He smoked Tiparillos, which I'd always associated with women.
"Three thousand up front." I could hear the slightest of British
accents, dimmed by living in a different country for several
years. "Three thousand when the job is finished."
We sat across from each other in the dim bar. He drank a ginger
ale while I ate peanuts and guzzled beer.
*****
I remembered reading about how a man had hired a paid assassin
through an ad in "Soldier of Fortune" magazine.
I bought a copy, examined the ads and found the gentleman sitting
across from me.
*****
I tried to explain to him why I wanted him to kill Barbra. That
it wasn't out of any deep-seated feeling for her. She was just in
the way.
"No."
He put a gloved hand out like an old crossing guard.
"Don't tell me any more than I absolutely need to know about her.
It's better if I don't know. Easier."
He continued. "I have removed people from the sadness of their
existence and I have enjoyed the process," he told me, the Tiparillo
letting go a wispy stream of smoke as he took his lips off of it. "I take
money for it, but there are times that I would do it for free.
Depends on the person."
The last thing I had on my mind was to quiz a hired killer about
his innermost feelings, but here I was.
David Bowie's "Major Tom" played in the background on the juke
box.
"I believe in reincarnation," he said, simply.
I handed him the envelope full of money and got up from the table.
"You'll call me when you have a date set?" he asked.
I nodded and awkwardly held out a hand.
"I don't shake hands. It's unsanitary," he said, indicating the
glove.
