Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  I’m flying solo on this one. Charlie hasn’t popped up in hours and I’m thinking that’s about it for him. He lasted nearly two days. Now I close my eyes and barely remember what he looked like. Should make me feel better, but it bothers me I wonder if I’ve grown so used to having something nearby to remind me of what I am, that the quiet’s become more disturbing to me than the sight of someone I murdered.

  The story with this job? Seems Lexis and her friends took a little extra side income humping and pumping the type of assholes with power and no scruples. A month back, some muckamuck comptroller from Woodlawn decided to have a big old coke and whores party. Within a day it was all over the papers. There were rumors some of the girls were underage, and worse, taken from their home countries by force. Real despicable shit. The papers obviously claimed anonymous sources. The comptroller insisted it had to be one of these girls, that they were the only ones who would do this. In my experience, it’s usually the driver or the guys paid to protect these morons who do the leaking, but it’s easy to blame someone society already hates. So, the comptroller makes a call to Paulie and here I am—taking out some nobody in the name of another nobody who thinks he’s somebody because of money.

  A contract is a contract, though, so here I am. I’ve got no right to judge any of these people.

  Lexis shows up at the club between 4:30 p.m. and 5:15 p.m. According to the brightly colored and laminated flyer I found near the club’s door, she dances on the main stage two or three times from five to eight. My experience with these places tells me she’ll probably wander the floor for the rest of the night in quest of private dances. One look at her tells me she doesn’t do too badly for herself. Hell, she’s probably pulling in close to a grand on a good night. If she’s an earner, that means she’ll be ducking into the VIP area of the club a lot.

  As a rule, I avoid going back there. Partly because I’m a cheap bastard and partly because gentlemen who frequent the “high roller” area of a strip club tend to be remembered. This means I need to catch her after closing hours or find a way to get to her on a cigarette break. The former’s sure money, but these girls are watched during cigarette breaks. You never know when a weirdo with ill intention will pop up—case in point: me.

  I light one last cigarette and step out of the car. Walk over to the entrance of the club and nod to the doorman. He’s a shaved bear wearing an ill-fitting suit. The guy could probably palm my head like a basketball.

  “How’s it going, chief?” I ask as cordially as I can without coming off too friendly.

  He turns his head away from me. Licks his lips. Some bullshit bad-ass move he’s seen in too many movies. “Doing okay,” he monotones. There’s a chair next to him with a Sports Illustrated resting on the cushion. Picture of Giants’ quarterback Eli Manning smiling his dopey smile on the cover.

  “Giants fan?” I ash my cigarette. Point to the magazine with my chin.

  “Not really.”

  “Ah, figured with the magazine and all. Hey, Peter King still writing the football coverage for them?” I blow some smoke into the air above me.

  The doorman narrows his eyes. “What’s up with all this question shit?”

  I shrug. “To be fair, man—I only asked two. Only making small talk while I finish my cigarette.”

  He waves me away. “Yeah, well, go make ‘small talk’ with the wall before I toss your stupid ass into traffic.”

  Temper on this one. He’s right to mistrust. “No problem. Sorry for interrupting you from, eh, more pertinent matters.” I flick my cigarette into the street and move toward the door.

  Doorman’s bear paw stops me short. “You paying to get in. Thirty bucks.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Great. Of all times. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” He cocks his head to the side. Puffs his chest out. He doesn’t open his stance. Makes me wonder if he’s ever actually had to get physical or if he’s the type who depends on his size to keep out of trouble. Those are the type of fellas that fold quick and easy.

  I fight the urge to shove my foot up his ass. “Son of a bitch.” I pull my wallet out of my back pocket. “Man asks about football and he’s fucking marked.”

  “You’re about to make it forty with that mouth.”

  “Fine, fine.” I count out three tens and hold them out. “Here.” I slip my wallet back into my pocket and it pains me how much lighter it feels.

  Doorman takes my money and on as if on cue, Lexis rushes out of the club. Crap.

  “Where you going?” Doorman’s eyes lock onto her backside as she jogs toward the parking lot.

  Lexis turns her head. “Family emergency.” And she’s off at an impressive clip for a girl balancing on toothpick-thin heels.

