A Blood of Killers

by Gerard Houarner

  The Beast gathered its strength in a show of protest.

  Max understood. He regretted not making the effort to rouse himself and revisit Amanda or her friends. There might have been a minute or two for the Beast in the wreckage of her apartment, possibly with someone left alive. But at least her death and the explosion wasn’t his fault. Mr. Jung and his associates should have seen it coming. They had supports, sources of information, profilers, planners. He was on his own, with nothing but his skills, the Beast, and a killer’s instincts.

  Mr. Jung would understand, once he had all the facts.

  She’d fulfilled her promise, led him to the target, and succeeded in at least partially fulfilling her desire: two out of three targets dead, with collateral damage directed to those she cared about least—her friends. And with her death, she’d saved the lives of her family, since there was no use in killing them, anymore. Even better, she wasn’t around to be disappointed by Max’s survival. She’d died contented.

  Max had gotten the job done, in a way that Mr. Jung would soon come to appreciate.

  Only the Beast was not happy. But then, it never was. Especially when they’d both been battered by a bad job.

  But the mission was done. It was time to recover before his next assignment.

  Forget patience. Never mind love. Who was he fooling, believing even for a moment that he’d bother setting as elaborate a trap as Amanda had just to kill someone? There were limits to the concessions he’d make to civilization. He had needs. And responsibilities. The Beast had taken enough abuse in the service of survival.

  More than ever, he was grateful there was no room in him for love. It was far too rough a business for his nature to tolerate.

  Never mind love. He hung on to that thought. The Beast needed tending, and Max knew just how to make them both forget everything they’d suffered in the name of that poisoned passion.

  YOU THINK YOU’RE A KILLER

  Two men are sitting two stools apart. The empty places beg for company. Four stools would have been a safer distance, providing a no man’s land in which voices might get lost in the faint sound of traffic sailing up and down the West Side Highway trying to beat the lights. Two men two stools apart invite intimacy.

  The bartender, Star freshens Max’s club soda. His attention appears to drift to the next ten tasks he wants to perform, the front door, the empty sidewalk on the other side of the wrap-around bar windows, the phone. His motions are as simple and economical as the tattoo on his hand that is the source of his nickname. He looks like he is still on point in the jungle.

  Max sits leaning forward on his elbows, back straight, one foot on the stool ring, the other on the rail. His dusty wool pea coat, boots and blue jeans make him look like he’s just stepped off a ship docked at one of the nearby piers. His hair is short, black, neatly trimmed, and his face has been broken and reshaped so many times he reminds people of no one, and everyone, depending on the shadows over his scars and angles.

  Petrov taps the zinc counter with his glass for another shot of Stoli’s. His long legs reach comfortably to the floor, and he sits further back, as if he might take off suddenly like a runaway Ferris wheel. His greasy coveralls and jacket, along with the faint odor of gasoline surrounding him, gives the impression he works at one of the nearby car dealerships. His hands, however, are not calloused by the use of tools. His black hair is long and tangled, and the flesh over his cheek is puckered from an old entry wound and stares, unblinking, at people like a rude eye.

  When Star is done and has gone to the corner to chat with a blonde regular reading the latest Evanovich paperback, Petrov says, “You think you’re a killer.”

  It is not the time of day when such talk is frowned upon. Civilians have stopped coming in for their lunch breaks from the work of being tourists, and have not yet returned for their pre-theater dinners. The tables behind Max and Petrov are empty, the waiters and cooks on break.

  Still, Star glances in their direction.

  “You don’t know what I think,” Max answers.

  “I hear the stories about you.”

  “You shouldn’t believe lies.”

  “That’s what I say. Because there’s no fucking way any of them are true.”

  “That’s what I say.”

  “I’m a killer.”

  “Really.”

  “Six people. That’s how many I’ve done. Six. The way I hear it, you do six in a minute. Leave a trail of bodies a mile wide. Cleaners and sweepers want to take a contract out on you, you make them work so hard.”

  “That’s some sick mind’s fantasy. Things like that don’t happen in the real world. The authorities would never allow it.”

  “Yeah, like the police are in charge of anything.”

  “Our contractors would never allow such behavior. Violence on that scale, in civilized places like this, brings attention where it’s not welcome.”

  “Yeah, like our contractors are all wrapped tight.”

  “They want to survive, like everyone else. There are rules to surviving everyone must follow.”

  “You have faith.”

  “I know reality.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. I know what it takes to kill a man.”

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m not laughing. I’m smiling. Actually, it’s not really me smiling. It’s the thing I carry inside me showing its teeth.”

  “Fucking wolves show their teeth.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”

  “It’s hard to kill a man, isn’t it.”

  “You can wipe that fucking smirk off your fucked-up face, asshole, before I fuck you up some more.”

  “What do you think about killing men? You say you’ve done it six times.”

  “It’s easy to have what it takes. Hell, it fucking amazes me more people don’t off each other. But actually getting a man dead, that’s hard. One shot doesn’t always do the job. A single blow to the head, no. It takes work. Unless you’re lucky.”

  “I’m not lucky.”

  “I don’t think so, either.”

