I’m not a nice man. That’s why people hire me. They want payback, not a shoulder to cry on and they sure as hell don’t want my love. My clients come to me because they want somebody to hurt, to feel pain. Some people who hire me like broken bones. I’m good with that. If they want somebody to die, I’m good with that, too.
***
“I didn’t expect this. You’re young enough to be my son,” the woman sitting across the table from me said. I wondered how she could tell my age.
“I could be,” I agreed. I studied the woman and pegged her for middle to late sixties, maybe older. She didn’t look like she came from money. Most of my clients don’t. They come to me because folks with money squash people like the woman sitting on the other side of the table. I’m their last chance for a shot at fair play in a society that adores the elite, the powerful with buckets of money to buy what they want.
I’m not good with that.
Like me, she wasn’t attractive, but what the hell, deep down who really is?
We sat at a picnic table close to the edge of Waughop Lake in Lakewood’s Fort Steilacoom Park. Sunlight flooded down and the afternoon smelled of late September. A flock of ducks paddling in endless circles squabbled among themselves on the lake. The woman and I were the only people in this part of the park. I waited for her to tell me what she wanted.
“What is that?” She pointed to the small device with the blinking red light on the table.
“A radio frequency detector. Turn off your cell and put it on the table.”
She removed her cell from her purse and turned it off. The red light on the rfd stopped blinking.
“I’m not very good at this,” she said. Uncertainty made her voice tremble. Her eyes darted left and right, settled on my face then darted away again.
“That’s all right, most people are nervous at first,” I said, baring my teeth in more of a grimace than a smile. My teeth are my most beautiful feature; straight, sparklingly white and false, compliments of the U.S. Army when it rebuilt my face at Walter Reed Medical Center after my seventh tour in Afghanistan ended abruptly, along with my military career.
The face rebuilds didn’t come out quite right. The lines are out of kilter enough for people to give me a second, startled look before they turn away, afraid to be caught staring. I’m scheduled for more surgery. Maybe the docs will get it right someday, or maybe not. In either case, I’m good with how I look.
She looked at me, carefully now, and studied my face. “Your name is Broteas.”
“Yes.”
“It’s such a strange name. Like a disease. I thought it must mean something.”
“It does.”
“I looked it up on the Internet.”
This surprised me. Not many of my clients are curious about the name and few take the time to look it up.
“Broteas was a hunter. Forgive me for saying this but he wasn’t very attractive. Is that why you use the name, because you’re like Broteas?” Her eyes wandered over my face.
“It’s a good name.”
“I’m not interested in how you look. Broteas was also mad. I care about that. You must be mad to do what I want you to do.”
Her comments intrigued me and I wondered if I was mad. I thought I might be, but I’m good with that. One man’s madness is another man’s passion, so who is to really know? “What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t you want to know anything about me before I tell you?”
“Is there something special about you I should know?”
“No, I guess not. It isn’t important, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.” I waited for the woman to tell me what she wanted me to do.
“I want you to kill somebody.” This time her eyes locked onto my face.
Her request didn’t surprise me. This is why people want me. My eleven years in the army, almost all of it in combat, ended in a remote region of Afghanistan when a mortar round killed two of my team members and shredded my face and did something to my brain the doctors can’t fix. I left the army with only one skill; killing people. I never realized this skill was in such demand in a civilized world.
“Why do you want this man to die?”
She didn’t say anything for a few moments. Her eyes came back to my face. “He raped my grandson. My grandson told me what happened that night. My grandson refused to testify when the trial started. He was too terrified and humiliated. The trial was tossed because the judge said there was insufficient evidence. The man who raped my grandson got off.” Tears slid out of her eyes and shimmered in the afternoon sun on puffy cheeks. “After the trial my grandson hanged himself in my garage. He was nineteen years old.” She shoved a piece of paper across the table. “He left this note.” I picked it up; the last words her grandson had written:
They always win
Not even a period at the end. A final lament of despair, or defeat, perhaps hopelessness. I wondered if it’s possible to sum up a life with just three words.
It’s possible; her grandson did.
