In Between Drinks
By Steven Lomax
The man paid the taxi driver and left the car. His
expensive Italian brogues strode across the damp pavement. It was raining, but
it didn’t bother this man. He walked with an air of assurance, and a cool
purpose followed him into the building. In his hand he carried a black leather
briefcase. He was approaching middle age, but he looked good for it. His body
contained not an ounce of excess fat, and his salt and pepper hair complimented
his well tailored three piece suit. He was a man ready for action, ready for
business.
His shoes clacked across the wooden floor. He took up a
place at the bar.
“Vodka,
neat.” He said to the barman.
There was another man at the bar. He moved over to make
himself known. The low light of the bar made him look better than the bathroom
mirror would have done. He sported a paunch and was slugging from a bottle of
American beer.
The barman slid the Vodka over to the businessman. He
didn’t down its contents right away, as if this was what was expected. He
surveyed the glass. No lipstick marks. That made a change. The light twinkled
through the glass and liquid, creating a rainbow effect in any droplets of
residue. This little routine was a left over from his training. He had been
present in some testing situations, and you could never be too careful. A
useful tool maybe, but it was impossible to switch off.
“Jones
is the name”, said the man proffering his hand, “I’m in second hand cars”.
“I’m
never in second hand cars”, said the businessman, but offered his own hand
anyway.
“Yes I
can see that by the way you’re dressed,” said Jones, “You’re a real smart
character my man”.
The businessman found that these types of people had to
be entertained. He didn’t want to speak to them, but found them being drawn to
him on a regular basis. Maybe it was his looks, maybe it was his clothes. After
all he came across as suave and debonair. He felt that it was better to play
along with the game, be polite, rather than risk giving any real details away.
“I’ve
told you my line of work, what’s yours my friend?” said Jones.
“Well
it’s difficult to describe really”, said the businessman. “I exist in business
as a freelance.”
“As a
freelance… interesting… in what though?”
“Let’s
say that companies have certain contracts. Sometimes these contracts no longer
serve their purpose, or have gone wrong, and often they cost a lot to keep
going. They employ me to see that things are, well, smoothed over.”
“Sounds
technical to me. Are you a lawyer? Only I need a real good one right now!”
“I
wouldn’t say I’m a lawyer, no. I am primarily involved in negotiation,
cancellation or termination of contracts and services.”
“A
corporate thing? You ever get those free passes for the game? In one of the
boxes? Free beer? I got in once. I was so drunk I couldn’t even remember who
was playing!”
“I do a
little corporate work, but the work is mainly for smaller, more private
clientele”.
“So
that’s what’s in your briefcase? Important papers…”
“What is
in the briefcase is highly important. It’s for my eyes only! I have a high
responsibility on this current case, and confidentiality is vital.”
“Well,
they must be paying you well judging by your clothes.”
“Quality
comes at a price”.
The businessman’s phone vibrated silently in his trouser
pocket. Electricity coursed down his leg. His palms became slightly clammy. The
orders were coming through. He instantly began to prepare his mind, and Jones
was becoming an unwanted distraction.
“Duty
calls”, said the businessman waving his phone, “It was nice to make your
acquaintance Mr Jones. Maybe one day I’ll come by the showroom and buy a car”.
“But you
didn’t take my number”, said Jones.
“I
know”.
He understood these remarks were hurtful, but being in
his job he could afford to make them. He needed to swat Jones like the fly that
he was. He knew very well that he would never need the services of Mr Jones
again, and he could be disposed of in no uncertain terms. Rarely did the
businessman ever see the faces he dealt with ever again.
He slid the phone from his pocket. A message was present
in the inbox. He clicked to open it.
Our man has made himself available.
Five mins.
The
businessman sunk the remainder of his drink, picked up his briefcase, and slipped
silently through a door marked, “Staff Only”. Nobody saw anything. The bar staff
blindly carried on serving drinks, not even noticing his exit. Behind the door
the opulence of the bar disappeared. Wooden flooring had been replaced by a
metal fire escape stairwell. The brogues clanged on the steps as they climbed
upwards. The businessman carried on climbing until his reached the top floor.
For once the client’s information was surprisingly accurate. He was sure the
transaction would be pleasing for all concerned. He opened the only door on the
floor. There was a half light that came from the city’s night lights emitting
from the sash windows. He strode to the window and set his briefcase down.
