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odd dog walker, a few teenagers on bikes, moms with strollers. There’d be even less activity late at night.
    The Maitland end of the park had lots of bushes and a floral clock. There was no stoplight at Green and Maitland, but there was a streetlamp. I picked out a spot on Maitland on the park side, about half a block west of where it crossed Green. I paced out the distance from there to the intersection.
    Then I turned up Green and walked south as far as the Beekland’s house. When I was even with it, I turned around. I checked my watch and timed the walk from their house back up to Maitland. I went slowly to match what I thought would be Stanley’s pace. I made it in thirteen minutes.
    As I walked, I tried to think of what I was doing as prep for a wrestling match. I tried to make myself focus on the moves. Only this time it wasn’t arm or leg locks, it was keeping the car idling with the lights out, judging the distance, imagining Stanley stepping off the curb, letting out the clutch and stamping on the gas. I thought I’d need to be going at least sixty to kill him, and I figured I’d hit him just as he was a third of the way into the road. I could almost feel the impact, see his body flying, all arms and legs, as I kept going.
    I groped my way to a bench and sat down. It was a hot, muggy day, but that wasn’t the reason I was soaked with sweat. I still couldn’t believe I was actually going to murder someone.
    * * *
    Nightfall brought no relief from the heat and humidity, only mosquitoes. You could feel things building up to a summer storm. Rain was not predicted until tomorrow, but the way things were going, I figured it would move in early just to thwart me. I didn’t park at the spot I had chosen on Maitland but instead chose a position on Boswell, north of Maitland. I got there at ten. I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for Marcia’s call, and I saw no point in being too obvious.
    I tried to keep my mind free, my body loose. That’s hard to do when you’re crouched low, white-knuckling a steering wheel.
    â€œOh, Chico,” I moaned. “Why? I wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t wanted a quick way to some cash. Sure, we fought over your gambling, your playing around, but life together had its good times. In the end, did I really mean so little to you?” I started crying.
    The tweeting of my mobile nearly sent me through the roof.
    â€œYeah?” I realized I was shouting. My hands were shaking.
    â€œHe just walked out the door. He’s going to the Shortstop. Get him this time.” Marcia hung up.
    My heart was thumping in my throat. I felt the familiar nausea. I could barely focus on my watch as I began the count. One minute. Two. Three. Four. I pictured Stanley pausing to light a cigarette. At minute seven I keyed up the ignition and moved down Boswell, turning left onto Maitland.
    At minute nine I slid into place and killed the lights but kept the engine running. Ten. I thought of all the things I should have done. Like gas up. I saw myself running out of gas as I tried to make my getaway. Eleven. For the first time I seriously wondered if my 1981 car had the oomph to hit sixty in half a block. Twelve. I nearly wet myself when I saw headlights coming toward me far down Maitland to the east. They moved slowly, like a cop car on the cruise. Twelve minutes thirty seconds. Stanley should be nearly at the intersection. He’d cross and I’d slam into his body in full view of that damned oncoming motorist.
    Yes, Officer, I saw the whole thing. The driver went right at him, as if she meant to run him down. Yes, I’m pretty sure it was a woman even though it was dark. And I know it was a Honda Civic, blue. I even got the last three digits of the license plate if that helps .
    Thirteen. The car swept past in a quiet rush of air. Fourteen. Fifteen. At minute sixteen I heard myself screaming, “Where the hell are