The woman’s jaw muscles bunched as she clenched her teeth. I could feel anger and pain pouring from her like a chemical scent. She leaned toward me and put both arms on the table. “I want him to know pain before he dies. Can you do that, make him feel pain?” Her voice came out coarse and full of rage.
“What’s this man’s name?”
“You don’t say much, do you?” The woman peered at me.
“No.”
“Will you do what I ask?”
“Tell me who he is.”
“Kevin Charles. His father is the president of Cascade College.”
“Ah, the entitled.”
“A bastard, that’s what he is.” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing more tears down her cheeks. She pulled herself together and handed me a fat white envelope. “His name and address and some stuff about what his lawyer said really happened that night. It’s not true but maybe it will help.” A photograph was clipped to the front of the envelope.
“Kevin?” I flicked the photo with my finger.
“Yes.”
I put the envelope on the table and listened as she explained what she wanted me to do. “Can you do those things to him?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your price?”
I appreciated her frankness and told her. She didn’t haggle. The people filled with rage don’t quibble about price. They want retribution for the wrong done to them or to a loved one. To some people, the cost of vengeance doesn’t matter and I’m good with that.
She pulled several packets of bills from her purse, held them below the table and counted out the agreed amount. It took her some time. I’m not cheap. She handed the bills to me. I put them in the inside pocket of my bomber jacket without counting them.
I put on gloves then handed a throw-away cell phone to her. “I’ll call you when it’s over. Nobody else will call you on this phone. Afterward, wipe it down and destroy it. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Write your name and address.” I pushed a pen and scrap of paper across the table. People who are trying to use a fake name are slow to do this. If they take too much time I know they are lying to me, pissing in my coffee and telling me it’s sugar. She scribbled quickly then pushed the paper and pen back to me. I glanced at it: Margo Amberson sat across the table.
“You should leave town for a few days, visit some relatives. It’s better if you’re not here when it happens. I want you to leave this afternoon if that’s possible.”
She nodded. “I’ll visit my brother in Spokane.”
“Do you want pictures?”
She considered my question while peering over my shoulder into a distance I had seen many times in my seven deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan before saying, “No, no pictures. I want to know he begged for mercy, like my grandson begged for mercy. How long will it take?”
“A week at the most, maybe less, depending on how things go.”
“A week. I like that.” For the first time something of a smile cracked her lips.
“What is your grandson’s name?”
“Phillip.”
“Do you care how Kevin Charles dies?”
“I want him to die painfully.” Hate glittered like cold diamonds in her eyes. Usually fear over what they were asking me to do showed in my clients’ eyes, but not Margo’s. Her eyes were as bleak as the scorched surface of Mercury.
“I’ll be in touch, Margo.” I scooped up the white envelope and the rfd and started to walk away.
“I want him to feel pain,” she called after me. The ducks continued to swim in circles, squabbling among themselves.
***
The Charles family lived at the end of Emerald Lane in an impressive three-story brick mansion centered in what looked like a couple of acres of immaculate lawns. A house befitting the prestigious position of a college president. Two double-car garage doors faced the street, another indication that wealth and privilege lived behind the brick façade. It was the only three-story on the block.
Leafy maple trees shaded the lesser two-story mansions that lined both sides of Emerald Lane, reinforcing the perception that money lived here. Gardeners roamed manicured terrain mowing, weeding, and feeding luxurious green carpets or trimming exuberant shrubbery lest it overgrow the houses and the entire street.
The neighborhood reeked of affluence.
At three o’clock I parked down the street facing the Charles house and figured my car, a newer black four door Mercedes S model, would not be out of place on Emerald Lane. My car’s windows are so dark it’s difficult to see in from the sides or back. You have to look directly into the windshield to see the interior. The car is a benefit of an income that is tax-free for the most part. My Army pension is enough to keep the IRS off my ass. Going to jail for tax evasion isn’t my idea of a comfortable retirement so I file my taxes religiously.
For nearly an hour nothing of any significance happened on Emerald Lane or at the Charles house so I waited some more and reviewed the contents of the white envelope.
