The Garden of Betrayal

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Snow settled on a dark, open-air parking lot. A large man wearing slick leather shoes and a new camel-hair overcoat shuffled carefully across the slippery surface, arms extended for balance. He kept his head down, cognizant of the security camera on a tall pole at the far end of the lot. The red BMW was parked where it was supposed to be, and the freshly cut key opened the door with ease. Still warm, the engine started instantly. Driving slowly across the lot, the man edged the car into traffic beneath a pink neon motel sign. He turned right and then pulled up to the curb. Two more men wearing navy watch caps and oilcloth jackets opened the rear doors and got in, sinking low in the seats. “Nice coat,” one sneered at the driver. “Looks real good on a putz like you.” “Somebody owes me three hundred bucks,” the driver replied irritably. “The only use I got for this thing is to shammy the car.” “Knock it off,” the third man ordered. He mumbled slightly, speech impeded by a decade-old facial burn that had left him with a shiny, puckered band of grafted skin stretched taut from the corner of his mouth to his right ear. “Take Tenth all the way, and don’t speed.” “We got diplomatic plates,” the driver said. “We can do whatever we want.” “You’ll do what I tell you,” the scarred man said. “Don’t speed.”

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