Scene 2, in which our main character gets in a bit of a sticky situation on his first job.
My place wasn’t much to talk about. It was a small flat in the centre of town, which afforded me ability to get to places quickly. I wasn’t much of an interior designer so the inside was pretty dingy. Bare minimum in all ways. One set of cutlery, one plate, one mug. The mug can be a bowl in a pinch. One table, one chair, small TV, laptop. I didn’t need much and I didn’t have the money for anything better.
I got in out of the rain, fished out the note, and chucked my coat over the back of my chair. I wandered over to my cabinet to fish out a bottle of scotch and a tumbler. Grabbed my favourite of both; a fifteen year old Glenlivet and a crystal tumbler given to me by my best man at my wedding. It was slightly chipped but still did the job.
I poured myself a healthy measure and sat down at the laptop and started my usual checks on the target. Former teacher, married, one kid. He lived in a suburban townhouse in the quietest neighbourhood in town. This would be easy, I thought.
I got up late to get ready; nothing good happens before 10am. Keys, wallet, duct tape, pistol. If you squeeze a half-used roll of duct tape, it folds up enough to fit in the pocket of a coat without being too obvious. I slid the pistol into my holster like putting on old shoes. It felt right sitting there under my arm. My overcoat had dried out a little overnight but it was still damp.
I made my way to the target’s house on foot. I always thought it helped me to get a feel for the place. Scope it out, that kind of thing. It was your usual sleepy suburban street. Those residents with real jobs had already gone to work, leaving just the quiet remnants of an otherwise busy street.
I wasn’t sure how to approach this. My usual method was to impersonate a user; as soon as the mark opens the door it’s a gun in the face and a quick submission. This time I thought I’d go for something a little more subtle. He’s gotta have a family in there after all.
I walked up to the door and knocked. I hear a bit of commotion behind the door and it slowly opens to reveal a young girl. She can’t have been older than seven. Great.
“Hi there, young lady, is your father home?” I said in that over-pronounced voice people use when they’re no good at dealing with children.
“I’ll get him,” She replied, and leaves the door ajar as she runs off into the depths of the house to find my guy. I stepped across the threshold to check the place out. A huge hallway opens up into open plan living-dining room. Lavish furnishings throughout, the place practically smelled like money. How the other half live, right?
I soon hear someone approaching and in comes my guy. Six-four, must be two hundred pound beast of a man. My voice catches in my throat before I remind myself that I’m carrying and I can handle this. I have to handle this. Cue my favourite shit-eating grin. If it worked on the boss, it might just work here too.
“Jon? Jon Ponting? Christ mate, it’s been a while, how’ve you been?” I said.
“Do I know you?” He said.
“Yes mate, I’m Frank from Brunswick High, many years ago now. I taught Chemistry.” His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t reply. I had to double down.
“Look, the Headmistress, Jan, you remember her, right? –” He nodded slightly, “– well we’re struggling over there, Jon, and she was hoping you’d come back. Or maybe temp? We could really use the help mate.” This is why I do my homework.
“Yeah, sorry Frank, didn’t recognise you,” He said. My insides unknotted in an instant. “Come through, do you want a coffee?”
We walked through to his kitchen. Every surface was polished white marble that glistened in the light. He gestured over to the breakfast bar and I took one of the tall bar stools on the near side. He started making coffee.
“So how’s Jan doing?” He asks, with his head inside a cupboard, presumably looking for the coffee grounds.
“Same old, same old. She seems pretty stressed, what with the inspections and everything, but she’s keeping it together,” I replied. Keep it vague and plausible and people will dance to your tune.
“Sounds familiar,” He said, “I’m a little surprised she wants me back after what, five years? And it’s not like we parted ways in good faith.”
Shit. Nothing like that had come up in the research. My brain scrambled to come up with something reasonable. If he started drilling me on the details I’d have to finish this fast.
He slid a hot cup of coffee across the table at me and it bought me a chance to think for a second. I took a nice long sip and savoured the rich earthy bitterness of the brew. I hadn’t had a coffee that good in years.
“Yeah, I guess that tells you how desperate we I are.” I said. Keep it vague.
