I read the note. Something, something, something else. Didn’t mean much to me. I looked at Mr. Herrmann. The blood around his head was congealing. If there were any flies in the apartment they’d be here soon enough. Somewhere outside on the drowsy street a car door shut, then after a moment, the sounds of leisurely acceleration.

I stared out the window. Dusty. The sun slanted through well enough, but streaks on the pane made the light come through in rays. I looked around the apartment. Not much there. A sofa, TV, small table with scraps from yesterday’s dinner.

This note, though.

What to do.

The interior of the bar was cool and welcoming like a candle-lit cave. Joey was sitting at his usual place, two stools down from the end. I nodded at the bartender, took a seat next to Joey.

“Done?” he said, not looking away from the television showing some young athletes giving it the old college try. The ones in blue seemed to be doing better than the ones in red. I yawned, nodded instead of saying anything. The note was still bothering me. The bartender magically materialized a beer in front of me, then went back to polishing glasses at the other end of the bar and looking out the window at the world passing by.

“Don’t just nod, dammit. Say yes.” Joey muttered as if talking to himself. I glanced at him. What to do about the note. I tapped him on the arm so he’d look at me, then I slowly and carefully nodded. Waited a beat.

“Sure thing.” I said.

He looked relieved. Didn’t blame him. Having an axe poised over your neck suddenly go away tends to do that to a person. His fingers had been tapping a coda on the bar, and suddenly they stopped. He seemed to straighten up, took a long swig from his glass. I looked at him thoughtfully. There was nothing there except relief, I was sure of it. And then I knew what to do about the note.

I always liked the café San Marcos. The owner was from the old country, meaning a new country settled by old people, and it felt like a small trip every time I walked in. Not in my neighborhood, but sometimes you need to get away somehow. I nodded at the cute barista and wandered off to a table in the corner tucked away and private. I had the paper with me. Nothing like ink on dead trees and a cup to sip and let the late morning float away.

It was on the front page. Local politician, blah blah, accusations and investigations, blah, blah, sudden reveal by the DA of new evidence, some kind of complicated kickback scheme mixed in, like all good scandals, with more than a whiff of sexual escapades. Some intimations of gangland connections. I had to double-check the sentence, but yes, apparently reporters still used that word. “Gangland”. Huh.

I thought back to the note. The girlish handwriting, the address that didn’t say much to me but was where the deed or deeds had taken place. Guess the DA wanted to make his name, needed one little push and that had been it. Joey would have it tough now, I mused. But you make your own bed.