Kevin, the only child of Armstrong and Linda Charles, was set to start his senior year at Cascade College this fall. I stared at the picture of a young man smirking into the camera, safe and confident in the protective cocoon money and power provide those who possess them. I put the picture back in the envelope and dropped it on the passenger seat.
I’m good at waiting. A man learns a lot about himself when he is his only companion over long periods of time. Some of what I learned about myself is soothing but most of what I learned is terrifying, but I’m good with that.
Forty minutes later a Suzuki crotch-rocket roared down the street and shot into the Charles driveway. The rider pulled his helmet off as he waited for the garage door to glide open. Kevin Charles had arrived.
I focused on the motorcycle with a pair of small binoculars and jotted down the plate number. Lots of crotch-rockets look alike. I may need to identify this bike later.
The right-side garage door glided upward, revealing a red Ford Mustang. Kevin Charles rode his bike into the garage as I jotted down the Mustang’s plate number.
A few minutes later a white four door BMW rolled by me, a middle-aged man behind the wheel. The Beemer pulled onto the apron and idled while the door rolled upward.
Armstrong Charles, President, Cascade College, had come home.
Another Beemer, a light blue SUV, occupied the other space in the garage. The door closed over the Beemers but not before I had their plate numbers written down.
I waited a few minutes more, but nothing happened. I started my car and drove to the opposite end of Emerald Lane, parked so I could see the Charles house in my rearview mirrors, pulled on a baseball cap and waited.
Waiting too long in one place makes people suspicious. The affluent notice things like a man sitting in a strange car on their street. They get nervous, call the cops or private security. The affluent are protective of their wealth and territory and guard both with the ferocity of a redneck survivalist protecting his little patch of worn out clay in some American backwater.
Fifty-two minutes later the red Mustang charged down the street and whipped around the corner on squealing tires and roaring exhausts with Kevin Charles behind the wheel. I started the Mercedes and slid in behind the Mustang. I didn’t need to worry about Kevin Charles picking up my tail. He had no reason to worry about being followed. Smugness and false security often caused people to be careless and make mistakes.
The Mustang pulled into the parking lot of Cascade Jack’s Pizzeria near Cascade College campus. I parked three rows away and watched Kevin Charles get out. He wore faded jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows.
He walked toward the tavern with the cockiness wealth and power give the chosen. I loathed Kevin for what he represented and for what he so easily abused.
I pulled the ball cap low over my face and followed him into the pizzeria. Music pulsed from wall-mounted speakers. Several muted flat-screens hung on the walls, tuned to sporting events. Most of the customers clustered around the tables were on the young side and male, but old enough to drink. A few young women were spread here and there among the groups.
Five students at a table saw Kevin when he came in. “Yo, Kev, over here,” one of them shouted. Kevin took a chair next to an attractive girl who acted pleased to see him. His arrival completed a group of six, three men, three women, all college age. He kissed the girl then poured himself a glass of beer from the pitcher on the table.
I slid onto a barstool and focused on one of the flat-screens a short distance from Kevin and his pals. I didn’t want them to think I was watching them. They leaned toward the table when they talked. Howls of laughter soon erupted from the group.
They ordered two more pitchers of beer.
After filling the order, the bartender strolled my way. She stopped in front of me, put both hands on the back edge of the bar, leaned in and said, “What happened to you?”
“Bad luck,” I replied and gave her my order. She left to fill more pitchers and glasses then came back with my beer.
“Looks like more than bad luck to me.” Her voice came out soft and low. I had to concentrate to hear it over the music.
I shrugged.
“You’re not the type who hangs out in these college kid joints. I don’t think you’re a pervert and with a face like yours you got no chance with the chicks. What are you doing here?”
“Just passing through.” I studied her, the swell of breasts under a white shirt tucked into tight black pants that accented the curve of her ass. Shallow wrinkle lines webbed around the outside corners of her eyes and mouth. I pegged her at early, maybe middle forties. She looked good whatever her age.
“What are you doing here?” I countered.
