“For this one my employer will pay you twenty thousand; ten now and
the other ten thousand once the job is completed.”
The
little man stared at me waiting for my response. I didn’t know his name and I didn’t
know who he worked for, so in turn I had no idea who I worked for. I just knew he
paid cash and kept me employed. Because of that he knew I was going to say yes;
I knew I was going to yes. I just liked to make him wait and watch the beads of
sweat form on his tan forehead. He took off his black rimmed glasses, pulling a
cloth from his suit jacket pocket. He always wore a suit; always designer. This
day was a subtle navy Armani suit, with a baby blue Armani shirt, and a classy navy
and baby blue checkered tie. On his feet is a pair of Ferrini Alligator
skin shoes. Placed gently on the empty seat next to him is Canali Wool top
coat. He stared at me as I took another drag of my cigarette. It’s a filthy
habit, I know, but it could always be worse. In fact I have a few habits that
are worse. The little man fidgeted slightly as the waitress brought over the bill.
He checked the time on his platinum Rolex watch.
“Ok.”
I finally responded.
Relief washed over his
face. I knew he hated these meetings. He was dressed in some of the best
clothes money could buy and he had to be seen in public with a shithead like
myself. I was wearing blue jeans, and a wrinkled long sleeve tee shirt that
once had something fun and witty written on it, but it was so worn I couldn’t
even remember what it said. You would think for a usual starting rate of ten
grand a job I’d get better threads, but I’m comfortable and in my job that’s
pretty important. To me it is anyway, I’ve met others in my line of work who
wear cheaper versions of what the little man is wearing, just to put on airs,
but fuck that. I dress how I want and let my work speak for its self.
The
little man placed a crisp $100 bill onto the table, leaving the chunky waitress
nearly a $90 tip. He stood up, put on his jacket, and left the restaurant. I
watched as he climbed into a limo that waited for him across the street. He hated coming to the Southside of Salem Bay and
he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I
turned back to the table. I finished my coffee then pulled my wallet out of my
pocket; I placed the crisp hundred into it, and replaced it with a pile of
crumpled singles reducing the chunky waitress’ tip to about five bucks. Still a
tip over twenty percent, and she wouldn’t know how much more she had coming to
her. I stood up and picked up the black brief case the little man left next to
the table. I left the restaurant and headed down the block to my apartment.
The
building I lived in was a hotel that was turned into an apartment complex back
in the 1960s, and I think that was the last time it was updated. The paint on the
door was all but peeled off, the bricks were sprayed with nonsensical graffiti
from the local street gangs I guess marking this building as “their territory”.
The windows that lead into the lobby were boarded up due to the super’s
reluctance to fix them on account that they would be shattered in a week’s time
anyway. Inside the lobby was potted plant that had been long neglected, a
wooden bench covered with a year worth of dust. Faded yellow tiles were under
my feet, with a large faded blood stain from the tenet that was gunned down
while trying to get their mail. The steel mailboxes sat on the left wall, most
of the doors were removed from the crack heads riffling through them last
Christmas trying to find something they could sell for a quick high. The doors
that remained were rattled with rust and bullet holes.
As
I stepped up the stairs to my second floor apartment they creaked and swayed. I
knew they were going to collapse one day and I just held hope that I wouldn’t
be the son of a bitch climbing them when they did. My door was the first one to
the left; I faced it to put my key in when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“How
goes it Collins,” the voice said. I turned to see my neighbor jack standing
smiling with his yellow teeth, sweat beading on his bald head. “Still headed to
the track later?”
“Yep,
I’ll meet you in a bit.”
“Sounds
good pal.”
He
walked down the hall and stepped into his apartment. Jack Redding was a typical
case of what the scum of this city could do to a person. Only a few years ago
he was a top detective, but a case of a serial killer who preyed on woman hit a
little close to home for him and he headed on a downward spiral. He drinks too
much, gambles too often, and enjoys the services of prostitutes weekly. We have
these things in common. He used to be
someone. The cop that caught the worst serial killer in city history now he sat
in his room drinking his pension away.
I
entered my apartment. It was in line with the rest of the apartments in the
building it was small one bedroom apartment with a window that overlooked the
historic seaport. The walls were painted with an ugly green color that was
peeling, I’m sure it was lead based paint. I walked into the living room, which
also doubled as a dining room; the kitchen was tucked into the corner of the
room. With a maroon refrigerator, an out
of date stove, and grey counter tops. I placed the briefcase onto my coffee
table and sat onto my torn sofa.
