The Last Job

word count: 1780
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“Bloody Christ, will you just calm down?”

The promenade opened onto a courtyard flush with vines climbing over earth-toned stucco, elaborate ironwork benches with muted floral cushions nestled in the shade areas, and light jazz noodled over the open air. Downstairs at one end of the plaza, a mariachi band was setting up on stage. We sat at an under-sized table outside a pretentious coffee bar on the upper level, casing—er, watching the passersby. They browsed with an intensity rivaled only by a wolf pack bearing down on injured, bouillabaisse-soaked deer. But with more chatter.

“No one gives a rat’s ass about you.”

“But, Frank, what if someone remembers my shirt? Or hat?” Joe plucked at his typically tourista attire, pointing to the kokopelli design on his cap. I laughed.

“You knob. Nobody cares, get it? They’re too fascinated by the sparklies in the shops to care about you. I don’t think even hemorrhaging will get anyone’s attention, once the music starts.” I looked over my shoulder, mostly to keep Joe on edge. “Besides, I’ll be doing the job, right? You’re just the lookout. See them, yet?”

Joe’s eyes skittered over the shoppers, pausing on the perky teenagers leaning against a nearby rail, giggling.

“What about them? They look uh, pretty good,” he swallowed.

“Joe. Stop ogling the tasty teens. They’re off limits. Remember what your P.O. said.”

“I know. But that one, she’s got one of those uh, pierced bellybuttons.” Joe pleaded with his eyes.
I sighed, shifted to block his view. We had enough problems without his getting in the way.

“We’re looking for a particular few, remember? Keep on task, you git.”

My client, anonymous and willing to pay extravagant amounts in advance, hired me to take out his stepdaughter. He wanted it quick, clean, and untraceable. An accident, he said. He’s a ruthless son of a bitch, but not too educated about how these things work. I’d bet the whole thing was going to end up around his ears, but my end of the job entailed entry and execution, not clean up. So, I’d do my part, get filthy rich in the doing, and take off to one of the smaller islands of Indonesia.

Dim Joe, here. I could never stomach his kind. He’ll do what I need, though, and his proclivities will keep him on the outs with the law; an insurance policy on which I could rely. I found him through a mutual acquaintance, and I didn’t know him personally. But I knew his type. I planned on finding him useful in a few respects, depending on how smoothly the job played out. One can never have too many options. And the less he knew about the plan, the better. Apparently, Joe was fine with that.

“There they are, there,” Joe said a little too loudly, and pointed. He stood up and I was afraid for a moment he’d start to wave, catch their attention.

“Yes, I see them,” two birds, fifteen. Makeup, tight jeans, the usual. The one on the left matched the photo. “Keep your voice down, wank. You’re about two seconds from blowing it altogether. Stay here. Drink your bleeding coffee.” I watched the girls turn down a corridor leading to restrooms. “I’ll be back shortly. If you see anyone in uniform follow, do signal, won’t you?” I was having a hard time hiding my disgust.

Joe sat, looking a bit sullen as he fiddled with his paper cup. “All right, I’ll keep my eye out,” he said, sotto voce.

I stood, settled my carry-on, and made my way toward the restrooms. Considerably cooler in the shade, the corridor left me with a shiver I wasn’t convinced came purely from the breeze. Deserted, too. I approached the door to the women’s. Slight echoes from my footsteps sounded. This is absolutely the last job. I put on gloves, took a breath, and cracked the door. Voices inside. A shriek.

“I can’t believe he said that!”

“Just wait. You won—“

“Jody, God! Look at my butt. Could it be any bigger?”

I smiled. Right then, the mariachi band started in, loud and jangly. The perfect cover, in case the girls protested their treatment. Time to move. I slipped in, letting the door ease shut behind me. Both girls were absorbed in the vanity mirror, bent close to examine I’m not sure what, yapping away, so I swept up behind Jody, pinning her to my chest, hand over her mouth. The other I slammed into the mirror, knocking her out cold. Lipstick smeared along the counter as she slid facedown to the floor. She hit her head again on the tile.

Jody looked at me in the mirror, eyes wide but lucid.

“Keep your cool, little girl. What happens in the next few minutes lies in my hands, got it?”
She nodded behind my hand. Her hands gripped together tightly, an instinctive attempt to shield herself. I whipped a few plastic cuffs out of my bag, tightened them on her wrists and ankles, and then on her unconscious friend’s. She sat quietly while I dragged the dead weight into one of the stalls and propped her in the corner behind the toilet. A generous piece of duct tape for her mouth, that one. After hearing her last conversation, I was sure her mouth could use a rest. I chuckled.

