A few minutes pass and the old guy brings my coffee over.
“You want breakfast?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks,” I reply.
He nods once and walks back to the counter.
I take a sip of my coffee and gaze around the place absently. I look out the window and see three men approaching from down the street.
This must be him…
I’m both impressed and concerned that he’s prepared enough to show up early like I did.
The door opens and the three men walk in.
Showtime.
The first guy is probably early fifties, wearing what looks like a very expensive, light brown three-piece suit. He’s a thin, wiry guy, but walks with the utmost confidence and grace. He comes across as a man who never rushes to be somewhere. Or who needs to, for that matter. He’s staring at me, but not in an aggressive way. More… purposefully.
Hello, Jimmy Manhattan…
The two guys behind him are the bodyguards. The hired muscle, there more for intimidation than actual protection, I suspect. Manhattan doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy people around here don’t know.
I look closer at the bodyguards and sigh a little louder than I intended as I meet each of their gazes in turn.
They’re my two friends from the bar last night…
Both look like they’re suffering from a bad hangover. My face betrays nothing, but inside I can’t help but laugh. Only I would manage to get into a fight with the security detail of my next employer.
I don’t make a move to stand, and I certainly don’t extend my hand to greet them. I simply pick up my coffee and take another sip.
“Jimmy Manhattan?” I ask the first man as they approach my booth.
He nods. “And that must make you Adrian Hell?” he replies, sliding across the seat opposite me. His voice is smooth, and his accent is very… East Coast. New York, maybe? He’s a long way from home anyway.
“I see your reputation for being thorough is well deserved,” he says, motioning to the coffee shop in acknowledgement of my early arrival.
“Well, you know what they say: the early bird gets the… professional contract killer. I see you’ve brought friends…”
I look up at them and address each in turn.
“Fred… Ginger…” I hold my hands up apologetically. “No hard feelings about yesterday?”
Stan is angry, as is his friend. They’re glaring at me with evil in their eyes and the hint of a snarl on their lips. But neither speaks, or even moves a muscle. They just glance at Manhattan and remain very still. I look back at him.
“I see you’ve got the dogs well trained,” I say with a smile. “I’m impressed.”
Manhattan lets slip a half-smile, but remains unwavering in his cool, confident demeanor.
“And I see the reputation about your mouth is pretty accurate, too.” He looks over his shoulder at Stan. “Give me and Mr. Hell some privacy, would you?”
Stan and his slightly taller, angrier friend walk off and sit down at the counter, facing me. I hold their gaze for a second with my best un-blinking, deadpan poker face, and then look away. They don’t bother me. The only reason either of them is here is to emphasize Jimmy’s importance and to intimidate whoever he’s meeting. That won’t work with me and everyone here knows it.
“Mr. Hell — can I call you Adrian?” he asks.
He’s professional and respectful — almost friendly. I suspect his manner is a practiced act to disarm the other person, get them feeling too comfortable and relaxed. That’s when he’ll reel you in. Again, it’s never going to work on me, but I appreciate his friendly approach and I reciprocate.
“I’ve been called worse than both, so feel free,” I reply.
I quite like ‘Mr. Hell’ though — I might try to use that in the future, see if it catches on…
“Adrian, I represent Roberto Pellaggio and I’m here at his request to offer you a job befitting of your particular set of skills.”
He produces a brown, letter-sized envelope and slides it across the table to me. I open it and take out a photograph and some papers. It’s a black and white eight-by-ten of a man in a suit walking across the road. He’s talking on his phone and carrying a briefcase.
“This is Ted Jackson,” he continues. “Until very recently, we were working with Mr. Jackson on a business deal to secure some land on the outskirts of the city. Mr. Pellaggio is looking to expand his business portfolio by building a casino there.”
“Go on,” I say, nodding while studying the photo.
“A few days ago, with no warning or explanation, Mr. Jackson backed out of that deal. He kept the deeds to the land, as well as the money Mr. Pellaggio had already invested into it.”
I look up from the photograph to speak. “And you want me to make him disappear?” I ask, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Mr. Pellaggio is a well-respected businessman, with a — how can I put it? — well known and formidable reputation. A slight of this kind toward him cannot be tolerated under any circumstances. We must send a clear message.”
“I understand. Consider it done.”
“There’s something else,” says Manhattan. “While taking care of Mr. Jackson is a must, it’s of vital importance that you retrieve the deeds to that land. Mr. Pellaggio is eager to complete this deal and begin construction of the casino, and that paperwork is the key.”
“Not a problem,” I say with a shrug.
I’m more than happy to take this job. It’s straightforward and easy money — find a businessman, kill him, and steal some paperwork. Give the papers to the mafia and get my money… I can be out of here in a couple of days. I’m not a big fan of this close, desert heat, so the sooner I can get back to somewhere slightly milder, the better.
Manhattan stands, prompting Stan and his friend at the counter to do the same.
“I look forward to seeing more of your work, Adrian,” he says, glancing over at his bodyguards. “It comes highly recommended.”
“Thank you,” I say with a grin.
“We’ll speak again when you have completed the job.”
Manhattan nods a silent goodbye, then turns and walks out of the café, followed by his bodyguards. As they walk off, Stan turns to me and flips me the finger. I simply smile and wave back.
God, I wish I’d hit him harder.
I wait a few minutes after they leave to finish my coffee. I stand, gather the contents of the envelope up, leave a tip on the table, and head back outside. As I open the door I’m hit by a blast of heat, as if I’ve opened an oven that’s been cooking for three hours. I was only inside just over half an hour, but the increase in temperature is staggering.
The sun is pounding down as I walk along the street. I’m wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, minus the leather jacket, with black sunglasses and a baseball cap. I cross over to the other side of the street, as it’s partly shaded, but it does little to cool me down.
I’m on a very busy street in the center of the business district. Maybe it’s because I’m not a local and unaccustomed to the climate or something, but it baffles me how anyone can walk around in a suit when it’s this hot.
I take out my phone and ring Josh. He answers in his usual, sickeningly enthusiastic tone.
“How’d it go with Jimmy The Glove?” he enquires as he picks up.