Stop looking to see if your door is locked. The odds are in your favor; unless someone has a contract for your life, you won't see me. In fact, even if you do have a contract, you most likely won't see me either.
You may be a secretary, manager, consultant, photographer, or news reporter and that is how you earn your living. I make my living killing people.
So, you're probably asking yourself why I do this; what would make someone murder another person for money? It's a living. I don't mean it as a snide joke. I do it because I like the freedom and the lifestyle. I travel quite a bit all over the world and have frequent flyer miles I never use.
I'd spent the better part of my life trying to dig my way to the top and never getting anywhere. The current economy would make it difficult to go back to what I did, but, on the other hand, this downturn means more business and more business is more money.
Someone once said there are only three types of people you'll deal with--those who lie and take all the marbles; those saying you can work 50/50, but take all the marbles and there are those who tell you, from the beginning, they are going to take all the marbles. The last one is the one you want to work with. Unfortunately, most everyone falls into the first two categories. So, fuck them.
I wasn't always a hired killer. I used to have a regular job, just like you, and was married. (no children). My wife turned into a real bitch after four years, spending money we didn't have and constantly complaining about... well, mostly me. "Why can't you get a better job or a raise? When are you going to take me to Europe? Your haircut makes you look like a jerk." And so on.
One day, I came home for lunch and found her in bed with someone I didn't know. I walked in the bedroom and there she was bouncing on this guy's lap, like she was sitting on a beach ball. As I came in the room, she turned and looked at me and smiled. The bitch smiled.
I turned and walked out of the house and haven't been back since. No car, no clothes, not a thing. The anger lasted until I got on the first bus out of town and, while riding down the freeway, the further I got from home, the better I felt. No more arguing; no more bitching; no complaining... freedom.
When I reached New York, I paid for a weekly room in a flophouse. During the next week, I walked the neighborhood, bought some cheap clothes and started working at a convenience store. Hey, it's money just like I used to make, only less. It covered the rent, some food and little else. As the store was privately owned, I got paid in cash. There was some money left over from the ATM withdrawals I got before I left town. Debbie was probably too busy bouncing on that guys lap to check the bank, so I took as much as I could; a few thousand, which I safely hid behind one of the wall panels, in my room. I hope that poor schmuck Debbie's fucking doesn't get involved with her--she's a human praying mantis.
I worked for a couple of months on second shift, noon until eight, which was okay with me, when everything changed again.
I got home about nine, after getting a burger and reading the paper, and there was mail in my mailbox. I don't mean mail addressed to Dear Occupant or those sleazy offers with your name imprinted, but are obviously the same come-on as all those third-class mailbox stuffers. No, this was an envelope addressed to me, but no return address. A white envelope, addressed and with a cancelled stamp in the corner. Nothing else. And it used my new name (using only cash allowed me to be anyone I wanted, so I changed my name, just for the hell of it).
I unlocked the door and walked to the kitchen, which was only a couple of steps, throwing everything but the envelope in the trash. The envelope, I tossed on the counter, next to the bottle of cheap scotch (I really missed the good stuff) and just stared at it for a minute.
Now, I know to you, getting mail addressed with your name is no big deal, but for me, it set my stomach churning. No one knows me by my new name and everyone now calls me Fred; just Fred; no last name. Don't need one. The hotel doesn't care as long as they get the rent and the convenience store owner has me off the books. Just Fred.
And that's why I stood there and stared at the envelope addressed to me. The me with the new name. The name I made up. It was more than strange. It creeped me out. How could anyone know me by this name? The envelope had both my new first and last name, Fred Smith. The creepy part was I've never told anyone my full name, just told them to call me Fred.
Before I opened the envelope, I poured two fingers of scotch and swallowed it all at once. I didn't do it for any reason than habit. Every time I got home from work, I'd drink a couple of fingers, before I sat down. So, I just did the same thing. Actually, I was amused by the envelope. While disrupting my fast-food digestion, on another level, it was a puzzle.
After the scotch, I tore one end of the envelope and inside was a single piece of typewritten paper. No heading on the letter, like you get with a lawyer or other business. No date. No Dear Fred (not any of my names, as you'll understand in a bit). Just a few paragraphs:
"I have a simple proposition for you and all you need to do, at this point, is read this letter."
"From time to time, I need someone to help me and for that I pay in cash. It's good money, enough for you to get a real life back, but it won't be easy."
"Be at the corner of sixth and Randolph tomorrow after work. A black car will pick you up at 9:30 and bring you back. If you are not there at that time, I'll understand you don't want to help me."
"From time to time, I need someone to help me and for that I pay in cash. It's good money, enough for you to get a real life back, but it won't be easy."
"Be at the corner of sixth and Randolph tomorrow after work. A black car will pick you up at 9:30 and bring you back. If you are not there at that time, I'll understand you don't want to help me."
That's all it said.