“Nobody’s that desperate,” He was staring daggers at me now. “What did you say your name was? Frank? Chemistry teacher?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Well here’s the problem, Frank, I don’t know who you are but I have a good idea of why you’re here and it sure as shit hasn’t got anything to do with a school I’ve never worked in.” He let that sink in.
I was well and truly fucked now. He must have planted false information for any sucker who came looking for it. Any sucker like me. He’d forced my hand now.
In an instant, I thrust my hand into my jacket and drew my pistol hoping to get the drop on him, but he had done the same, and I found myself looking down the barrel of a gun. How had I not seen it on him? We sat across the glistening marble breakfast bar, pistol to pistol, our eyes locked in the deep embrace of imminent death.
“Before I kill you and bury you under my patio, I have to know one thing: who sent you? If you tell me that, I’ll do it quickly.” He said. “If not, well, let’s just say my record is three straight days…”
“Seems to me that I’m not the only one with a gun in my face, so I’ll take my chances,” I said, more confident than I felt. How had I fucked up so enormously? “Look, you seem a reasonable guy, my employer isn’t interested in your death but they are interested in sharing the wealth so to speak.”
He laughed in my face. “Seems to me your employer has mistaken me for someone small-time. I haul more in a day than most haul in a year. No, make no mistake, boy, your employer wants me either dead or wants my entire business. Tell me, how much are they paying you?”
I should end this now, but I was frozen staring at this man. “It’s the usual fee,” I stuttered.
“Do I look like the kind of person to know what the usual fee is? Give me a damn number.” He said.
“25 per mark” I said.
“Grand? Christ, they really do think I’m small time,” He said, almost to himself. “And what do they consider a job well done?”
“Cooperation” I said. I had truly lost control of this situation. I looked down at my gun. It could have been a water pistol for all the good it was going to do me.
He grinned, “In that case, you’ll work for me now.”
What? How did he come to that conclusion? He must have missed the part where we’re both pointing guns at each other.
“You’re going to go back to your employer and say that I’ll cooperate, then you’re going to get some more jobs but you’re going to bring the marks to me. Fifty grand per mark,” He said.
Jesus that was a lot of money, and I didn’t have any loyalty to my employer. I just wanted a job, and this one paid more and didn’t involve me ending up six feet under the garden.
“Ok.” I said, quietly.
“Speak up, my hearing ain’t what it used to be.” He said, with a grin.
“Ok!” I said, more loudly this time. Arrogant prick.
“Good.” He said, and with that he pointed his pistol at my free hand and pulled the trigger.
Pain like nothing I’d ever felt coursed up my arm. Blood sprayed everywhere, over me, over the bar, over Jon’s shirt. It kept pulsing out of the now stubby end of my index finger. I screamed a blood curdling scream and dropped my pistol so I could try to stop the bleeding. Jon just stood there watching. He barely even flinched.
“Why did you do that?” I screamed at Jon, who grabbed a tea towel and chucked it at me.
“I didn’t want you to go back to your employer without looking like you had to work for it,” He said, “and let it be a reminder that you are nothing to me.”
Why did people keep saying that to me? I get it, I’m the lowest of the low, but I didn’t need to be bloody reminded of it every five seconds.
The tea towel was quickly soaking with my blood, and I was beginning to feel light headed. Jon casually walked over to the cupboard under the sink and pulled out a first aid kit. He dug around for a little while.
“Give it here,” he said, calmly.
I had no choice. I let him work on my finger. He cleaned it up and started sewing up the stub. I had no idea whether he was doing a good job, but he worked with an efficiency and confidence that made me think that this was not his first time. After what seemed like hours, he bandaged up my stub and released my arm.
I felt sick. Light headed and drowsy, I was in no condition to fight my corner or deal with this monster of a man. I looked down at my bandaged finger, and then at the blood all over the bar in front of me and nearly feinted.
“You should be going,” Jon said, “keep that thing clean, and take these once a day to stave off infection.” He slid an unlabelled bottle of pills at me. How could he be so calm?
“You got it,” I mumbled, before shakily standing up.
Jon led me to the door and pushed me out of it.
“Remember, fifty grand for each mark you get on my side,” He said quietly, “If you rat me out or you fail me, I’ll remove each and every one of those fingers with a blunt knife before I kill you.”
And with that he slammed the door leaving me drained and disoriented on his door step.