Set in his ways, when he finished at the slaughterhouse Hans always went by Gregory’s Bar, his heavy work boots thudding against the floor as he came in the door. Careful, Gregory said every day, the door sign’s about to fall off! Who cares! Hans would say. He drank beer until he couldn’t any longer, and, if there was a chance, visited the brothel, where Linda was always on hand. Meanwhile, Hans wasn’t sure what to do with that 15-inch knife the slaughterhouse always presented to the year’s most efficient worker. He had 4 already. When I’ve got 5, he said on his first day on the job, I’m going back to Copenhagen. He displayed them in the reception room at his house, lined up in a vertical row, in genuine coyote pelt sheaths, the blades sheathed, the poplar wood handles in view. He looked at them and thought that, really, these knives weren’t good for anything but killing, but he didn’t want that, and Carson City didn’t, either. That being the case, he said, why give them to me? Why do they desire death? He prepared it all meticulously. At 4:00 p.m. he’d leave the slaughterhouse, as always, and head to Gregory’s. He’d pretend to drink the usual number of beers, and he’d say, very loud so even the guys playing pool at the back would hear, that he was beat, that he was heading home to sleep. He’d go home, but not to bed, instead eating a large meal, cleaning the knives, and attaching 2 of the knives to his waist using duct tape, and the other 2 he’d strap to his calves. At 10:00 p.m. he’d head back to Gregory’s Bar—Gregory would be cashing up at that hour, and when he asked him for a beer he’d say, No, I’m shutting now, and then he’d have to stab him; perhaps in the chest, where he knew he’d had a Nearly Love tattoo done for him by a Mexican. Then he’d go to the brothel, where Linda would doubtless be attending another client, meaning he’d have to kill both of them, and if she was alone he’d still have to kill her, because doubtless she’d want to have a drink before going to the room, even though she knew how uncomfortable alcohol made him before making love. He’d then walk to the sheriff’s office, on the way asking for a light from Bob, the homeless guy who frequented the dumpsters on Washington Street around that time of night, and in the flare of the match he’d pierce the femoral and draw the knife upward to the stomach. And finally he’d go down to the sheriff’s office, throw the knives down on the table, and say, Mission accomplished, Chief. Looking for his boots, he runs through the plan again. It’s 9:45 p.m. He only just took them off an hour ago, while he was eating his dinner. He rummages through the drawers, looks in the bathtub, behind doors. Nothing. At 10:45 p.m., shoeless, he sits in the bed and stares for a long time at his bare feet, very white. It is at this moment that he decides he has to pack his bags and go away, leave North America. The boots he’ll never see again.