The crowd around the pastor thinned, and Tom inched forward, clutching his donation. The lies to explain his windfall arranged themselves in his head. Unexpected commission? Wouldn’t work, Tom thought ruefully. He’d never earned a commission in his life, and his laziness was legendary.

Could he claim it was a gift from a dead relative maybe? Good idea, except everyone in the parish knew the Farnen family. No Farnen had left Orleans Parish in seventy years, except his papa for parts unknown.

A satisfied grin spread across Tom’s mouth, and he nodded his head. Why wouldn’t his papa send him some money? No one needed to know about the casino or the slots or the eighteen thousand. As long as he paid his tithes, surely God would be satisfied.

Minutes later, Tom emerged into the sunshine a lighter man. It was nearly one o’clock, which gave him time to shower and shave before returning to the leather stool of his new job. As he’d hocked his car last month, he decided to walk the seven blocks to his home. Tomorrow he’d take six thousand to the car dealer and buy a nice little vehicle to get him about town. No reason to buy a flashy auto, one that would draw attention. He needed the approval of no one, except his God, his church, and his slots. A good trio, he figured.

“Help!” cried a voice from a side street near Canal, two blocks from home. “Help, please!”

Filled with a generosity of spirit, Tom turned down the side street. He balled his fists, prepared to come to the aid of the downtrodden. An attack in broad daylight, on the Sabbath no less, could not be tolerated. Disregarding his pencil-stick arms and spindly legs and the fact that a light wind could knock him sideways, Tom charged into the breach, an avenging angel.

“I’m coming!” he called out to the victim, whose cries had stilled. “Where are you?” Tom halted a quarter of the way inside the dim corridor, where buildings blocked even fervent light.

“Here,” came the voice, its tone muffled.

Tom turned, and his eyes widened in shock. The gleam of metal blinded him for an instant, and his body shut down. In his mind, he shoved past, ran out onto the street, ran home. In his mind, his balled fist felled his assailant. Legs of iron kicked while fists of steel pummeled. In his mind, he was a hero.

Before the blade cut into flesh, severing artery, freeing blood, Tom imagined himself invincible. The first strike released his bowels and he whimpered in disgrace. A second hit stopped even the sniveling. Bone cracked. It took a third strike, swung heavily toward the fallen body, to break through sinew and skin and bone.