I
opened the case. A small stack of $20 bills were rubber banded together. I took
them out and counted them: all ten grand was there. I placed the money onto the
table and pulled out the manila folder and closed the brief case. I removed the
first thing from the folder; it was a man’s mug shot. His black hair was slicked
back, his brown eyes were set too far apart, one seemed to be lazy and focused
elsewhere. He smiled with a perfect set of teeth and held a sign with his name
and prisoner id number. I studied the face until I memorized every wrinkle and
blemish. I placed it down and picked up a piece of paper. The paper described
the man in the photo: Alexi Carracci. It gave me his height, approximate
weight, and hair color. It described all of his stupid tattoos like the Italian
flags imprinted on the back of his hands and the map of Italy on his chest. It
told me that he walked with a limp after a toss down a flight of stairs. It described
how he liked to dress himself; a leather jacket and slicked back hair like a
character out of the Outsiders. The
document gave me his address. Most importantly it told me that Mr. Carracci was
a “made man” of the Devoni Crime Family.
I
had to kill a “made man” and I had to make it look accidental.
I
placed the paper down, pulled a cigarette out of my pocket, and lit it. I realized
then why I was getting paid double my usual rate. If caught I’d be killed. If
my job was sloppy and fingers were pointed toward my employer I’d be killed. If
Alexi saw me before I took care of him I’d be killed. The risk was high.
I
picked back up the job description, studied and memorized it and placed it back
into the folder along with Alexi’s mug shot. I walked into the kitchen. I placed
the folder into a metal wastebasket and burned it.
I
met Jack and headed down the street to catch the bus to the track.
We
sat down on the run down city bus as it started to the Gibson Horse Track. The
Saturday 4pm number 6 bus was full of degenerates headed to blow their week’s
pay on a pony carrying a midget around a muddy oval track.
In the front of the bus
a pudgy black woman was arguing with an obese white crack head over whose hair
looked better. If the grammar police showed up they would both be sentenced to
death for butchering the English language. In the back bench row sat four men
all wearing similar colors, green rags tied around the wrists, green Boston Celtics
hats turned to the side, blue jeans, and white shoes donned with green laces.
This was the gang that apparently owned my apartment complex: Little boys with
daddy issues.
The
rest of the bus was dotted with people black, white, Hispanic, and I’m pretty
sure I saw the Southside’s own Native American, all headed to the track.
“How’s
business?”
Jack
always asks this question. He doesn’t have a clue what I do. When I asked I
just say “I’m in business for myself” which in our neck of the city means some
type of crooked thing. Jack being retired was no longer concerned with cleaning
up the scum unless his P.I. business required it.
“Good,”
I replied still looking around the bus.
“That’s
good to hear pal.”
“You?”
“It’s
not bad,” he paused and pulled a SBPD flask from his tattered overcoat, “I had
a client last week.” He took a swig from the flask, “Some broad who wanted to
find her birth mother.”
“Yeah?”
He took
another drink and held the flask toward me to ask if I wanted some. What kind
of degenerate would I be if I turned down a drink? I grabbed the flask and took
a sip. The whiskey warmed my throat as it ventured to my stomach. I passed it
back to Jack and tucked it back into his coat.
“Yeah
it was pretty simple. I tracked down some hospital records and matched them
with the adoption papers. I gave her the mothers address and I cashed a nice
check for my services.” Jack pulled out the racing sheet from his jacket
pocket, “And now it’s all going down on Full Moon Heat in the fifth race.”
“Yeah?”
“He
has been running fast, I think this will be his day.” Jack smiled and kept
looking at the race sheet.
The
rest of the bus ride was silent; except for the two fat women who moved onto
fighting over whose cleavage looked nicer. I wanted to step up and tell them
they were both extremely unattractive and neither had nice tits, but I
refrained.
The
parking lot was packed for what would be the last major race day of the year.
The crisp fall wind swirled around my head when I stepped off the bus. The sun
was blocked out by clouds that darted across the sky. We followed the poorer
crowd into the general admission area while to the left of us the wealthy
people dressed in their finest race day clothes entered a private door keeping
them away from the scum. They were ushered through a hidden walkway to their
luxury boxes and field level seats.