  “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

  “So am I. Because it’ll make it easier for me to kill you.”

  “Who’s the contractor? All those cleaners and sweepers?”

  “That would be telling.”

  “There is no contract, is there.”

  “That would be telling.”

  “You’re just some unemployed ghost looking to make a name for himself so he can get a real job.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me I should be running for President.”

  “Maybe you should. You’re full of shit, and you’re not much good for anything else. Sounds like you’re qualified.”

  “Let’s see how tough you are.”

  “Why.”

  “Maybe you can use the practice turning fantasy into reality.”

  “You first.”

  Star arrives, wiping down the bar, refilling the ice, putting up clean glasses. “Gentlemen,” he says.

  Max stares at his reflection peeking through the bottles lined up against the bar mirror. Petrov checks the street through the window, peers into the shadows under the remains of the old elevated portion of the highway.

  Someone comes out of the back, by the door leading to the kitchen. Star glances, turns away. Petrov looks, head jerking as if startled. Max ignores the newcomer.

  “Can I get you anything?” Star asks

  “Just water,” Carl says. “I have a fight tonight.”

  Carl wears a charcoal suit and black shirt tailored to his broad shoulders and long, thick arms. Lumps of thickened flesh and small eyes set deep beneath his brow provide Carl’s wide, flat face with unexpected landmarks that draw attention from his otherwise smooth, mahogany skin and sensuous lips. His scent is both sweet and musky. He walks gingerly, and his short-cropped hair glistens slightly as if he’s stepped out of a shower.


  “You enjoy your steak?” Star asks, putting up a glass of water.

  “Hot off the grill in the back.”

  “Carmine must have a lot of money riding on you. Do me a favor and don’t lose.”

  “Easy money. Don’t worry, you’ll get paid Friday.”

  “Thanks for that, Carl,” Star says.

  “You got any money on me, Marine?”

  “I’m a vegetarian. I don’t bet on meat.”

  “Semper Fi, motherfucker.”

  “Back at you, brother.” Star drifts back to the blonde, who launches into a diatribe against the mayor.

  “You guys are all alike,” Carl says, sliding between the two empty chairs between the two men. He takes a sip of water.

  “How so?” Petrov asks.

  “You run out of conversation.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about.”

  “You’re so used to killing, you kill everything around you. Including the damn conversation.”

  “How long you been listening?”

  “Yeah, some stone fucking killer you are, mouthing off so much you weren’t even paying attention to the kitchen door.”

  “What do you know about conversation? You’re a fucking fighter.”

  “That’s all we fighters do, my Soviet brother. Converse.”

  “I never see you talk in the pit.”

  “We don’t use words. We use our hands. Feet. Elbows. Knees. Me and my opponent, we check each other to see if we’re talking the same language. If we’re both intelligent life forms. Then we converse.”

  “Fighting’s like talking.”

  “It’s a conversation. Communication. An exchange of ideas. A debate, if you will. Information is conveyed and received. Threads are developed, decisions are made on both sides. Eventually, someone has the last word and the inevitable conclusion of landing on one’s ass and cracking one’s skull up against the concrete floor is reached.” Carl takes a longer sip, as if to show off his scarred knuckles.

  “Unless it’s a draw.”

  “Yeah, well, that doesn’t happen where I work.”

  “And there’s the rematches.”

  “That’s when the conversation becomes an insult and a kiss-off. The debate was settled last time. At least, that’s the nature of my debates.”

  “I like the finality of what I do.”

  “Yeah, you’re a killer.” Carl leans his big shoulders in Max’s direction, as if expecting to take a blow. “What about you?”

  “He’s not talking,” Petrov says. “He’s not a conversationalist.”

  “He’s a killer, then, too, by your standards.”

  “No. He likes to communicate, too. Isn’t that right, Max? Only, it’s one way. Him to his victim. At least, so I hear. Revelations of pain and suffering. Rape and torture. Degradation and the surrender of life.”

  “Jesus. And they call me a sociopath.”

  “Actually, they call you a psychopath,” Petrov says, hoisting his glass to Carl. “Him, too,” he adds, doing the same to Max.

  Carl looks from one to the other before settling on Petrov. “What do they call you?”

  “Sir.”

  Carl laughs from deep in his belly. He bows and shakes his head. “You got some shit with you, my Soviet mother fucker of a brother. I could do you in seconds.”

  “What about you, Max? How long would it take for you to do me?”

  “It depends,” Max says.

  “On what?”

  “Just how strong you really are, inside. How long you last.”

  “Want to go a few rounds?”

  “Nobody’s paid me.”

  “I heard you do it for free.”

  “You’re not my type.”

  “So put a contract out on yourself. I’ll pick it up.”

  “Damn, you boys sure do talk some shit,” Carl says. “I could get you an undercard if you could actually back that shit up.”

  Max shuts his eyes tight, like something in his reflection is trying to jump across the bar and get into his head.

  “Are you all right?” Star asks

  “It’s always the waiting,” Max says. “What’s inside, it doesn’t like to wait.”

  Several moments of silence coalesce into a pause. The phone rings. Star picks it up, looks to Max, says “yes” and hangs up.