“Making a living. I own this place.” The floor server brought more empty pitchers back and signaled for refills. The woman stepped away, filled the pitchers and half a dozen large glasses then came back to me.
“You’re doing more than just passing through,” she said. “How long are you going to be in town?”
“Not long, a week at most, maybe less.” I took another swallow of beer. “Is that long enough for us to get acquainted?” I asked with what passed for one of my smiles.
She didn’t say anything for a few moments, just studied my face, let her eyes roam over the lines and breaks. “I don’t know,” she said. “It could be. Is that what you want?”
She sounded as if she wanted an honest answer from me instead of the usual tripe bar-bums and hustlers handed her. “No,” I said. “I’m not looking for a one-night roll in the rack. Sometimes I get flippant with my choice of words. If I’ve offended you, I apologize.”
“I’m not offended. I just get tired of dealing with chumps like those. They offend me.” She jerked her chin toward the table with Kevin Charles and his friends. “Besides me, you’re the only other adult in here.”
“You know any of these fine young Americans?” I scanned the room, let my eyes focus on Kevin Charles before turning back to the bartender.
“A few, like that Charles kid and his crew over there.”
“Trouble?”
“Not often, but sometimes they get out of hand, especially after Cascade wins a football game and the beer is flowing.” She shrugged. “I’ve had to call the cops a couple of times. They’re all frat boys. Nothing ever comes of it. The arrests sort of go away after a while. You know what they’re like.”
“No, I don’t.”
Wrinkles appeared in her forehead and a quizzical smile danced across her mouth. “Where have you been? This is a college town. Classes start in three days. Come back on the first weekend, this place is going to be a zoo. Then you’ll know what frat boys are like.” She arched her eyebrows upward. I liked the color of her eyes.
“Is that an invitation?”
“If you want it to be.” She didn’t smile.
I chuckled. “Maybe I’ll send you a sympathy card instead.”
“God knows I need one.”
Chairs scraped back from the table and the six students headed for the door, laughing and talking loudly. I left a twenty on the bar next to my glass, told her to take care and followed the group to the door.
“You too,” I heard her call as I left.
***
Dusk dimmed the sky as evening approached and shadows started to lengthen. Most people don’t like the dark, but I do. It’s comforting and safe, at least for me. I hurried to my car and followed Kevin and the girl out of the parking lot. He drove carefully, obeying the speed limit. Maybe the beer made him cautious, or perhaps the girl worked some magic on him. I didn’t have any trouble keeping the Mustang in sight.
A few minutes later the Mustang pulled into a covered parking stall of a two-story apartment building. Kevin and the girl tumbled from the car, giggling and laughing. She held onto his arm as they walked into the inner courtyard. I parked in an empty slot and trailed some distance back. I hoped the owner of the parking space stayed away for a few more minutes. I sure as hell didn’t want to confront anybody over a parking space.
The girl, still clinging to his arm, led him to a ground-floor apartment. The lights went on as soon as the door closed.
If I read the girl’s actions right, Kevin was probably going to be involved with her for some time, maybe all night, so I took the opportunity to get something to eat and come up with a location where Kevin’s screams wouldn’t be heard.
***
A row of booths ran along each side of the diner with the kitchen located at one end. A few older couples were scattered among the booths, talking quietly as they ate. Generic and meaningless music, the kind that makes you want to pierce your eardrums, came out of ceiling speakers. I slid into a booth away from the windows and opened a menu.
The server took my order and glided away. I sipped coffee and wrestled with where to do Kevin. My motel room was too public. The clerk had already seen my face and he wouldn’t forget what I looked like. I didn’t want that, not with a body turning up in the room I had rented.
Another motel was also out of the question. I would have to register at the desk, and I would have the added burden of getting Kevin into the room.
The server slid a plate in front of me, refilled my cup and water glass and eased away again. I cut off a piece of steak and chewed, and like a proficient real-estate agent, started thinking about location, location, location, always a dilemma in my line of work. Margo expected me to finish the job in a week. I planned to finish it within hours if things worked out.
I dropped a decent tip by my plate, paid my bill, and left the diner.