  I watch her go to the back and a minute later her Impala is out on the road. Here I am: no mark, thirty dollars short, and nothing to do. Can’t rush off after her without it looking obvious, so into the club I go.

  The music—dear Lord—the music in this place is the worst. Late nineties pop and hip hop. I decide to keep to the bar. To have an overpriced drink or two and then go back home to sleep the day off. I send Paulie a text explaining the delay. Take a sip of my watered-down whiskey. Question my intelligence for ordering this shit.

  My phone chirps.

  Paulie’s answer isn’t so cordial: WTF? y?

  No show, I type back.

  Hw iz dat my prob? (What the fuck is wrong with this guy, he illiterate?)

  Will finish tomorrow, I respond.

  NO 2day.

  Is it that important?

  Wnt $$$$??? (I can only assume this is a threat to my payment.)

  Got her address?

  3 others!

  Fine Fuck you…

  I shut my phone off. Not in the mood to continue my conversation with this asshole while Chumbawumba plays. Better ways to commit suicide.

  I’ve got three other targets on the table. Take a look around the club and spot two of them working the poles on smaller stages across from one another. I’m glad I bothered to look at the pictures Paulie provided. To my right, Cherry, a nearly washed-up relic at the tender age of twenty-nine. To my left, Amber Lynn, surrounded by a sea of wrinkled dollar bills.

  I turn to the bartender. “Hey, is Lilly working tonight?”

  He gives me a shake of the head and motions to my empty glass. I take the offer and he tops me off. Toss a twenty onto the bar top and give him a nod to keep the change. I’ve already dropped over fifty bucks to be here for almost twenty minutes. Not thrilled at the damage this night’s going to do to my wallet, even if it’s all in the name of making a payday. Not like any of this is a tax write-off.

  So now my options are down to two. No way am I getting near Amber Lynn, so it’s going to have to be the dinosaur. That’s wrong of me. Cherry’s still young in normal human years. Not my fault that the lifespan of a stripper is measured in singles, shaving bumps, and C-section scars. I down the rest of this watered-down shit whiskey and order a beer. Take it along for the slow walk to Cherry’s lonely stage. She sees me coming and does a fancy spin on the silver pole she’s hanging off. She’s wearing a cute little black two-piece with white, heart-shaped skulls all over. Manages to impress me by lifting herself off the ground, turning upside down, and going spread-eagle. I say a silent prayer of thanks this place isn’t an all-nude and sit myself down in front of her. Lock my eyes on her tramp stamp—an elaborate tribal design holding a pink rose hostage. Each thorn on the rose’s stem draws a drop of illustrated blood. Very classy piece.

  Cherry’s a hard twenty-nine. She smiles and foundation-flaked lines show on her cheeks and around her eyes. Her hair’s dyed candy-apple red and ironed needle straight. She rocks bangs so chunky it looks like she’s wearing a wig. Pair of slot-machine-style cherries are perched at either side of her hips right above the bikini line. I see the scars from a mid-range boob job above her ribs. T
hey’re nice, but not at the level of some of the other girls in the place. Don’t get me wrong—I’m no snob. If the lady offered me a free meal, I would take it. I couldn’t tell you the last time I even touched a woman that way—for free, that is.

  Cherry slides down from the pole and squats in front of me with a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “Hi, baby.” There’s sex in her voice. She’s a pro. This is her version of “Thanks for calling so and so company” or “Welcome to this restaurant, may I take your order?”

  “Hi, yourself.” I toss two singles at her feet. I’m fixated on those cherry tattoos. They’re faded enough for me to know it’s been a long time since they were first scratched into her flesh.

  She leans in, grazes my cheek with her lips. Breathes soft against the nape of my neck. The air gets thick with that coconut-scented body spray every girl in this joint wears. It fills my head. Cherry’s hands slowly perch on my shoulders and I feel the day’s weight pull away from me. I look into her eyes and fall in love—just for that moment—like all the other suckers in this place. She leans back and I’m slipping five singles under the thin strap of her bikini bottom. My fingers linger long enough, and she slowly pushes her hips closer. Takes a level of will I’m not known for to avoid asking her for a private dance. I don’t have enough cash for that, so I need to keep it outside in the common area for the time being.

