Ernie the Hit Man
If you want to kill your wife, you have to hire the right hit man. You have to hire a man who is knowledgeable enough and experienced enough to do the hit right, and thuggish enough to take the focus away from you if he gets caught. I was looking for just such a man for Celine. Her life insurance had grown as fat as her ass had, in the ten years we’d been married, just like my first and second wives had. Now it was time to literally reap the benefits. Word had got around, in those certain circles, that I was looking again. That was when Ernie tracked me down, in an expensive bar on Manhattan Island.
“Hello, Sir! I’m Ernie Deluca, and I’m gonna be a hit! Man! Get it? I heard you were looking for one, Sir, so here I am.” He’d vigorously shaken my hand, smiling and completely oblivious to the fact that I was trying not to laugh at the poor sap. He was balding, had his belt hitched a little too high, showcasing a gut that was a little too big, and his shirt was half untucked. It soon became apparent that it was half untucked because he was constantly using it to clean his glasses.
“Uh…” I tried to think of something to say to what appeared to be a bumbling middle aged putz right out of a sitcom. I finally gave him the benefit of the doubt and asked what his qualifications were. Ernie happily pulled up a chair, and I ordered him a beer half afraid he’d tell me he didn’t drink.