|
Get in, do the job, get out. That means no dressing the body in crotchless panties, a ball gag, and a fedora; no cutting off an ear for the client’s scrapbook; and no delivering some goddamn message first. What the fuck does it matter if I utter a witty one-liner before I shoot him?
Take my latest client. His message wasn’t even meaningful. Not, “My mother would still be alive if it weren’t for you,” or “My daughter is doing five-to-ten for knocking over a liquor store after you broke her heart.”
No, this was a mustache-twirling, shake-your-fist-at-the-sky kind of message: “The Night Weasel’s retribution is absolute. Prepare to meet your maker.”
How the hell was I supposed to say that with a straight face?
The target was Kyle Morris, a middle-aged marketing manager with a bad comb-over and a wrinkled brown suit he wore every day. I followed him for two weeks learning his schedule and habits. He lived alone. No serious love interest. He liked to catch a movie on Tuesdays, so it was a simple matter to mail him a ticket under the pretense of a free promotion.
I entered the theater to find him sitting alone in the middle of a row near the back. The closest person was five rows away, and I counted four other people in the room. A close-up shot of a computer-generated Gila monster filled the screen.
I sat beside him. “Are you saving this seat for anyone?”
He looked at me, his initial annoyance replaced by a sly grin. “Only for you, hon.”
I propped my feet in my seat, wrapped my arms around my knees and pretended to stare at the movie. He licked his lips and moved his arm until it rested against the side of my leg. When I didn’t react, he faced the screen again.
I leaned over and said, “What’s your name?” I had to be sure I didn’t shoot the wrong guy, after all.
His leer returned. “Kyle.” His hand started to slide to my thigh. “And you, darling?”
|