  Cherry turns away and stands. Bends over at the hips and grips the pole with both hands. She spreads her legs apart and arches her back like a centerfold, then flips her hair back. Turns to look at me with a grin and begins to sway in time with the music. I wonder if there’s a school that teaches all these little moves or if it really is an immense amount of time spent watching porn on the internet and trading tips with the other girls between shifts.

  My eyes follow her movements. My brain tries to walk me off the ledge, but I toss a five-spot—no idea where that came from—and Cherry coos. I swallow a softball to keep from drooling. She’s not the best specimen in the world, but she’s a damn nice one. Not easy to convince myself it’s the money she’s aiming for, not my dick.

  Cherry doesn’t help by picking up on all my micro-tells. This is her element—I’m far enough out of mine. “You’re so cute,” she says as close to sincerely as she can. And people look down on girls and guys in this industry. A business custom-built to prop a fella up for a measly few dollars. In the meantime, the gangster trash I deal with gets all the glory.

  Those soft fingertips find a home under my chin and just a twitch makes me raise my eyes. Cherry smiles and stands up from the bent position she’s in. She drags her French-tipped nails along my stubble. Bites her lower lip in that sexy way cover models do. A woman like this, hell, a woman like this is the kind a man should kill for—not actually kill.

  That’s bad thinking—I’m on a job. So I remind myself that she’s a mark—meant to get a bullet to the head. This breaks the illusion and brings me back down. Cherry notices my change in mood and squats back down with a pout. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  I shake it off and force a smile. “Nothing, nothing. Keep dancing.” Another five appears from my wallet and she motions for me to slip it between her silicon tits. I go right on ahead and take her lead. She cups a hand on either breast and presses them together. Gets more than the cash between them. Her timing traps my fingers there too. I don’t pull my hand away—savor how warm and soft she feels. The music ends, and she smiles. Stands back up and collects her bikini top.

  “I’ll be out later. Maybe a private dance?” She pouts.

  I nod. “We’ll see.”

  She walks off swinging her hips. That bounce is probably not what it used to be, but the same could be said for me. As if I ever bounced—limped would be the better choice of word.

  It’s a damn shame luck ain’t on Cherry’s side tonight.

  I finish my beer and get the hell out of here. Outside, I light a cigarette right by the dickhead bouncer and blow a nice head of smoke toward him. “Good night, buddy.” Turn my phone back on and check the time. There’s a small bar across the street, so I duck in, find a seat with a view of the club’s entrance/exit, and nurse a proper glass of whiskey. Even manage to catch the tail end of the Yankees game. They lost. Bartender announces last call and I head back out.

  I wait a block over but still in viewing distance of the strip joint. I spot Cherry walking out. Still dark, so if I’m smart, I can get over and catch her in the alley that leads to the parking area in the back. Got to hand it to the scumbags that own the place. Shave off a little expense to avoid putting in an emergency exit and they went and made my life a little easier. I watch her say goodbye to Doorman—dick—then she walks to the alley. Doorman goes into the club; guess she was the last one out tonight. Perfect.

  I jog across the street at a normal pace—no need to look obvious. Get into the alley and I can hear her cheap stilettos clack against the concrete. Another couple of feet and I see her approaching her car. Heart sinks a little when I see it’s a Nissan—a beater at that. This is a mercy kill. I pull on a pair of leather driving gloves then go for my Glock 17, the suppressor already screwed on. The gun’s a favorite of mine. It’s light—nice trigger pull. You stay in a business this long and little things like trigger pull become a major item on the list of your favorite things about small arms. It’s screwed up.

  I was going to garrote Lexis but decided the Glock with the suppressor—which I remembered this time—would make this quick and easy. There was a time I really enjoyed the garrote. It was quiet means of dispatching a target if you caught them off guard in a secure place. My Uncle Sean taught me the intricacies of it. Where to apply the most pressure—how to make it painless, an almost intimate experience. Today, I’m not in the mood for an intimate kill, especially not after Cherry was grinding and fondling me with such feigned sincerity. I nearly thought she’d give me a little more of her private time if I had a few more dollars. Yes—I absolutely entertained the idea, but I concluded that I would have been that messed up a decade ago. I’m a kinder, gentler murderer now.