  “See what I mean?” Carl asks. “I can live with the conversation coming to an end and someone else having the last word. Hasn’t happened yet, but I’ll live with it. Won’t have a choice. But you guys want more than the last word. No wonder you can’t keep a conversation going. You’re scared “

  Petrov taps the counter for another shot. “Men die in the pit. You’ve killed your share. Tonight, aren’t you afraid you might kill your opponent?”

  “That’s not my intention, though it is sometimes the inevitable conclusion that must be reached during a debate given the tools we deploy in our dialogue. You go where the flow takes you. If he comes to fight, or to kill, he’s the one taking his chances. If he winds up dead, he shouldn’t have come up on me.

  “Like I said, you guys don’t want to keep the conversation going. You can’t wait to kill it.”

  “Why shouldn’t we? What’s the point of all this talk and debate?”

  “Because that’s what life’s about.”

  “But we’re death,” Max says, head hanging down.

  “Without people like us,” Petrov says, poking Carl’s arm with a finger, “you wouldn’t be able to eat your slab of meat in the kitchen so you can have the strength for one of your conversations. Who’d kill the cow?”

  “Now that’s just nasty,” Carl says, scowling.

  The front door opens. The blonde at the end of the bar looks the newcomer over and rolls her eyes, telling Star, “They’ll let anybody in here,” loud enough for everyone to hear.

  But Lee is not listening to her. He nods to Star and walks to the men clustered further down the counter. His long grey overcoat flaps open revealing a tuxedo. His hair is slicked down, his face clean-shaven, and with the sunglasses he wears it is easy to mistake him for someone who played somebody on television a few years ago, just beyond the reach of memory. It is only when he sits next to Max and eagerly accepts a bottle of local microbrewery beer that the lines around his mouth and eyes expose the flaws formed by the things he has seen and done.

  “Carl, my man, how you feeling?” Lee asks. “The money and odds are coming in right for a lot of people on you.”

  “For or against,” Petrov asks

  A curtain descends over Carl’s face and he becomes a stone dropped in a pool that leaves no wake. Petrov is quiet.

  Lee pushes on, smiling and raising the bottle in a salute as he says, “Yo, Petrov, there’s a gig lined up for you. Looks like you passed the audition. Call this number,” he says, sliding a piece of paper across the counter. “They’re waiting on you.”

  “Does that mean you don’t have to prove yourself anymore?” Max says.

  Petrov snatches the paper and asks Star for the phone. Star’s eyes shift to the blonde. Petrov stares at her as if it is the first time he has noticed her. Or, as if he’s searching for a reason not to kill her so he can use the phone. Finally, he leaves.

  Carl stares at the front door. Star gives him another glass of water. “Here, champ, better stay hydrated.”

  “Oh, I’m one hydrated mother fucker right about now.”

  Lee leans against Max and whispers in his ear: “Stand down, man. Both jobs are off. They’re sending Petrov behind the Curtain again. Romania. You know what that’s going to be like, fucking suicide mission. They need a decoy and he’s stupid enough to be real good at that. No sense wasting a real asset. And Carl, well, there’s some smart money saying he’s not going to make it out of the pit, tonight, so they want to let him ride and make the money back he owes them on the odds.”

  “How can they be sure he’ll lose?” Max asks through clenched teeth.

  “He had the steak, didn’t he?�
��

  Max shudders, like a van containing struggling bodies. “They were stupid jobs.”

  “Yeah, they kind of were.”

  “I shouldn’t have to do these small jobs.”

  “They were necessary to the right kind of people.”

  “Why did I have to be the one put on call?”

  “You were here.”

  “This cost me a lot.”

  “They’re depositing the regular fee in your account for both of them. Everyone’s grateful for your cooperation. They’ll be more grateful if you get this message and lay off.”

  “Fucking assholes.”

  Petrov returns, waving the paper in his hand and beaming. “I’ll see you guys around, I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  “We’ll continue our conversation when you get back,” Carl says, his voice sounding as if it is echoing from a distant place. Max’s face compresses like a crushed car.

  Lee waves.

  Petrov’s smile dims for an instant, then returns as he opens the door. “Damn, for a minute there I thought one of you guys was really going to kill me.”

  “I’m saving my shot at you for later,” Carl says.

  “So am I,” Max says, and laughs at his reflection until Star serves him another club soda.

  Carl leaves without saying goodbye, passing a hand casually over his stomach as he rounds the corner and heads down the street.

  Lee, watching through the windows, shakes his head then drains his beer. “Still on the clock, gotta run,” he says to Max. He leaves a five-dollar bill on the counter and leaves.

  The blonde waves the paperback in front of her face, clearing the air.

  An early dinner couple enter, stand by the door waiting to be seated. Star calls out for a waiter. Pans and plates clatter in the kitchen as it stirs to life.

  Star braces himself before Max and says, “What are your plans?” Max finishes the club soda and leaves a twenty. “I’ve got to stop working so hard. I need a break.”

  Star flinches at the expression that passes over Max’s face. “You and me both, brother.”

  “You know anybody needing company tonight?”