Robby was late and broke. Jean would be waiting at the club, Robby just knew she was there early and blaming him for waiting in the rain. The rain fell just hard enough to get you wet but not enough to seek shelter. A summer rain, the moon was full and gave the alley light. The kind of rain that happened when the sun was shining, the kind the old folks back in the country called "the Devil beating his wife."
The music from the club bounced off the brick walls in the maze of alleys, Robby ran them like a prize rat, his shoes splashed in the filthy puddles. Shoes like he had never worn at home, home, that place would never be home again, he was at home, the city was home. In his city home he wore shoes for how they looked not for how they held up in the mud. The pointy toes reminded him of his father's cowboy boots, boots that Robby had shined every Saturday afternoon for years.
The music from the club was nearing, more distinct, less echos. Robby was nearing the scene he would soon be having on the street with Jean. The moment approached when he would have to tell her he didn't have enough money to get them in much less enough to buy drinks. His pace slowed, the rain stayed the same.
Robby turned another corner, nearly there, this alley, a turn and then a straight shot to the club. The moon's glow, the music and his internal compass guided him. Next to a dumpster stood a man facing the damp brick wall, adding more wetness. The urine stench in the alley wasn't going to get any worse for one more and the rain was sure not going to wash it away. The bricks were saturated, the alley got more use than the facilities in the club. The man wore a white jacket and in the moonlight it almost glowed in its whiteness. Robby saw the man was unsteady, unaware, alone.
The moon glinted on Robby's knife. The rain fell in the alley. The music seemed to soften as Robby began to hear his own heartbeat. Robby's shoe splashed in the filthy puddle of rain water and beer scented urine. The man stood there swaying, white jacket glowing. Robby struck, lower back, twice, three times in rapid forceful blows. The knife in his hand dripped black in the moonlight as the man fell wordlessly to the pavement. A moment to find the wallet, a moment to pull out the cash and another to throw the empty wallet into the dumpster.
Robby wiped his hands on the wet, white jacket. The white glow of the jacket dimmed from the stains. Blood, urine, alley water. Robby pushed the dumpster over the body. In the dark it wouldn't be seen, in the rain no blood pools would be noticed, in the alley no odors would betray.
"Hey Jean, been waiting long?" Robby handed the doorman a bill and he let the couple into the club. The music covered the sound of Robby's beating heart.