An occupational hazard.

He slept through the banging at the door as his mind burrowed down underground tunnels, unearthing visions of fiery furnaces and blistered men pounding melting steel with oversized hammers.

The banging resumed with a fury, tearing holes through his dream, ripping the canvas to shreds and scattering it across a hellish background. It took him another minute or two to realize there was someone at the door.

Three men. Two he knew: Herman’s men, Nick and somebody… what was it? Foley or something. He knew them from the pool hall. Not knew them like knowing them, but had seen them around and once or twice had talked to the Nick guy. The third was a new face and an ugly one to it, someone from Jersey. Herman was always carting new monkeys from Jersey. They must have a factory there.

In this line of work it was not unusual to be awakened at the middle of the night by two or three mean looking thugs tearing down your door and calling out let’s go; we got business. He was used to it but this time he really wasn’t ready. Had been up all night at the after hours shooting and snorting. Couldn’t tell how he got home if his life depended on it. They gave him barely enough time to throw open the floodgates and splash a gallon or two into the toilet. Then they were gone.

Two in front, Nick and Foley… was that his name? And he and the ugly one in the back. Didn't know the time, left his watch on the floor by the mattress. Damn it. He could only tell it was dark out, and cold. They rode with the windows up and the concentrated scent of four men cramped in a car with the last shower lost in memory. He wanted a smoke bad but no one else smoked, and with the windows up, forget it.

They drove for a stretch turning into narrow streets and over railroad tracks until he lost his sense of direction. At some point they left town behind and were now riding on a winding county road. The headlights, dim from wear, barely lifted out of the darkness a few feet of road ahead of them. The engine sputtered on the uphill and misfired downhill.

The first set of headlights since they set out rose in the distance, faint, dipping out of sight and up again. They seemed to approach steadily without ever closing the gap. Time hung still as tiny pinpoints sprouted around the headlights, multiplying, growing brighter and giving rise to a looming Christmas tree that threatened to swallow them. A blast of wind rocked their car as the rig roared past on the opposite lane.

The radio crackled and rustled out of reach of airwaves. No one bothered to turn the dial or turn the damn thing off. No one spoke. This late at night, or early in the morning, he couldn’t tell, no one was in the mood to talk. And they hardly knew each other.

It was one of Herman’s tenets: the less familiar the men were, the cleaner the job. And the least you knew about the job the better. He didn't care, it was none of his business. Someone pissed the wrong guy, maybe. You do what you have to and too bad for the sucker.

Just make sure you don’t drag mud in your shoes. But in the event you do, let the trail lead to someone else. He was good at that and so far a couple of monkeys had paid for his mistakes. Too bad for them but they would’ve done the same - an occupational hazard. The crackling on the radio grated his nerves as the engine strained to keep the car moving. No one touched the dial, no one spoke. He was dying for a cigarette.

A faint glow broke in the eastern sky just as they turned into an unpaved road. It was riddled with potholes; tall weeds brushed against the bottom of the car. At the end of the road sat a single house, barely visible in the dark. On a brief pass of the headlights he could see that it was a shack with one solitary window in front. The walls naked concrete blocks. They parked some fifty yards away and killed the engine. Guns bared, they walked in a single line to the front door. Nick and Foley or whatever his name was, would guard the door and he would go in first with ugly monkey behind. The monkey kicked the door in and stepped aside for him.

Inside it was dark. He couldn’t see where he was and hesitated. Someone bumped him from behind and he fell, his hands scraping the dirt floor, his gun bouncing away from him. He heard a pop, then another. There were voices, someone saying something garbled. A match cast bobbing heads on the walls. Under the wavering light they watched the thin streak of blood flowing from his head, snaking across the floor and sinking in the dirt a few inches away. Then the match died off.

At the distance an engine growled three, four times before sputtering to life. Gradually, it grew fainter, fading away until there was silence. His mind was draining, clearing all thoughts. An emptiness. Then, it occurred to him that he never got to have that damn cigarette.