were such a badass, he would’ve knocked off the old lady himself. There were no stones under that gut.

They had a little staring contest in their booth, then Baker finally relinquished the envelope.

“Hey, let me ask you something,” Nigel said, stuffing the envelope inside his jacket. “What’s the old lady to you? You even know who she was?”

Baker put several creamers in his coffee. “I can give you 10,000 reasons why you don’t need to ask me any questions. It’s the past now, Mr. Ashwood.”

“I’m just curious is all. She seemed so . . . harmless. Her place was interesting. Like a musty old antique shop or something. Frozen in time . . .” Nigel’s voice trailed off as a smile emerged. “Say . . . it’s something in the house, isn’t it?”

Baker glared at Nigel. His beady little ferret eyes glowed red and his paunchy face turned a similar shade.

Nigel held his hands out. “I’m just saying, you want, I could go in there and get it for you. Whatever it is. I’ll get it gone for you. Just toss me, I don’t know, 20 percent of what you make off it.”

“That won’t be necessary. That envelope marks the end of our transaction.”

Nigel wagged a crooked finger at Baker. “I knew it. There is something in the old broad’s castle, isn’t there? Like a painting or jewelry or—”

With his gut, Baker pushed the edge of the table into Nigel’s chest. He kept pushing until Nigel was pinned against his seat. Nigel grinned through the pain.

“I knew you were desperate, shitbird, but I didn’t know you were deaf.” Baker let up on the pressure. The color returned to Nigel’s face. “We are done. I’ll put the word out that you’re looking for work. If anyone bites, you’ll be hearing from me.”

With some effort, Baker removed himself from the booth.

The moment he was gone, the woman in the adjacent booth hurried over and sat across from Nigel. She eased her pregnant belly into the booth much like Baker had eased his own large midsection minutes earlier. She brought her Shirley Temple with her.

“You okay?” she said eagerly.

“Fine, Lizzy baby.” Nigel rubbed his chest. “Just fine.”

“Did the fat bitch ante up?”

“This gig pays more than delivering groceries. Bet on that.”

Liz beamed and rubbed her pregnant belly. “Hot damn. My king! You hear that, little prince? Daddy’s gonna put your royal ass through college.”

“Nah . . .” Nigel trailed off and glared out the window, out at the diner’s parking lot, where Baker had driven away a moment ago. He sucked his tongue. “I could get used to the paycheck, no doubt. But that silly bastard ain’t giving me the whole story. He thinks he’s smarter than me. I think . . .”

“Nigel, baby, don’t go second guessing yourself.” Liz stirred her ice with the red plastic sword. “There ain’t no takebacks on what you did. And you did it for us.”

“It’s not that I’m second guessing myself. The motherfucker is holding back. Had me do this unforgiveable fucking thing, this thing that damns my soul to eternal damnation. If you believe in that sort’ve bullshit, I mean. And I don’t. But now, he’s gonna reap the lion’s share. Sitting all fat and pretty with his manicured nails. That type of shit does not sit well with me, Liz. You should know that about me by now. I don’t like not knowing everything about everything. I don’t like being taken for a fool.”

“You know your worth, king. You’ve always been like that. Our little prince will inherit that worth. I know he will.”

Nigel smiled wide and warm at his girl. “Thank you for saying that. You know your words have the possibility to shift my whole perspective. Can turn a turd into a tulip. And I know your worth, baby. That’s why you’re going to quit your job.”

Liz squeaked and scrunched her shoulders up, like a child being presented a warm cup of hot chocolate. “You mean it?”

“Hell yes. The mother of my kickass child isn’t going to be answering no damn phones for no damn tractor salesmen. From here on out, you’ll be soaking those sexy ass feet of yours in cream and honey.”

Nigel had heard about the “pregnancy glow,” but he hadn’t really seen it until now. The evening light shone through the diner’s window, making Liz’s sun blonde hair and fair skin radiate. She was a goddamn knockout. Nigel knew he was handsome, but how he bagged Liz Rawlings would forever be a mystery, even to himself.

“What?” Liz smiled coyly. “Why are you staring at me like a window peeper?”

“Just thinking about how much I love that little son of a bitch you got in the oven.”

When Nigel said things like that, Liz wondered how she let Nigel bag her. He was handsome enough. A seven at best. With a constant energy behind his green eyes. Not emotion, just an energy that Liz found alluring.

But even with his royal blood (or maybe because of it), he always found a way to kick that down a couple notches by saying some dumb shit.

“Don’t call our son that,” she said to her drink. “You’re the son of a bitch, you son of a bitch.”

Nigel leaned back in the booth and spread his arms across the top of the seat. “I think I’m gonna rattle the fat man a bit. See what shakes out of this old bag’s house.”

“As long as you come home to your family,” Liz said.

“Family. I like that.”

Nigel smiled and took her hands. They were warm and still. So alive.