A young woman with sandy hair and shining blue eyes peered out at him, her smile accenting the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looked so much like a woman he had known in high school that Nick’s sense of reality slipped momentarily. He swallowed and searched the data in her file. At thirty-three, she was five years younger and in no way the girl he had known. The file revealed her name to be Rachel Hunter. Nick’s prospective employer wanted her dead by week’s end. Rachel was under federal witness protection in Pleasanton, California, just north of Nick’s Pacific Grove place.

Nick locked up his house. It took him under two hours to reach the Applebee’s restaurant where Rachel worked. He followed the greeter in and was seated at a window table with a menu. Rachel’s tables were in an area further down on Nick’s right, where he could see her movements without obstruction. She had to pass by his table to reach the kitchen. Nick ordered the soup and salad special with iced tea. He noticed Rachel glance his way as she walked by. Nick smiled at her, and Rachel blushed as if embarrassed he had noticed her looking at him.

Six days later, an immaculately dressed man entered his plush office on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He walked to the huge window behind the desk, where it seemed the world lay at his feet. Gazing out at what he thought of as his world, he wondered if the detestably arrogant Mr. Robinson had brought the little blue-eyed canary to room temperature yet.

The fifty-caliber slug went in dead center between his eyes, opening after impact to leave little of his head intact. The man was never to be disturbed during these morning hours. His secretary would not discover the body until nearly noontime. By then, Nick was off the island and on his way west.

“Hey, look there, Carol, it’s Mister Pulp Fiction.”