He
stood for a moment and prepared himself for the job in hand. He had to be good.
His reputation depended on it. He removed some surgical gloves from his pocket
and slid them on. He didn’t want a job ruined by fingerprints. After
a minute’s thought he opened the briefcase. There was a foam casing that housed
the stripped contents of a sniper’s rifle. His heart skipped a beat when he saw
the tool of his trade. He thought back to his previous life as a guerrilla
style gunman in the army. The power of the job was immense. The ability to end
a man’s life was God like. It would be wrong to suggest that he hadn’t enjoyed
the job, but he enjoyed his new job even more. It had brought him a plush home,
a car the envy of many, and women hanging off him like jewellery. He clicked
his mind back to business and began assembling the gun. He could this in the
dark whilst blindfolded. He had assembled, stripped and cleaned his rifle
thousands of times during his stint in the forces. Before he clicked the sight
on top, he opened the window. It was only an inch or so, but it was enough.
Stage one was complete. He was in position with effortless efficiency.
He
looked out of the window. The city streets were bustling with people. He
thought back to the weeks previous. He had sat in the boss’ garden, looking out
over hundreds of acres of his country estate. He was handed a big brown
envelope. His brief had been in detail. It was heartening to know he was
dealing with people as professional as he was. The photographs had been clear,
and he was in no doubt about his target. In the afternoon he had committed them
to memory, then burnt the evidence. He was the consummate professional. He had
done this many times and was not nervous.
Accuracy was crucial, as the target would be surrounded with friends.
Time was counting down, and his sight was trained on the door of the Consulate
Club. His phone buzzed again. Impatiently he opened the new message.
Expect
target any second.
Show
time. He stood ready. His finger rested patiently on its trigger. One squeeze
and a life would be expunged. The pressure began to tell. One chance. One
bullet. No mistakes. With the finger poised, the businessman began to finally
feel nervous. This was good, it kept him sharp and focused. He saw the door
opening. His time had come. He prepared himself, tightened his finger on the
trigger. The doormen sidestepped to allow their guests to leave. This was it.
This was his moment. As the doormen parted he prepared to fire. His finger
tensed and pulled slightly on the trigger… Just as he was about to fully
release out came a group of three women, all laughing at high volume after
having too much to drink. The businessman growled with fury, and cursed his
contact on the ground. He reminded himself of the need to stay calm. Not every
job goes swimmingly. At that the doors swung open yet again. The doormen
parted. The target was in sight. He waited for the split second until the
target walked unawares into the cross of the sight. The businessman aimed for
the forehead. It came into sight. He could almost pick out the wrinkles and the
reseeding hairline. His friends were next to him but could have been a million
miles away. The businessman felt the rifle butt against his shoulder, squeezed
the trigger and fired.
About
two hundred yards away a bullet burrowed a hole into the man’s forehead. It
knocked his head straight back so he looked into the sky. The slug went through
his brain and took the back end of his skull away. His brain lay exposed,
intermingling with bits of stray hair. A stream of blood trickled from the
entrance wound, over his nose and down the right side of his face. His eyes
immediately gazed into nothingness. He halted lifeless. His motionless body
crumpled to the ground in a heap. A lady covered her mouth and screamed,
signalling what had happened. Slowly people realised that he was dead.
As
soon as the hit was made the businessman began unscrewing the rifle, and
carefully but quickly started to reposition it in the briefcase. He was happy
with the job. He had overcome a nervy hiccup and still sealed the deal. Finally
he placed the sight in his case, closed the lid and clamped it shut with a
double click. He closed the window, and made to leave the room. He descended
the fire escape with the same cool assurance with which he had entered. He
opened the door to the bar and walked to the bar, his shoes clacking as he
went. His place had been taken so he sat at another bar stool.
“Same again barman”, he said. This time there was no
inspection of the glass, and he chugged the liquid down in one gulp. It stung
his throat but it calmed any feelings he had immediately. He left another note
and went outside. He noticed the hysterical crowd gathering further down the
street.
“Well I wonder what’s going on
over there?” said a lady in the street. “Is it a fight or something?”
“You know what some people are
like”, said the businessman raising his eyebrows in condescension, “always
losing their heads”.
At that he turned around to the edge of the pavement,
hailed a taxi, and was gone.
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