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news,” said Mr. Allspice. “Let the Swiss deal with you and your ridiculous horn. Good riddance, I say. If I weren’t so old, I would help you pack. Maybe this time Mr. Olivetti can bring in a suitable tenant.” Mr. Allspice turned and walked back through the breezeway. “I’m sure you’ll love their chocolates, you fat twit. Keep this light on!” The inside door slammed shut.
    Hot dog, thought Franklin. The goomba is in the trunk. Speaking of hot dogs, I haven’t eaten all day. He looked at his watch, two minutes ‘til ten.
    THE DRIVE DOWN to Lackawanna was not as treacherous as Franklin had feared. There were only a few turns after he turned off Rte. 5 and there was barely another car on the road. He remembered the turn-off from the main drag and started down a gloomy, meandering country road. He drove for about five miles and began to look for a white picket fence on the right-hand side. After the fence it was two, maybe three mailboxes. Franklin remembered Mr. Olivetti’s mailbox had a red reflector screwed to it. Despite the bright moon, the road was black and seemed to pitch into a 45-degree turn every hundred yards. Twice Franklin shrieked as deer materialized on the side of the road, their eyes shimmering in the headlights like tiny mirrors. Mr. Olivetti was beginning to get a little ripe in the back. The Pontiac T1000 was a fine machine, but it was also a hatchback. So even though technically the dead body was in the trunk, only the back seat separated Franklin’s olfactory system from Mr. Olivetti’s carcass. Franklin turned on the interior light and looked at his watch, 10:24. Mr. Olivetti had been dead for almost eleven hours. He rolled down the window.
    Franklin recognized the white picket fence and turned down the radio. He wondered why people always do that, turn down the radio as they near their destination.
    Three mailboxes later he spied the red reflector and turned right onto the long gravel driveway. He did not think it was possible, but the driveway was darker and gloomier than the road. All these damn trees, he thought. The headlights rolled across Mr. Olivetti’s white clapboard house as Franklin followed the driveway back to the barn. He executed a perfect three-point turn, backed the car up to the barn door and killed the engine. Franklin extricated himself from the Pontiac and stepped out onto the gravel driveway. The tiny stones crunched under his rubber sandals. The crickets sounded like they were ten feet tall and closing in on him. The woods were alive with a thousand pairs of eyes. He popped the trunk, looked down at Mr. Olivetti’s twisted corpse and was struck in sharp clarity with the criminal thing he was about to do. He turned away from the trunk and vomited his Moxie cola onto the driveway. There wasn’t much to it since he had not eaten all day, mostly foam. He smoothed gravel over it and stamped it down with his sandal. Franklin walked around in a little circle trying to get his bearings.
    “Okey dokey,” he said. “How do you want to die the second time, Albert? How about death by … cigarette? It’s a hell of a lot more dignified than the way you died this morning.”
    He opened the barn door, pulled a rubber ball dangling from a string in the workshop and a bulb popped on. Franklin pulled the blankets off Mr. Olivetti and lifted him out of the trunk. He laid him on the blue blanket, dragged him into the barn and propped him up against the worktable.
    “I’ll be right back,” said Franklin. “Don’t you go anywhere.”
    Franklin used Mr. Olivetti’s keys to get in through the back door. He stepped into the kitchen and immediately recognized the lingering stench of Parmesan cheese. He ripped off a paper towel from above the sink and used it to start pulling open drawers, looking for a box of kitchen matches.
    He threw open several cupboards and found a half carton of Salems. Franklin removed a pack and put it in the pocket of his T -shirt. No matches in the