Jody watched me, breathing quickly but smart enough not to say anything. She took quick glances around the room, hoping maybe for some avenue or means to escape.

“Unless you intend to pummel me with rolls of TP, you might as well relax. I can’t offer you hope, bird. But I can offer you a quick end.” I brought Jody into the stall, as well. Thank God for the Yanks and their handicapped restrooms.

“Wh-Why are you doing this?” more big eyes from her.

“My retirement plan requires this investment, doll. You understand. After this, I’m out,” I looked bored, but was fascinated by her face. Terrified, but not resigned. She has pluck. “Unfortunately, time and circumstances won’t allow for more conversation.” I stepped close, and taped her mouth.

I screwed a silencer into the barrel of my Ruger P97. Two shots, one each. After a quick vomit in the basin, I was on my way back to the promenade. Amazing, no ladies needing the loo in over five minutes. I approached Joe, a bit overloaded on adrenaline, and clapped him on the shoulder.

He stood, leaned in. “I watched the whole time. The whole time. Nobody came.” He gestured toward the corridor with his cell phone. “How’d it go?” He looked nervous, eyes jittery.

“You did a right good job, Joe. No worries. We’re clear. They’re taken care of. Dead as doornails. I’ll just make the call, and we’re done.” I scanned the crowd, relaxing at the obvious lack of detection on anyone’s part. "Could use a bit of nosh, actually.”

Joe nodded, suddenly looking rather solemn, looking me clean in the eye. Actually, as I watched, he looked more than solemn. He looked rather furious.

“Are you all right, Joe? You look a bit, er, put out. You’re not worried about the job, are you?” I started recalculating percentages in my head. “I’ll make sure you get a decent take. No worries, mate.”

Joe took off for the restroom, walking stiffly but with obvious agenda. I panicked for a moment, thinking he might be looking for the security, but when he stepped into the corridor, I followed. What is he up to? Joe approached the women’s much like I had, hesitating, but I suspected for different reasons. His unseasoned sensibilities must be arguing with whatever purpose had compelled him to the scene. Not every day a bloke sees a dead body or two. He stepped inside.

I considered leaving (my original plan, actually), anonymously notifying the authorities on the way out. With Joe’s record, he’d be a sure suspect in any case, and being found on the bloody scene would only cinch it for him. Leave me free to start my new life unfettered by loose ends. Not to mention, my going anywhere near that bathroom would be idiotic.

What is he thinking? My curiosity, of course, got the better of me. I followed again, damn it. I heard a choking, garbled cry through the door, and sidled in before anyone noticed me loitering. Joe sprawled on the floor of the handicapped stall, clutching the girls’ dead bodies to him. Jody against his chest, and her unnamed friend angled across his thighs. He rocked, stroking their hair, face wrenched with rage and grief.
I didn’t understand it. He preys on girls just like these, uses them for his unsavory er, needs. I even thought, maybe, he’d . . .”Joe?” Er, “What’re you doing, pal?” I eased toward him, hoping to get him untangled and away with a minimum of struggle.

He opened his eyes, locked on me. “Pretty girls. Pretty! Girls! You hurt them, Frank. You hurt them!”

His shouting alarmed me, my eyes darting to the door. I waited for the angry mob to burst through.
“You’re a bad, bad man. You can’t just do this. No, Frank! No!” Joe carefully placed the bodies on the floor, and slowly stood. “You can not just do this. Frank.”

The finality in that hit me just before he did, his muscled shoulder ramming me out of my wind as I hit the wall, felt a rib snap. He grabbed my head by the hair, rapped it against the tile, and with a snarl tore off the top part of my right ear with his teeth. I saw his beefy fist coming, felt the impact, and then darkness. I heard him hit me a few more times before I faded completely. Thankfully, I was aware of nothing after that.

Now, instead of a breezy bungalow in Bali, I’ll live out what’s left of my retirement in this 6x8 cell. Solitary. Solitary because I’m on death row. Dim Joe turned out to have a solid memory, and an even stronger conscience. I’m long healed from the beating he gave me, except for the ear he took with him. My lawyer tells me I have appeals, still. Either way, I figure I’m in Hell or going to Hell. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. I was right about one thing, though. The whole thing ended up around somebody’s ears, all right. Ear, anyway.