by Tad S. Torm
Jack experiences a delayed reaction. Only now does he manage to get hold of his gun, but he doesn't have sufficient time to take aim.
"Now for you Jack," I say in my normal voice, with the gun pointed at his head.
I see him flinch.
"You be cool for a minute, Jack! Don't move or I'll have to shoot you in all kinds of weird places since I don't mean to kill you. Not right now, anyway."
I stop the car, get out and open the back door while watching Jack's every move. I take his gun. I need Jack's help to move Michael to the back of the limo.
When we're done with moving the body, we get back in the car and continue on our way to the city.
We both ride in front. I need to keep a watchful eye on Jack. I'm sure he'll try something, sooner or later.
He doesn't say a word. He wears a resigned look on his face, and I'm not overly enthused either. I realized, a few months ago, that what happened to my brother is what regularly happens in our business. It was a professional hit. Jack just happened to get at the wrong end of an unlucky contract.
But it got complicated, and now one of us has to die, and if I have any say in it, I’ll tell you right now, it won't be me.
We drive in silence to Jack's city loft.
I know the place. I've been here as well. Jack uses it mostly to entertain friends and colleagues, but he actually bought the place for his afternoon trysts with his young secretaries.
His place is going to get messy today since I don't plan to leave the bodies of the two bodyguards in the limo. After all, I promised Zingor he'll be getting it back in a few hours.
One by one, we haul the bodies onto the service elevator. We find a rolling cart inside the elevator, and this makes our work easier. We wheel them into Jack's loft without any further ado.
I need a drink and Jack needs one too.
"What will you have?"
"Do you have any Cointreau?"
"Yes, I do. I was waiting for you to come join my organization one of these days, relentless optimist that I am, so I stocked up. But you never did. Mark, I always wanted you inside. Outside you are too dangerous. People like you should not exist. You see, if you had accepted my offer, your brother would probably still be alive."
"Or we'd both be dead."
"Yes, you probably would, but I wouldn't."
It's quiet and anti-climactic. We sip our drinks in silence, like two old friends who don't feel the need to talk; the alcohol tickles my throat and makes me feel all warm inside. It goes directly to my heart and gives me a very cozy feeling inside.
"And when you think it'd never have happened if it weren’t for my chauffeur."
The comment comes unexpectedly.
I'm stupefied. I cannot say a word; I'm waiting for an explanation.
I lower my eyes, pick up the snifter, and slowly swirl the amber liquid around. I take another lazy sip and watch him with a quizzical look.
"What does Zingor have to do with my brother's death?"
"Well then, let me tell you the story if you don't know," he says as he takes his time lighting a cigarette.
I don't say a thing because now he's a friend telling a story to a friend and I want to hear his story, but I'm careful and watch his every move because in point of fact we are deadly enemies and only one of us will get out of here alive.
So I let him tell the story and I listen.
Well, you see, Mark, besides me Zingor has these clients, the Van den Lieber. A very old, very rich Dutch family, settled here when the city was called New Amsterdam.
I could tell you that they own half the city, but I'd surely be wrong. Suffice to say, they are rich beyond measure and extremely proud of their lineage.
Now it so happens that Patricia, their daughter, fell in love with your brother, Pete. They were students at North Haven; you know how these things often happen when you are young.
Eleanor, that is Mrs. Van den Lieber, was very upset about her daughter's choice of a boyfriend. But she was willing to take it on the chin, like a trooper, as long as the relationship stayed at the boyfriend-girlfriend level.
Patricia had fallen in love with a prole, a boy without any particular merit, no blue blood flowing through his veins; what's more, he was a foreigner from across the pond. A worthless boyfriend, to be sure; but even if their relationship proved to be a steady one, this too could be tolerated within limits. But when the two kids started talking matrimony, it became just too much.
The line in the sand had been crossed.
It is at this point that our friend, Zingor, enters the stage. The husband, George, and the mother, Eleanor, have been rehashing this story on and on for almost a year, it's been their main topic of conversation, and they bring it up day after day while riding in the back of Zingor's limousine. And Zingor listens.
But the idea of a hit took a little more to come about.
"Is there anything we can do about Pete?"
They talk about having him thrown out of school, or even expelled from the country.
However, the thought of murder had not yet crossed their mind.
The daughter, Patricia, is a very smart and very obstinate girl. Should anything happen to Pete, the first people she would suspect would immediately be her parents.
So the news of Pete leaving for a two-week vacation to Europe at spring break, comes to the Van den Lieber as manna from Heaven.
But they still don't know what to do with it until Zingor intervenes.
He asks them point blank how much they were willing to pay for the problem to go away.
The Van den Lieber, at first, look at him like at a bad joke. They don't believe for a second that Zingor is the kind of guy who can solve this type of problem.
"Maybe I am not, but I know somebody who is. I can ask one of my clients." I can imagine him saying.
It seems that George said no and Eleanor said yes. And it was Eleanor, who convinced Zingor in one day when George was not riding in the limo, to approach me.