  Sneaking up on someone isn’t supposed to be dramatic. If you force yourself to be quiet, you always fail. I walk steady over to Cherry, lift the gun to the back of her head, and squeeze the trigger twice. Suppressors don’t do as an amazing job of keeping the gunshot quiet as they do in the movies, so it’s not like I can dawdle. I do Cherry the courtesy of catching her body before it slaps against the wet concrete. Heavier than I expected her to be. She still smells as good as she did inside.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. I smell smoke and realize her hair’s caught fire. A lot of flammable product, plus long hair, plus the heat generated from a close-range gunshot tends to do that. I pat the back of her head gently. Don’t need to do her the disservice of burning up like a goddamn jack-o-lantern. I look at her face. The bullets came out through her cheek neat, so she’ll have an open casket. My heart sinks a little bit. She didn’t deserve this.

  I lay Cherry on her back and leave an envelope on top of her chest. Paulie said it would help make the message clear to the girls: loose lips sink ships—his words. I’m more inclined to snitches get stitches, but to each his own. I wipe my gloves on the hem of her denim skirt and give myself a quick once over to make sure there’s no blood on me. Tough to tell in the low light, but my pants look like they have a drop or two on them. Make a note to dump them before I get home. I look back to Cherry and her eyes are open—empty, locked on me. I brush them closed with two fingers and frown. Take a few photos on a burner and mail them to the usual account to prove the deed’s been done.

  “Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” A stranger’s voice. Someone’s walked in on this. I overstayed my welcome. Complete rookie mistake. Now it’s going to have to be two bodies and I’m completely at fault.

  I stand, turn to face the voice, and back away a single step. Try to keep my distance. This area of the parking lot is lit as well as a closet with a cheap nightlight.


  “Don’t move.” Stranger’s got his right hand behind him. Damn it—of course he has a gun.

  I don’t bother to give him time to draw or get an answer from me. I raise my gun and pop a few shots. Catch him in the chest and he drops like a wet sack of rats. Rush over. He’s still breathing. Coup de grâce to the center of his forehead and we’re done. I get a look at his face. Young guy—can’t be older than twenty-one. Not sure if I saw him in the strip club before, but Cherry had me preoccupied. I made a mess of the top of his head. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach—didn’t want two bodies on my ledger today. I turn back to Cherry. There’s already a water bug crawling on her hand and up her arm. Amazing how fast the flies and roaches come once we start rotting.

  I’m getting zip done standing around all morose about this. I can grieve in the car. Slip my gun away and make a mad dash out of the alley and up the block. Learned a long time that collateral damage happens—especially when you don’t want it to happen. “Killing’s messy no matter how you cut it,” Uncle Sean would say to me. A month or two into helping the family out during the tail end of the Troubles, I remember asking him if it always had to be messy—if there was a way to keep things quick and clean. His answer was simple, “Don’t get into the business of killing people.”

  It’s always when you’re in the middle of this kind of shit that the old advice you ignored or couldn’t make heads or tails of becomes crystal clear. And yes, I feel stupid. I let my desperation take the wheel and nothing went to plan. This was a grade-A rookie hit—below my standards. If it all goes well, I’ll still get shit from Paulie and my brand gets knocked down a peg. Long-term effect: my rates go down. So next time, I won’t have a choice but to take multiple jobs. Great work, Bryan.

  Cherry and Stranger are already waiting in the car when I get there. She’s giving me the same smile she did at the club. Where there was a dimple is a faded, fleshy pair of holes. I can see a few of her teeth through it—her gums are dark and shiny. The Stranger’s in worse shape. He’s stone still, eyes rolling around in their sockets. The top of his head is as open as I left it in that alley. The bits and pieces left inside of his skull churn and throb off rhythm. Can’t find it in me to look at him, but there’s not much to him. He looks like one of those action movie stars, you know, the type so plain, so blank they’re more of a stand-in for the audience than a human being? That’s Stranger in a nutshell—a blank with the top popped off.