Dirty Hitman

by Vivian Connelly

  “…especially if he gets to you first, Micky. You need my help. You’re my best friend. I’m telling you I’m here to help.”

  Two mugs, two teabags—she was a good hostess too. She was taking the kettle to the table that was out of my view. Fuck…

  “I hate to drag you back into this thing, Jimmy. You did your part setting up the meeting with your old man. But I know you’re trying to stay on the straight and narrow, you don’t need to get involved with this shit.”

  She was out of my view. Mostly. I could still see a single foot, bare and swinging back and forth as she waited at her place at the table.

  “Don’t sweat it, Micky. I’ll figure this out for you, brother. Where are you?”

  Sexy, civilian foot, swinging back and forth…

  “I’d rather not say, Jimmy.”

  “Already, have it your way man. Call me back then. Give me like an hour.”

  I replaced the receiver and walked to where that foot was serenading me from the kitchen table. She was waiting for me, smiling, and I found myself wondering what kind of guy gave this up for being too boring. And I asked her the question that had been burning in me since I had walked into her nice little house.

  “You mind if I use your shower?”

  Chapter 8

  Jackie

  It was generally accepted as bad form to leave your shift early with a patient.

  Strike one.

  Oh, and the patient in question told me he worked as a hired killer for some sort of crime outfit.

  Strike two.

  Ah, and said killer happened to be in my house right now in the shower lathering up with soap I had just used myself this morning.

  Strike three.

  And apparently there were bad guys that wanted to kill me too.

  Was there such a thing as a strike four? I wasn’t sure because I didn’t know shit about baseball. But I did know I was kind of screwed.

  Nice going, Jacqueline Wilson…

  I was sitting at my kitchen table finishing the rest of my tea. Because that was the thing that made sense to do when you had a self-confessed hired killer cleaning himself off in your shower. Although the killer in question seemed genuinely nice to me so far, and had even promised to protect me.

  And he was hot. Fuck it all, he was hot.

  I didn’t think it was possible to look sexy in a hospital gown, but Micky made me want to buy a set of five and start giving them out to my friends and family. Of course, it helped that he had a torso strong enough to wax a surfboard on. I had heard about guys like that, although I had never been with one. And I had certainly never married one.

  You’re boring, Jacqueline…

  Thinking of my asshole ex-husband suddenly jogged something in my memory and I put my cup of tea back on the kitchen table. Up the stairs and a left-hand turn and I went into my sparsely decorated guest room. It was a room I seldom went into and the guest room closet was a place I hardly went into at all. Ever. But I browsed through quickly and grabbed one of a handful of his shirts that were left.

  I walked down towards the master bedroom to deliver the shirt to Micky. The door was still open and I could hear the sound of water running from the shower. He liked long showers too, although I guess that made sense after getting shot and grappling with a guy in the hospital who was trying to kill you. But as I stepped into the bedroom I heard something else. Whistling—he was whistling something that sounded familiar.

  Was that the fucking Carpenters? What kind of tough guy was this?

  “Micky.”

  The whistling stopped suddenly, water still running, him naked and wet on the other side of the bathroom door…

  “Yeah?”

  “I found a shirt for you to wear, unless you’d like to keep wearing the hospital gown. I put it on the bed for you. You should let me take a look at that wound when you’re out, though.”

  “OK, thanks, sweetie.”

  Sweetie…

  I paused a second before leaving because I wanted to hear him whistling Karen Carpenter again, but apparently, that chorus was over and the band was taking a break. I walked out of my bedroom and closed the door to give him a little privacy, because—I’m not sure why. And I went back downstairs to drink the rest of my tea.

  I was sitting at the table, listening to the water pipes in my wall whine to let me know that the shower had been shut off. Somewhere upstairs, a hired killer was drying himself off with one of my Sears towels and getting ready to put on my ex-husband’s old shirt. I looked at my phone on the wall. A sane thinking woman would probably be calling the police. But then again, a sane thinking woman probably wouldn’t have hit a guy named Sammy the Scar with a bedpan either, so there was that…

  I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and I looked up to see him standing there. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and one of Martin’s old shirts, he didn’t look that frightening. It was a much better look than the bloody hospital gown, for sure. He didn’t necessarily look comfortable with the outfit, though.

  “Hawaiian shirt? Really, Jackie?”

  “That’s one of the only things Martin left behind. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away because I bought it for him on our honeymoon. The cocksucker.”

  “Oh good. At least I don’t have to worry about the yellow Beetle making me look conspicuous now.”

  I looked at his left shoulder and could see the beginnings of a bloodstain on Martin’s shirt.

  “You should take it off, though, and let me get a fresh bandage over that wound. I’m sure you’ve probably opened it up a couple of times this morning.”

  He started taking off the shirt and I got up to get my bandage kit, mainly because I didn’t want to sit there watching him take off his shirt. As much as I wanted to sit there and watch him take off his shirt. I went to the downstairs bathroom and came back with my kit and was treated to a shirtless Micky sitting in my kitchen regardless.

  No shirt.

  No tattoos.

  No body hair.

