Innuendo by R.D. Zimmerman

band shell on this lake, though, and a rose garden and a heavily wooded bird sanctuary too. Beautiful in a way, he thought, peering across the dark waters and at the lights on the far side, yet so quiet, so utterly calm. Exactly. Which was why he had left here so long ago. Much too dull.
    Though he wasn't a towering man, he was good-sized, with broad, muscular shoulders and massive arms. The first thing that people noticed about him was not his high cheekbones or quick eyes, but his smooth head, which actually wasn't bald, but shaved. In college at the University of Minnesota he'd been a star football player until he'd been kicked out for selling pot, and then he'd somehow ended up in Los Angeles. There'd been trouble and then some with the law out there, but then, of course, some twelve years ago his life had dramatically changed. Until then he hadn't had a career, yet now he was a professional whose work took him around the world, including back to Minnesota, his home state. Never in his life would he have predicted it, that he'd voluntarily return, if only for a few months.
    His jeans and leather coat were black like his boots, and he would have blended perfectly into the dark Minneapolis night except for his head, which glowed like a moon. Wondering if anyone had noticed him, he glanced over his shoulder. On one path a woman with a nylon pack mounted on her back went riding quickly by on a bicycle. And there, farther down, he saw a guy walking his dog. Yes, he had to be careful. He remembered from his childhood that there was always someone down by these lakes, and that was still the case now. He remembered, too, how surprisingly deep this particular lake was, and he was counting on that. It was the only reason he was here.
    He twisted his feet so that his black leather boots sank slightly into the sand, then, clutching the bag in his left hand, bent over and grabbed a rock with his right. So how did you do this? He hadn't done it in years, not since he'd left the Midwest, but he did it now, bent low and to the side, brought his arm back, and heaved. The rock shot out over the water but then abruptly sank with a distinct plunk. Not sure what he'd done wrong, he bent over and fumbled around until he found another one. Holding the rock carefully, he brought his arm back a second time, launched the rock, and watched as it hit the water's surface and dove under without a single skip.
    Was anyone watching his failed attempts?
    He looked around, saw no one. And then he reached into the plastic bag and pulled out the long metal object. Not wasting a moment, he bent slightly to the side and threw the heavy knife as hard as he could, watching it whirl far out over the water until it, too, sliced through the surface and disappeared.
    Satisfied, he bent to the water and rinsed his hand with a couple of quick swirls. He then reached for one last rock, took it, and hurled it out over the lake. Success was not his.
    He crumpled the green plastic bag and walked slowly away from the lake, stretching once and yawning. He crossed the pedestrian path, stuffed the bag into a metal garbage can, and continued on past the bicycle path to his car, which was stopped along the parkway next to a stand of trees and the bird sanctuary. He sat for a few minutes in the white Saab as if he were relaxing, but in truth watching to see if anyone—anyone who might have seen him—came along.
    But there was no one.
    Pleased, the large man with the shaved head started up the car and was just about to drive away when his cellular phone started to ring. He immediately knew who it was.
    Picking it up from the passenger seat, he flicked on the phone and said, “Good evening, this is Vic.”
    “It's me. Did you get it all taken care of?”
    “Absolutely. Don't worry, it's all under control.”
    “Great,” said the voice with an audible sigh. “Thanks a million.”
    “No problem, that's what I'm here for.”
    Standing in the woods of the bird sanctuary, the