Sparrow by Ray Zacek

The hard part is done. He picked up the spent brass cartridges. And it wasn’t that hard.

Bobby Uccello—Bucci, they called him—put the brass in his pocket; removed the magazine from the small, semiauto pistol; ejected the unfired round from the chamber and unscrewed the suppressor from the threaded barrel. Everything went into the deep pocket of his wool overcoat, jingling like loose change. All to be got rid of later, disassembling the pistol, putting parts here and there in different dumpsters, as he had been told to do by Leon, the old pro, who didn’t work now because of arthritis.