  Just smooth skin over hardened muscle, exactly the way God had intended him to be. Plus a bullet wound. He had a bullet wound that was doing its best to poke itself out from underneath a bandage that was trying to jump ship. And I was a professional after all, so I got down to the business of cleaning his wound.

  “Have you been shot before, Micky?”

  It seemed like an appropriate question to be asking a guy who told you he did these kinds of things. And I was looking for any topic of conversation to take my mind off the fact I had my hands on his chest. But he laughed.

  “Believe it or not, no—first time being shot. I’ve been shot at before, but never hit. And I can’t say it’s something I’m looking to do again anytime soon.”

  His chest was hard muscle and his abdomen was a washboard. But the bullet had gotten him in the upper shoulder area where it had passed through him clean. Surprising, because his shoulders were strong too. Strong shoulders, stronger arms…

  I removed the bandage that was threatening to jump off on its own and I walked to throw it away in the garbage. I grabbed a bottle of antiseptic and pulled up a chair so I could clean the spot thoroughly and I managed to hit the leather briefcase that he had sitting between his legs. He reached down and moved the case beside him so I could come in for a closer look.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  So polite for a hired killer…

  I started to swab the wound with antiseptic. Hard muscle, smooth flesh, and the clean edge of a bullet as it passed through the skin. And I was close enough now that I could smell him. Soap from my own shower mixed in with his own natural scent.

  Keep talking, Jacqueline…

  “So what’s in the briefcase anyway?”

  I realized after I said it that it was probably off limits as I looked at him. Blue eyes and a two day’s worth of beard stubble looking back at me. Plus, there was a wound on his cheek that I had not noticed before. A good nurse would probably touch that up too… />
  “I’ve got five hundred thousand dollars in the briefcase.”

  I stopped cleaning the wound. Partly because I was finished and partly because I was comprehending what he just told me.

  “You’ve got half a million dollars in that briefcase?”

  “Yeah. Half a million in big bills takes up less space than you would think. It’s not the way it looks in the movies.”

  Big stacks. That’s what they always showed in the movie. Big stacks of bills, with or without rubber bands. The briefcase wasn’t all that big—simple brown leather with those little spinning number locks on them. Half a million dollars underneath little spinning locks.

  I let that one play over my mind as I got a fresh bandage off the table and started to cover up the wound on his shoulder. I think the most cash I ever saw in one place was when Martin came home with twenty five hundred dollars he won at the track. He blew it the next night at a craps table somewhere. I only remembered that because he had pushed me when I asked where the money went.

  I was applying the bandage and he was noticing my silence.

  “Like I told you before, Jackie, I’m on my way to see the man I work for. Or at least I was. I had arranged to give him the money in return for him cutting me loose and me being out of this crap business forever. But apparently there are people that are determined to keep that from happening.”

  I was done with the shoulder. I patted the new bandage down and sat back to look at my handiwork. And then I looked at him. Blue eyes with a cut on his face. I looked closer at it and knew it was from a ring. He had been cut while being hit in the face. And he knew exactly what I was looking at.

  “The guy in the hospital was wearing a ring. Most of them usually do. Good for knocking out teeth or opening up flesh.”

  Ew…

  I grabbed more antiseptic and prepared to clean the wound that asshole hospital guy inflicted on Micky’s face.

  “The people that are after you—do they just want to stop you or are they trying to steal the money?”

  He winced at the question, but then I realized that he was wincing at the feeling of antiseptic touching his facial wound. He wasn’t that much of a tough guy, after all. I leaned in closer to swab it without hurting him too much.

  “Not sure yet. Probably both. Sammy and I never had what you would call a close working relationship.”

  I could smell him again. I was close enough now to realize that part of the smell was familiar. He had used my conditioner when he showered. He was whistling the Carpenters and rubbing my conditioner into his hair. But he had done me the favor of not using my leg razor to shave, because he still had a layer of stubble on his face.

  I had finished cleaning the face wound. Kind of. But I let my hands linger on his face as I continued to look at it. The jagged impression of a ring, feeding into his whiskered jaw line and lips that were whistling Karen Carpenter. It seemed like the right time to ask him.

  “Just to be Close to You? Really? Is that the kind of music that mob guys listen to?”

  His face reddened a little bit. At least I thought it did. I couldn’t help myself from squinting and moving just a little bit closer.

  “Only the toughest ones listen to the Carpenters, Jackie.”

  I was leaning in so close, and he wasn’t moving away. I started leaning closer to him because it was suddenly the most natural thing in the world. I wanted to kiss lips that were whistling love songs in my shower fifteen minutes before, and I realized he was leaning towards me as well. So close I could taste him. I opened my mouth and put my lips on his.

  It was hard to believe that I was the aggressor. He was hesitant at first, but then he started to kiss me back—slowly. No wide open mouths, no exploring tongues—just two people with lips touching cautiously. For a man who said he killed people, his lips were soft, far softer than I had been expecting. I started to open my mouth wider and he hesitated again, breaking our kiss in the process.

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea, Jackie. I’m damaged goods.”

  The common sense part of my brain knew he was right. Of course he was right. But common sense wasn’t what was telling me to lean in for another kiss.