When I got back to my motel room, I stripped off my clothes, took a hot shower and lay down on the bed. I fell asleep and dreamed of night patrols in barren mountains where Death lives forever.
***
Before the sun cracked the horizon and lit up the sky I drove to the apartment building where Kevin had taken the girl. His Mustang still occupied the slot. Good enough. Hopefully Kevin would go home sometime early this morning so I wouldn’t have too long to wait. I parked in an empty slot, opened the trunk and got out the magnetic license plates and put them over the plates on my Mercedes.
They say clothes make the man. I wore a black shirt and pants under a black canvas jacket and black leather gloves. A Glock with a suppressor nestled in a shoulder holster under my left arm. The Glock can’t be traced to me. I made sure of that because I intend to leave it behind. It’s not smart to carry a weapon that’s easily connected to a murder.
Kevin Charles came out of the girl’s apartment a little after six thirty, fired up the Mustang and pulled away. I followed, well back but close enough to keep him in view until I was sure of his destination. Like yesterday, he roared down Emerald Lane like he owned it, pulled into the driveway and waited for the garage door to open.
***
I parked down the street from the Charles house. At eight thirty the white Beemer and Armstrong Charles, presumably on his way to work, rolled by.
So far so good. I waited some more.
At nine o’clock the blue Beemer SUV with a woman behind the wheel came down the street. That left Kevin, home alone, unless the Charles family had a live-in maid. If so, then I would adapt.
I parked in the Charles driveway and looked around as I got out of the car. Nobody outside. I punched the doorbell and pounded on the door until I heard someone yelling inside. I held the Glock by my right leg.
Kevin Charles yanked the door open. “What the fuck do you want?”
No maid, I thought. I shot Kevin two times in the left leg, just above the knee. He dropped to a sitting position on the floor. I stepped in, closed the door and kicked him onto his back.
He rolled onto his stomach and started to push himself up. I kicked him. He dropped flat with a grunt.
Kevin groaned a couple of times, his face pressed hard against the carpet. “I’m gonna fuck you up, dude,” he gasped. He pushed himself to his hands and knees. I put my foot on his back and pushed him down.
“Stay down.”
“Man, you shot me.” Surprise, pain, and disbelief mixed together in his voice. Shock had turned his skin the color of mayonnaise.
“I’m here for Phillip.”
“That little pussy?” Kevin tried to laugh with his face pressed against the floor. “He wanted it.”
“Nobody wants it, Kevin, not even you.” I shot him two times in the back of the skull, dropped the Glock next to him and left the Charles house.
***
I tossed the magnetized license plates down a storm drain next to a convenience store, lest any snoops in the Charles neighborhood had written down the numbers. Rich people are suspicious. Maybe that’s why they are rich and stay rich. I would have a difficult time explaining why the plates were on my car if the cops stopped me.
Then I drove to Waughop Lake and sat at the same picnic table where Margo and I had sat yesterday. The ducks still squawked and swam in circles, waiting for a kind citizen to come by and feed them.
I called Margo.
“Yes, he cried like a cat,” I said in answer to her question. I listened then said, “You can come back in a couple of days.”
I sat for a few more minutes at the table, soaking up the tranquility of the park, wondering if Margo would ever find peace in her life or if she would be tormented until she died by what she had paid me to do. I shrugged. Not for me to determine what makes people happy. I do for them what they pay me to do, nothing more, nothing less.
***
I never did send that sympathy card. It seemed pointless. I didn’t even know her name, and I’m good with that.
_____________________
Robert P. Bishop, an army veteran and former teacher, holds a Master’s in Biology and lives in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in Active Muse, Ariel Chart, Better Than Starbucks, Bindweed Magazine, Blotter Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, Clover and White, CommuterLit, Corner Bar Magazine, Creativity Webzine, Down in the Dirt, Flash Fiction Magazine, Fleas on the Dog, Friday Flash Fiction, Ink Pantry, Literally Stories, The Literary Hatchet, Lunate Fiction, Scarlet Leaf Review, Spelk, and elsewhere. He has been nominated four times for a Pushcart. He hopes to win…some day.