By the way things stand as we speak, it looks like I made a huge mistake, I realize it now. I shouldn't have gotten involved. It was not professional, not at all. But I needed the money and I didn't see any risks, and there was a lot of money involved."
"How much did he get?" I ask.
"Him? Nothing, almost nothing. Ten bits for a finder’s fee."
"Ten thousand?" I say and he agrees.
I'm thinking about a second drink and am getting ready to ask him for one, but whether it is the effect of the alcohol or the time that cures all wounds, I feel kindly towards Jack because he solved all this big mystery for me.
So I shoot him in the head with his own gun when he expects it least. He dies instantaneously, with a happy grin on his face.
It's the kind of common courtesy we extend to each other from time to time.
I get a second glass of Cointreau and drink it very slowly.
This is going to be a hell of a case for the police to solve because of the multiple guns used and the mixed ownership of the guns. An obvious argument between hoodlums ending badly.
And that's about it.
I drive the limo back to Zingor's address. I get into the house. He's almost awake now. I find him sitting at a table with a cup of coffee in his hand. We clean the limousine together; I explain to him we need to do a thorough job because there were a few hiccups on the way.
He will call the Van den Lieber, since we have an emergency to report.
So he calls.
"It's emergency," he yells towards the phone in his funny accent, which I now realize I was imitating perfectly. "Mr. Soldi wants talk. Somebody from Europe come kill you."
So I guess that as far as the Van den Funny Shoes are concerned, Zingor does not sound so amusing anymore.
Sometimes you have to come up with the truth in order for people to believe a lie.
Zingor did good.
We get to see the Van den Lieber in half an hour, Zingor doesn't know it yet, but this time, he'll expe
rience most of the trip in the trunk of his limousine.
I soften him down with half a bottle of whiskey, which combined with the strong sedative he received in his blood five hours ago, will almost certainly ensure that he'll die a happy man.
There is no other river like the Saint-Elmo on the East Coast of the Atlantic. I believe there is one on the South Pacific Coast, but that one is too remote for my purpose.
The scientists gave the river its freedom back. They wanted to study it. They removed the dams and demolished the levees. Now the Saint-Elmo knows no boundaries. Unlike other rivers in the civilized Universe, Saint-Elmo can do whatever it pleases whenever he wants to, she can flood its shores or he can dry out completely and disappear if she wants to, like his grand-grandparents, the river Gods and Goddesses of Antiquity.
I know a perfect place on the itinerary of this free stream where the Van den Liebers and their chauffeur can finally find the peace they so amply deserve.
I'm driving them toward their doom and don't speak much while the Van den Liebers cringe in the back of the limousine, shaking in their boots.
They ask questions of me, from time to time, and I respond as I can in my funny Zingovian accent.
"Why did Jack want to see us? What is this assassin he talks about?"
"Killer from Europe come get you killed. Jack try protect you if he can."
"Can't we give him money to leave us alone?"
"No. Do not think so. Is professional killer. Don't need your money."
"Is it because of Pete?"
"Don't know. Wait for Mr. Jack. Mr. Jack tell you…"
But I finally have enough with this pantomime, this carousel in which I don't need any longer to play a part, and I think if there is somebody that deserves to be scared to death, then what better candidates could I find than the odious pair in the back?
"It's me. I am the killer, I am the assassin." I confess, a wide grin on my face. I try to cackle just a little bit; however, unlike the Zingovian accent, it doesn't work too well for me.
The Van den Liebers take a long time to understand that Zingor is not Zingor. Another accolade to my acting talents.
Eleanor even asks me:
"You are not Zingor, you sure?"
"Not Zingor."
But I really had enough of this comedy and don't say another word.
We stop at the water’s edge. The slope to the river is soft. The limousine will take some time to reach the water. But the bed of the river is deep. The occupants will drown quickly.
I get out, but leave the key in the engine. I open the trunk and haul the sleepy Zingor up onto his feet. I grab him by the waist and move him to the front. I sit him in his rightful place at the wheel. Then I place his foot on the gas pedal and press on it with my foot. I push the car down the slope, and when it starts moving I close the door and wait while the black limousine is slowly, slowly swallowed by the God River.
And when you think it all started because of true love between a rich heiress and a regular Joe. Her parents were afraid they would get hitched and they couldn't find a better solution than to kill my brother.
Boy. Aren't we humans an awful, odious lot?
Maybe the Fundies have it right after all.
Maybe we all deserve Hell.
--
Another six months pass by.
I'm leading a solitary life.
I always enjoyed being on my own, living inside my mind.
I never thought of myself as lonely. Not until Lana came into my life. Now, what used to be a privilege has turned into a weakness.
I still think of her, I think of her all the time, but I'm slowly getting reconciled to the realization that when she left, it was to disappear forever from my life, and I slowly get used to the idea that I will never see her again.
One day the phone rings. I have a chilly feeling in my gut as I pick it up.
"Greg?"
It's Lana; I'm hearing her sweet-sounding voice.