  “It’s a great idea, Micky.”

  I started to open my mouth and he started to lean in again. No lips this time, Micky. I was opening my mouth and was ready to devour him tongue first. His eyes were looking at me and then they were looking past me as his body froze. What was it? Why was he frozen?

  Love?

  Fear?

  Longing? Oh my God, was it longing?

  “Jackie.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want you to be afraid.”

  “I’m not—I’m not afraid, Micky. Tell me.”

  “There’s someone on your front porch.”

  Oh fuck. I’m afraid…

  Chapter 9

  Jackie

  Easy, Jacqueline…

  Micky said it wasn’t going to be a bad guy. The guys looking for him would likely be coming through the back door, or we never would have heard them at all. He was still close, hiding just around the corner from the front door. But he said this was something else, maybe a nosy neighbor or a delivery guy or something. So I went to go answer the door and I saw Micky was wrong.

  It was a bad guy. It was my soon-to-be ex-husband and he had a fresh copy of the divorce settlement I had sent him in his fist.

  “What the fuck, Jackie?”

  Oh great…

  “Martin, this is not a good time.”

  “You’re fucking right about that. And for you, it’s just going to get worse.”

  He pushed through the half open door and went past me like he always did when he was angry. A big, physical presence casting fear on everyone else around him like a big, fucking bully. I had promised myself I wasn’t backing down about the house, and seeing the anger in his eyes was already starting to cause me to question my resolve.

  “You know there’s no way you’re getting the entire fucking house, Jackie. That’s a crock of bullshit.”

  “Martin, this is really a bad time. I’m pleading with you…”

  “Fuck you and your pleading. This is the perfect time, Jackie. We settle this once and for all.”

  He squared his shoulders the way he always did. It sent a shiver through me. It was hard to believe this was a man who I once loved, and who had once loved me. He was taking up the bully posture with me like I was just another loud mouth in the bar.

  “Martin, I…”

  “If you think I’m signing this thing, you’re fucking crazy. I deserve half of this house and you know it.”

  He waved the document in front of me as he stepped forward. I could see my attorney’s letterhead underneath the pen he had gripped in his hand. I knew he would be pissed; we had talked about it with the attorneys. But it was understood he wasn’t to come here to talk to me about it. He hadn’t been here since he had walked out.

  “I paid for the house, Martin.”

  He took another step forward and I took one step back. I was running out of floor space and the vein in his forehead was starting to stand out the way it sometimes did. When that vein stood out, things had a way of going from bad to worse in a hurry.

  “It doesn’t matter what you did and didn’t pay for, you bitch. We split it fifty fifty. That’s the way things work when you get a divorce. You do still want to get a divorce, don’t you, Jackie.”

  He waved the document at me again, hitting me right where I lived. Physical intimidation along with the threat of staying married to him—it was enough to make me physically ill. He took another step towards me and I held my ground because I didn’t have much choice. I opened my mouth, not quite sure what I had to say, and I didn’t need to speak at all.

  “Sign the fucking document.”

  Low voice from behind Martin, not loud and strangely calm. It surprised Martin more than it surprised me, but I had still been surprised. Martin turned to see Micky standi
ng in the hallway, and I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  “Hey, you’re wearing my fucking shirt, asshole.”

  That got no response other than one step forward. It was hard to look like a tough guy in a Hawaiian shirt, but it was a look that Micky was able to pull off. But if Martin was worried, he wasn’t showing it.

  “So what’s this? Now you have a boyfriend, Jackie? Christ, now I’ve seen everything. Even more reason I’m not signing these papers.”

  “Martin, it’s not what it looks…”

  “Sign the fucking document.”

  Another step forward from Micky. This time, his voice was up just an octave. It wasn’t enough to say he had raised his voice, but it was enough to qualify his voice as a growl. Five feet from Martin now, and I instinctively moved out from the wall and took a stance on the side of the two men.

  “Oh look, and your boyfriend’s a fucking tough guy too.”

  He turned and squared his shoulders full on with Micky. It was a look I had seen plenty of times before. I had seen it in our own home and I had seen it on the off times I would go with him to the bar. Both times it usually ended up with someone getting pushed and backing down. Martin was a big man and he was now focusing his bulk in front of him. I felt a knot in my stomach and I realized the knot was forming out of fear for Micky.

  “Sign the fucking document.”

  One big step forward this time, directly into Martin’s wheelhouse. There was a moment’s hesitation where I thought Martin might have thought better of it, but then he hauled off. No push this time, just a large, clenched right fist launched at Micky’s face. Time stood still and I thought about how I had just cleaned the wound Martin was about to hit.

  Micky moved ever so slightly. It was just enough to thwart the full force of the blow while still taking a glancing shot on the chin. His head didn’t snap and his body didn’t move backwards. Instead he remained upright and took one more step forward.

  I could see the look of satisfaction on Martin’s face—that smug, familiar smile that he got when he had bullied down a new foe. It lingered on his face for only a minute, which was just long enough for him to recoil from throwing his weight behind his fist. When he was upright again, he had a new look on his face. It was one I had never seen before.