Tom thought about what Daniels said as he barreled down the road swerving foot-deep potholes with fighter pilot precision, looking out his window at the poorly lit numbers on houses. Their meeting had gone smooth enough until Daniels flat out asked Tom if he had murdered someone.

“Thank God for his sick kid,” Tom thought. He didn’t have time to sit there answering ridiculous questions all night. “I have money to make.”

He pulled up to 4219 Sycamore Street a mere thirty minutes after the order had been placed.      “Ought to be a good tip waiting,” he thought, walking up the driveway. He knocked on the door and found a man stinking drunk instead.

Tom smiled. “How are we doing tonight, sir?”

“What’s the damage? Saints are on, let’s go.” He slapped around the back of his jeans for his wallet, coming up empty handed.

“Forty-one nineteen.” Tom replied.

“Give me a minute, my wallet’s up stairs.” As he went to look for cash, Tom peered inside the house. It was a fine place, reminded him of his parent’s with the cozy love seat facing the fireplace. He could hear a drunken good time in the living room as well.

Another man appeared in the doorway, just as drunk but twice as jolly.

“Is he still looking for cash?” He had a bottle of bourbon in his hand and noticed Tom’s nod land on it. “You want a shot?” He asked with a bobbing motion. “I mean, you’re driving and all, but…”

“Got a glass?”

“Yeah, yeah, come on in.”

Tom moved towards the threshold as his customer reappeared. The man was confused as to why a delivery driver was stepping into his home and put himself between Tom and the room.

“Easy, Rob, we’re giving the kid a shot. He’s been waiting on you,” the jolly man said, all innocent grins and wobbles.

Rob was hard faced when he said, “Bring it to him. Now, here.” He handed Tom three twenties and a five. “What’s my change, then we’ll do your tip.”

Tom looked at the excess cash in his hand, then back at Rob’s face sagging with stupor. “Sir, this is too much. Let me give you back the twenty, then — ”

“Give me my change, then I’ll talk to you,” he broke in.

“Alright, jackass. I tried,” he thought, and said, “Here you go.” Tom handed him the five, told him not to worry about the tip and was on his way.

His head was heavy with classes and work and questions when he got back to his apartment late that night. Melanie was at his desk highlighting a book. “How was work, honey?”

“Not all bad. I spoke to a cop about that murder. It was kind of weird. He actually asked me if I did it,” he said laughing.

She stood up stretching and yawned, “No way.”

“Yep, pretty odd. Some drunk guy tipped me thirty percent though, so the universe set itself aright.”

“He knew you’d kill him if he didn’t,” she teased, pulling him into bed.