Ten Blocks Down E-Book

J.M. Barber

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

A hit man that is suffering from Alzheimer's disease is tasked with taking out his next target. He thinks he's ready and when it comes to getting the job done things have been good up until now. When he starts losing his mind in the most critical moments, eliminating his latest target becomes more of a challenge than once imagined.

Leseprobe

J.M. Barber

Ten Blocks Down

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

1

Being a hit man like the hardest gangsters you see in movies never had a thing to do with it. That shit’s always been just glamorous in films, and whether an escape or not, that remains only a form of entertainment. It might teach you too, no doubt about that, movies that is. Those small lessons manage to show up from film to film. Still, at the end of the day it’s just entertainment, not a guide to live by. It’s the kind of thing I can delve into pretty deeply when I’m not aiming my pistol, or forcing someone to take their own pistol—or whatever gun they own—and shoot themselves. Yeah, the latter is obviously meant to stage a suicide and force those suited, over coat donning, hot shot detective motherfuckers to focus their sites on another case.

See, this whole thing, this life I live, is so scary to a person like you, because I don’t look like you’d expect. With the exception of being black, which despite having a black president still puts some white folks up in arms, there’s nothing that gives me away. Nothing that would make you say—if you have been unfortunate enough to have this early sixties, half bald man on your side of town—‘hey, that’s the guy that they’ve probably sent after me’. When you get knocked off by me, you’re getting knocked off by an elderly nigga that has to stick himself with a needle four times a day to keep up with his diabetes. And based on my year old prognosis, following a cat scan as part of all that incredible shit that hit man money buys, I tested positive for dementia. It was caught late, but with pills, I’d still be able to keep it together for a little while.

There’s a point I’m making here, with all of this background info. These things about me—including the green sweats and black extra large tees I wear to encompass my overweight frame—make me invisible to you. Your eyes pass over me like that spot of dirt on a black shoe, or that homeless guy that gets on the bus with all his teeth missing. Being invisible out in the open is my greatest asset.

Before we get into the hardest target, the one that for the first time brought down full weight of just how old I was, you need to know that nothing is official until there is a face to face. Extensive conversations and texts on the phone, just isn’t the way that things become official. You can never really know who is listening. I have someone that brings me the word on each job. He’ll text me from out of state, with something along the lines of hit me back when you can. It’s always kept simple, nothing anyone can draw anything from. I hit this nigga up and he only confirms that he has something, says a price, and the rest is discussed in person where I’m needed. Got it?

I met up with my connect in the city of Houston TX for my thirty-first hit, after a long drive from New Mexico on a devil hot day in July. I stepped out of my car after I pulled into the lot of a popular Mexican eatery, and shoved a worn Houston Texans hat on my head. It was a fine addition to the prescription sunglasses shading my age-weakened eyes. But I was in my signature green sweats and black T—this T-shirt ironically one of Bob Marley—so I wasn’t trying to make a fashion statement.

The middleman, my consultant, my connect—whatever name you like—sat in the back of this fancy place, in a booth with a view of the parking lot. He had probably watched me come in. He was comfortable, I could see, noticing a perspiring Heineken bottle and an iced glass cup filled half way with the golden brew. I sat down, and he looked at me, this mid-thirties black man with a tan T-shirt, and what looked like a tramp stamp on his brown neck. A small smiled curved his lips.

I sighed, going for the menu almost at once.

“Trip okay Ronnie?” my connect asked.

The trip wasn’t okay, but I told him it was. Speaking of the days discomforts wasn’t going to get us anywhere.

“All right, so what do you got for me Roger,” I asked. I removed my hat and put it on the table, then rubbed a hand quickly over the bald center of my head.

“You want a drink,” Roger asked, ignoring my question. He called the waitress over—a cute, thick-hipped blonde girl with a thick southern accent—and I ordered a Budweiser draft.

“Wait until your drink gets here first,” he said, taking a drink from his glass. He clasped his hands under his chin and looked studiously at me. I didn’t know this at first, my eyes on a grilled chicken platter for about twelve bucks.

When I finally looked up at him, I asked how the family was doing. He said he might have gotten another girl pregnant, and that you know how that goes.

“They have this thing called contraception,” I told him. “Why don’t you look into it brother?”

“Heard of every kind,” Roger said with a smile. “Doesn’t change the way you feel when it’s all going down.” The waitress brought my beer over and we ordered our meals.

I poured the beer into the cold class and took a drink. “All right young blood,” I said. “You going to tell me what you have for me or are you going to wait until I have to stick myself with another needle?”

“How do you like Houston,” Roger said, with the same small smile.

“It’s good man. I’ve been here before, Roger.” I exhaled. “Now come on brother, tell me, what do you have for me?”

“This city, Downtown. That’s where you’ll be doing this.”

“And the target?”

“Melanie Jackson.”

I scratched at my scruff of gray beard, then took off my sunglasses. “And,” I said, moving my hand in a hurry up motion.

“There’s a hotel room reserved for you,” Roger answered, sliding a receipt across the table with the address and room number. Under the receipt, I noticed the room key, enfolded in a piece of custom glossy cardstock. I shoved both items in my pocket.

“All right,” I said, taking another drink of my beer.

“She’s ten blocks down, in an apartment. The place she’s in is your average project apartment; doesn’t stand out, but you’ll notice the bus that heads past your room every day. You have forty-eight hours. Shouldn’t be an issue.”

I finished my beer.

“Now,” Roger went on, sliding a picture of the next job across the table. He didn’t need to tell me what he told me next. It was obvious. “As you can see she’s really pretty. Young too. Just twenty-two. Do yourself a favor and don’t think of how much she reminds you of one of your daughters or a niece, or something.”

