“Huh?”

“She’s obviously seen you. You were obviously going to kill her, once you got the money. So. What was the plan?”

Harry wiped off his orange barbecue ring with a hand. He was blinking, trying to think. “Got a roll of plastic in the closet. Gonna roll her up and dump her in one of them gravel pits they got around here.”

“I see. Do that number with the plastic right now, with Louis, why don’t you? Okay?”

Tears were rolling down Harry’s chubby, stubbly pockmarked cheeks. I didn’t know whether he was crying for Louis or himself or the pair of them, and I wasn’t interested enough to ask.

“Okay,” he said thickly, apparently resigned to his fate, his mouth slack but his eyes moving with thought.

I watched him roll his partner up in the sheet of plastic, using duct tape to secure the package; he sobbed as he did it, but he did it. He got blood on his Hawaiian shirt; it didn’t particularly show, though.

“Good job, Harry. Now…I want you to clean up the mess. Go on. You’ll find what you need in the kitchen.”

Dutifully, Harry shuffled over to where the open kitchen met the little living room, got a pan of warm water and some rags, and dropped to his knees to clean up the brains and blood. He wasn’t crying anymore. He moved slow but steady, a fat zombie in a colorful shirt.

“Stick the rags in the end of the plastic there, Harry, would you? Thank you.”

Harry did that, then the big man lumbered to his feet, hands half-heartedly in the air, and said, “Now me?”

“I might let you go, Harry. I got nothing against you.”

His eyes jumped. “Not…not how I remember it.”

I laughed. “You girls leaned on me once. You think I’d kill a person over something that trivial? What kind of asshole do you think I am, Harry?”

Harry had sense enough not to answer.