Scene 3 of The Job, in which our main character gets paid.
Somehow I made it back to my flat, but I couldn’t remember how long it took me to get there or the route I took. I fell through the door and managed to pour myself another scotch before crashing face first on my mattress.
I woke up sometime later to a damp sheet and clammy skin all over. The pain in my hand pulsed in time with the beat of my heart. I gazed at it and noticed the redness of the bandages, but my eyes lost focus and I drifted back to a troubled sleep.
I came round again. I’d lost all concept of time, but it was dark in the room. I had no idea what day it was. I pulled myself up into a sitting position and sat there with my eyes closed for a few moments as I focussed on not puking.
I looked at my hand again. The bandages were a deep red, but dry so I was confident it wasn’t currently bleeding. I needed to change it. Of course, I was too stupid to stock a first aid kit in my minimal apartment. I pulled off my pillow case and started tearing it into pieces. It was harder than I expected, what with only half an index finger on my left hand.
I tried to peel off the bandage, but they were stuck to the skin and the pain made me nauseous. I worked carefully, levering off each section of bandage, rubbing it down with a little water, and moving on to the next section. I didn’t want to tear the stitches.
Eventually I got the whole thing off and was staring at the stub of what used to be my finger. The wound weeped a little, but wasn’t bleeding which was encouraging. Jon’s work on the stitches looked good to my untrained eye - I don’t want to know where he learned that, hopefully he was just a doctor in his past life.
The loss of this small part of me stung. I looked at the stub and cried ugly tears. All this for a bit of cash. What was I doing with my life? And now I was stuck working for Jon, or he’d kill me. I sat there and cried. Absorbed by the self pity, letting my emotions flood through my veins just for the thrill of it. It was cathartic.
I wiped my eyes with my good hand and started binding my finger. I did a shoddy job of it, but the red bits were covered and it’d soak up any more blood. The pulsing pain returned.
I checked over my gear. Duct tape still folded up in my coat pocket but my pistol was missing from my holster. I’d bloody dropped it when I got shot. I loved that gun, not least because it took me months to procure quietly. I didn’t have time to get a new one.
I needed to think about my next steps. If I went back to Starbucks, I could pick up my twenty-five grand but I doubt that would be enough to get me out of town. With the checkpoints the way they were, I’d need at least a cool hundred to pay off the guards. That means I’d have to go back to Jon with my next job. Two more jobs and I’d have that hundred and I could try to escape. Until then I’ll be the picture of subservient employee to both.
Starbucks first.
I got there a little after 11, and after a long and troubled night of dark dreams and frequent pain. I didn’t bother to stand watch this time; I knew the score, and the boss is probably already there. I walked in and got in line for a brew.
“Hey, it’s Jeff, back for some more of that sweet caffeine, right?” one of the barista’s treated me to some small talk. How the hell did he remember me from the other day?
“Sure,” I reply, simply.
“Hey man, what’s up with the hand? You ok?” they said.
“Oh, this?” I said, waving around my stump, “nasty accident at work.”
“I’ll say!” they replied, with a toothy grin. This is why I hated Starbucks. I grabbed my coffee and headed upstairs. The boss was in the same spot as last time, but was talking with someone. I looked around at the other tables, full of small families, or people working on their laptops, or just friends catching up.
A guy at one table caught my eye. He looked from me to the boss and then raised his eyebrows in question. I nodded and walked over to sit down opposite him.
“You here for work?” He said quietly.
“Yeah, you?” I replied. I wasn’t sure what to make of this man. He was almost completely bald, and wore a tatty leather jacket over some band t-shirt. He was too casual for this kind of work which either made him very new or very good.
“Yeah, of course. The name’s Mike.” He extends a hand and I shake it, feeling thick callouses on his fingers.
“I’m John.” I said. I didn’t want to give him my real name for obvious reasons, but I didn’t want to seem rude. I didn’t believe that he was called Mike either.
“He’s been talking to that one for a little while,” Mike said, “I reckon he’ll be done soon.” I just nod.
“That looks mighty nasty,” Mike said, gesturing to my bandages.
“Yeah, my last job went a bit south.” I said. I really wished people would stop asking about it. I wanted a chance to just forget it.
“You only lost a finger? That’s not too bad. Any job you walk away from is a success, right? Imagine if it was on your right hand!” Mike said, with a laugh.
“I don’t know what I’d do if it was.” I said, smiling. He was right, of course. If I had lost my right index finger I couldn’t shoot and then I’d be fucked. Not that it did me any good last time.
“How long have you been in the business, Mike?” I asked; I might as well get some information out of him whilst we wait.
“Coming up ten years now,” he replied, with a smug grin.
I whistled through my teeth. “Jesus, Mike, that’s impressive. How the hell have you managed that? And with all your fingers intact at that!”
He laughed. “Oh you know, I keep my head down, get the job done but I guess most important is I always shoot first. I don’t have time for anything else. I know they cut my fee if I kill the mark, but that’s a damn sight better prospect than kicking it early, you know?”
I did know. I had found that out the hard way. I waved my stumpy finger, “Oh I do know, Mike, I know very well all of a sudden.”
“That sense of humour will take you a long way, I reckon.” Mike said, still laughing. “Looks like it’s my turn. Maybe I’ll see you around here some time? Keep those fingers to yourself next time.”
With that, he got up and walked over to the boss. Their greeting was like two old friends meeting for coffee. For real this time, not like the piss-poor attempt I made last time. I was left alone with my coffee.
Their meeting was quick. The boss seemed to have a specific job ready for Mike. He handed it over quickly and it looked like they gossiped for a little while. Mike soon got up, nodded at me, and then left. My turn.
“Well if it isn’t my buddy Steve. Looks like you’ve had a fun couple of days.” He said as I sat down.
“Who’d have guessed a house husband could cause so much trouble?” I replied.
“Oh c’mon kid, you saw the numbers he’s hauling, you think you can rock up to his house with his fuckin' kid at home, and not leave without a little souvenir?”
How the hell did he know that? “Spare me the pep-talk, I got him on board.” I replied cooly.
“Good,” the boss said, and pulled out a wad of cash from inside his jacket pocket. He handed over the twenty-five grand, and I stashed it carefully in my jacket.
“I want another job.” I said.
“‘Course you do. All I’ve got for you is that policeman from last time. No one seems to want to take him, for some reason. What do you think?” He said.
“Just one? You promised me some more choice once I had proven myself and I think I’ve fucking proven myself now.” I said, shoving my left hand in his face.
“You’re a real ungrateful kid, you know that? I just hand you twenty-five grand and you think you can order me around? Truth is, you fucked that last job up. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t safe, guns going off in the suburbs for christ’s sake. You’ve made life harder for everyone so you can take this job that no one wants. If you fail, then you’re dead, if you don’t then maybe we’ll consider another job. But you’re on thin fucking ice, my friend, perhaps you should start to realise it.”
This guy was really pissing me off. As if I hadn’t just sacrificed the use of my hand for him. I didn’t care now, I was happy to hand his arse over to Jon.
“You got it chief. Give me the damn note.” I said, and he hands it over.
I got up and left without another word. Fuck him. I’ll clean out this policeman without anyone even realising. I’ll prove to that scar-faced prick that I know what I’m doing.
I made my way back home, to prepare for the next job. I’d either need a new weapon, or try doing things the old fashioned way. I knew that against a policeman I’d have a much better chance with the gun.