I looked closely at the girl in the picture. She had a wide smile on her face, and straight hair that went to her shoulders. She had a nice shade of skin, medium brown. And no surprise, she did remind me of someone. That someone happened to be my first wife from forty something years past.

“And who is this being done for?”

“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

“No, it does. Come on Roger, you worked with me the last ten years, about half my career. You know how I work.” If I didn’t find it passed muster, I would walk away. At least that’s what I’ve been claiming. I’ve never done it once though.

“Word is she had her boyfriend killed by another dude. Mad at him because he liked to be at the clubs more than he liked to be home. Maybe he hit her a couple of times is the word. That boyfriend was some white boy, by some ultra white boy sounding name of Thomason Matthews. She didn’t know he was connected, so she won’t see this coming.” Roger finished his beer, and turned to the highlights of last night’s Miami vs. Oklahoma game. It was the finals, and from what I’d last heard Miami was up. Roger watched this for a couple of minutes then turned back to me.

“All right,” Roger went on, “you—”

The waitress came out the kitchen then, using her butt to push open the double doors. Roger had his back to her and only noticed because of the shift in my eyes. When she put our food down—for Roger a plate of Quesadillas and for me, cut grilled chicken with a side of tortillas and salsa to make fajitas with—I began to eat.

Roger leaned in close when the waitress left, his food temporarily ignored in front of him. “All right, Ronnie. She’s connected, kind of. Not anything like us, but she has her little gang of wannabe thugs that are always around her place. You need to get her somewhere where she’s alone and blah blah blah, where no one’s looking. After you’re done, you know the deal. You’ll meet me at a spot that is yet to be determined, you’ll get your bread, you leave. Now—”

“Okay, wait, wait,” I said putting my hand up, feeling a bit irritated. It was about time for one of my insulin shots. “How many niggas we talking about? The niggas packin?”

Roger gave a shrug. “They probably are. Look, you have forty-eight hours Ronnie. You’ll see her. She’s always out and about, around with her bunch of hooligans. But they’re trouble in a pack, so make sure you find a way to separate her from them.”

“Okay,” I said, and took a large bite of my second fajita. These people knew how the cook. As usual, Roger had chosen an excellent meeting spot.

“She takes the bus. You get on the bus with her. Don’t get caught staring. Or actually, you could, I guess, because you’re just going to be dismissed as a perverted, horny, old man.”

“Okay.” I was finished my second fajita with a total count of two and a half bites. I was hungry as hell today, and hadn’t really known it until the food had come.

Roger finally started on his meal, taking a couple of bites before he started to wrap things up.

“She’s pretty, don’t forget,” Roger said. “And that picture you have has nothing on what she really looks like is what I heard. Word is she’s sweet until you get on her bad side. She turns into a crazy cunt mighty quick. A bonafide bitch out to rip off a nigga’s nuts. Not to be taken lightly. So you’ve been warned. If she gets an upper hand, even with you being a man, she’ll have the advantage because of her age and because of everyone around her.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

“Yeah, you better be. Get it done in less than twenty-four hours and there might be a bonus in it for you too.”

I only nodded.

“All right,” Roger said, with a smile. “You have GPS, so I’m guessing you won’t have trouble finding the spot. If you do you know my number. Don’t forget to burn the picture when you’re through with it.”

“Yeah, it’s funny that you think I’d forget.” The instant I said that I thought of last year’s prognosis of dementia. Roger knew a lot about me, more than he should. But he didn’t know where I lived and didn’t know about my condition. If he did know that I wouldn’t get any more work. Roger, in good faith, wouldn’t have let me do it. He would’ve found some other young, but far less reliable source. I was the guy for this, and as long as I felt I was, my dementia was going to stay a secret.

“All right,” Roger said, wiping his large hands together, then grabbing a napkin. “Any questions?”

“No,” I said. Though I’d already forgotten the name and the face of who I was supposed to be killing. Yeah, it could happen just like that. I knew it was a girl but wasn’t sure if she was white or black. Wasn’t sure about the age either. But I had the picture, and wasn’t going to let Roger know, no sir. When Roger left for the bathroom I snuck a peak at the photo, saw the girl, and remembered what Roger had said about her good looks. Yeah, she was a very pretty girl indeed.

Sitting here, looking at the shape of her wide eyes, and the curve of her lips, I couldn’t help but think she reminded me of my late wife of forty years. The thought felt new to me.

2

I drove out to the hotel, down near the outskirts of downtown Houston, as I’d been told. There was work to be done, but first I had to grab the one bag I came with, and check into my room. The girl’s face—never failing to amaze me when I looked at the photo—hadn’t left my mind since the restaurant, which was good. There was a moment of fear when her image first slipped from my memory, a moment when I didn’t think her face was going to come back and thought I’d forget I even had the picture to remind me. Dementia can be scary like that. What’s worse is when you make a commitment to keep certain thoughts, certain important numbers and information in your memory day in and day out, while promising that no matter what you’ll never let go of them, it goes anyway. What I’m beginning to get is glimpses of what having the disease is going to become at its worse, and what I can tell is that it will all eventually go. Every memory essentially. Come back to me—maybe—then go again.

I took the pills the doctor had prescribed me for my dementia in the car, grabbed my stuff and went to my room. It was a nice hotel—I always have to have something nice I tell them. One of the first things I noticed was a long, diamond-stitched, red carpet that spanned the length of each floor. My floor was number twenty, and I went right up.