Jack
headed over to the ticket window to place his earnings on the 20-1 odd horse
running in the fifth race, Full Moon Heat, and place a hundred of my hard
earned dollars on a horse named Carl Winslow. I didn’t know what the payout was
I just liked the name. I’m not a good
gambler, just a degenerate one. I headed to the bar.
I
slid in near the bar. It had been afternoon for all of five minutes, but the
bar was bustling already. The bar
tender, a short bald man, met my eyes from the other end of the bar.
Recognizing me he went right ahead and prepped my drinks. He placed two plastic cups down in front of
me each filled with three ice cubes floating in a caramel colored scotch. I
handed him my money, picked up my scotch and scanned the crowd waiting for
Jack.
As the
announcement for the start of the first race blared over the track’s loud
speakers the crowd slowly vanished leaving the bald bartender, Jack, and
myself. I sat down on the olive green bar stool. I pulled a cigarette out and
lit it. This was the last inside bar where a man could enjoy a drink and a
smoke at the same time. All because of “second hand smoke”, some bullshit that
created an un-American separation of booze and tobacco; two things that help
keep this country running.
Jack
sat down next to me, and pulled out a fat cigar from his pocket.
“Today
is my day. I’m feeling lucky.” Jack lit the stogie, “I slept for what feels
like the first time since the case.”
The
case was nearly three years ago. I took a long drag from my cigarette and the
bartender brought over an old ashtray.
“And
I finally heard from my daughter.” Jack smiled and lit his cigar. It was the
first time, to my knowledge, that his daughter had contacted him since her
mother was murdered by the same killer Jack spent a year chasing. His daughter
blamed him for not catching him before him. For not realizing the killer was
right next to him.
“That’s
good,” I responded as I watched the finish of the race on the grainy television
that was situated behind the bar.
As the race ended a
stampede of feet streamed to the bar and discussed their loses. Who they should
have bet on and who they had in the next race. Again the speakers echoed the
call for the next race. The crowd once again dispersed leaving behind crumpled
up betting slips, and a few more people: the ones who knew when to call it a
day with the losing and start the boozing.
This repeated itself a few more times until
the start of the fifth race was broadcast and it was our time to watch our
money race around the muddy oval. We made our way to a couple of open seats in
the stands.
The
gun banged starting the race and right from the jump Carl Winslow lost. He was
slow; it looked like he had some sort of mental retardation. I’m sure he was a
fine horse, but that day it looked like he had been sniffing glue for hours. I
tore my betting slip up and tossed it into the air: sad confetti celebrating
another gambling loss. I looked over at Jack. He was screaming, his face bright
red. I looked back to the race where Full Moon Heat was well ahead of the competition.
It looked as though it was Jack’s day after all.
We headed up with the crowd: me in
defeat, Jack with the glow of victory.
Jack rushed to the
ticket line; I stood next to him as he recapped the race. Maybe he forgot I was
there watching it as well. He even poked fun at my pick, poor Carl Winslow;
who, I found out later, suffered a brain aneurism at the start of the race
which caused his awkward start and, while we were all watching the race, the
horse collapsed crushing the little jockey to death.
I
turned to scan the crowd as I tended to do, when I spotted a man rushing with a
slight limp toward us. He was pushing his way past the crowd one eye focused on
us myself and the other at the roof. His slicked back black hair gleamed in the
sunlight. His hand slowly lifted
revealing a red, white, and green tattoo on its back; he reached slowly into his
leather jacket and removed a Colt .45.
Alexi
Carracci.
I
reached into my pocket and pulled out my small .38 snub nose. Alexi fired at
me. He missed. The crowd scrambled at the sound of the gun shot and rushed
toward the exits. I couldn’t get a clean look at Alexi, I wasn’t about to kill
some shithead who happened to be in the wrong place. As police entered the hallway
Alexi hid himself in the crowd and followed them out.
I
tucked the snub nose back into my pocket and tried to find Jack. I turned back
toward the ticket line and saw him lying on the floor as a pool of blood formed
underneath his head. His eyes were wide open; the winning race slip was still
grasped in his hand. The police officers
raced over to him calling for the EMTs. It was too late.
Tune in some time next month for Part II and maybe a title!! Any title Ideas let me know, though it would be hard for you to suggest something without any idea of where the story is going. . . so, yeah. . . cool.