Doesn't it sound a little bit stressed out, though?
"Lana?"
"Greg, I want to see you. Can you come to me?"
"Lana, why did you leave? Lana, where did you go?"
"It's complicated. Let's talk it over when you get here," she says.
When we met for the first time, everything felt just right: sitting beside her on the plane, talking with her for hours and hours, making love to her or just hanging out seemed, no, were the most natural things.
We belonged together and knew it, and there was no distance between us.
Can I say the same thing today?
"I'm in room 11117 at the Excelsior. Do you know where it is?"
"Everybody knows. Downtown, across from Brian Park."
I know we'll have our difficulties, especially if her father's name gets introduced into the conversation when things might turn dicey, but then every family has its problems.
This is an opportunity I cannot miss.
I take a quick shower. I nick myself while shaving. It's only normal that I want to look my best. However, I don't waste too much time getting dressed. I want to see her. I want to see her as soon as possible.
Suddenly, I'm in a terrible rush. But before I leave, I absent-mindedly open the top drawer of my secretary and pocket the gun Guard #2 left with me. It was never used in the Jack Soldi incident. I never got a chance to find out the guard's name, so that for me he'll forever remain Guard #2.
All of a sudden, I'm shaking.
I back out of my parking spot in the garage, and I almost hit the left post with my back fender. Should I even be driving?
I park on a street bordering Brian park. I check the names and the numbers of the streets just to be sure I'll find my car when I come back.
I cut through the green, but this time I don't stop to relax by the artificial lake. This time I don't have time to enjoy the ducks and the squirrels.
I get into the lobby and don't pay any attention to the personnel at the desk. I open the door to the staircase and start climbing the stairs, three at a time.
I stop out of breath on the tenth floor for a minute to take a break. I use the time to straighten my coat, check my hair and the knot of my tie.
I'm finally on the eleventh floor, searching for room number 11117. I find it and take a short second before knocking at the door.
"Who's there, Greg?" she asks.
"Hi, Lana."
"Come on in!"
I open the door and get into the vestibule. I see a half-opened door at the end of it.
"Come on in! Come on in! Don't be bashful!"
I take a look at her through the doorway.
She's as beautiful as ever, lounging lazily on an Imperial bed, with her blonde tresses falling on both sides of the pillow. She's a beautiful woman, but for me, she is more, much more.
"Come in closer," she purrs.
I take a small step. I take another small step.
She wears a low-cut nightgown that reveals the tips of her breasts.
I look at my watch like in a daze. It is 11:00 o'clock.
Let's have lunch!" I propose.
"Not now! We'll have lunch later, in my room. What I want now is to see you!"
So I move closer and keep gazing at her with admiration.
Looking at her: her beauty, her charm, her intelligence, and thinking that I get to be together with that woman again, and all the excitement and peace of that blessed night come back into my mind in dizzying waves of imagination.
Another step, and I'm thoroughly hypnotized as I inch toward her bed without thinking, like a perfect automaton.
Her blue eyes, the mirror of her soul, draw me inexorably toward her.
I dreamed about those strange, mysterious eyes. I spent so many hours gazing into them.
Now they seem preoccupied. My sweetheart is not thinking of love; dangerous thoughts are racing through her mind.
I take a step back and then a second one. But I don't want to miss her. I don't want to ever lose h
er again.
I notice a rise under the silk blanket about her mid-section. It slowly unfolds and gradually takes the shape of a gun barrel.
I know I'm marching to catastrophe, but I cannot make myself stop.
I want to explain this to you in detail so that you can understand the extent of my misfortune.
When you happen to have my kind of training, the defensive instinct rules over the logical mind. You cannot even imagine what a curse this may be, at times. Sure, it has saved my life on innumerable occasions, and unfortunately, for me, and despite my unwillingness, it will save it again today.
When you happen to have my training, you have to understand, there are parts of your body that move of their own volition. The sensory impulse activates the reptilian brain. The eyes see, and – I don't know how to explain because the reptilian brain commands fight or flight – but in my case, it commands both at the same time.
So as Lana's gun is rising under the blanket and pointing at me, I get out of the line of fire a microsecond before she shoots, but at the same time and seamlessly, the index finger of my hand, which to my incredible horror is holding now a gun, presses the trigger, and when I become aware of it I am unable to stop its action.
I rush to her bed, too late to save her.
My love is dead and my life is over.
I didn't want to kill her. For the first time in my life, I would have rather died myself. How can I ever justify killing the priceless thing that has mysteriously touched my life and brought a magic into it that I had thought forever lost.
I wish I could have died there and then, but I didn't.
When you have my kind of training, there aren't too many mistakes you can make.
Now a bullet is lodged in her precious, unwrinkled forehead, on which I had planted so many kisses just a year ago, and she is dead, my dear Lana dead, my love dead.
How can I go on living?
I drop the gun on the floor and watch her for a last time, reclining peacefully on her back, perfect in every way, on the bed that now has become her tomb.