The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

  The shadow moves past her, close, he is carrying something. She watches as he moves into the back door of the bar, a low wattage light illuminates him, she whispers. “What now?”

  A curiosity that eventually kills all cats, grabs her mind. One step off the porch, she moves to the back door, it is ajar. She slithers her slender frame through it and, then slides into a dark corner, quiet, allowing her eyes to acclimate to the shades of semi darkness.

  She watches, assuming it is Jason Cox, the most gifted writer she has ever not read. She becomes appalled, irate, as the poet, on knees, palms, begins to scrub the vomit, urine, blood, spilled food, beer from the bar’s floor with a sponge.

  He stands, wrings the sponge, she can only see his silhouette.

  It is odd, holds an unusual and eerie form to it as he takes a broom, sweeps broken glass from the filth of the bars floor. She wants to rush out, grab him, hold him and perhaps love him. She wonders if she is capable of loving any one? For several moments he does one menial thing after another.

  She hides in the dark alcove, breathing increasing, impossible to piece any of it together. He limps behind the bar, scrubs, it is dark, just silhouettes moving and, then she gasps, fingers pressed against her mouth. His arm lifts, his hand and wrist exposed by a single ray of light. His forearm and hands are burnt, purples, mottled greens and yellows travel in rivulets along his skin.

  She gasps again, whispers “What.”

  He continues, she stares into the dusk, time passes, she can hear his labored breathing, coarse, like nothing she has ever heard before and obviously his breathing is filled with so much pain.

  He moves from the bar, then jerks, turns and stars through the darkness directly at her, long, straggles of woven long hair, cape cowl hiding his face. “Who’s there?” He groans, his voice sounds like gravel.

  Her heart is pounding, she feels it in her temples as she cups her breath, pushes her shadow into the alcove further, wondering what he looks like beneath that hair and cowl. Moments pass of him staring blindly into the pitch. He seems to calm, still she can hear his breath. Hands press against her mouth, he limps past, at the door, he turns, stares in her direction and, then moves out the door.

  She is a voyeur, moves to the open door, watches him limp to the corrals, opens the gate, moves past his excited horses and, then disappears into his barn.

  She steps out, stares at the black sky strident with white stars. She cannot help herself, she moves to the horse gate. Her friends, the horses see her, move to her. She moves through, trails her fingers on their black manes. They calm as they seem to know their master has a visitor.

  They welcome her with their silence.

  The corridor, with the stalls is dirt, in the shadows, she moves along it as her heart bangs in her body. At its end, she sees the light under the door, it is flickering; perhaps candles as well as mysterious of him dwell there.

  Near the door, she moves, stumbles on a rake tip, catches herself on chains hanging on the walls.

  “CLANG. CLANG.”

  She groans from the sound of the chains, presses her body against the planks of the barns walls.

  “Who’s there?” A gravel voice, demands to know.

  Mandal, fearless, lost again in pathos, smiles, quite glad to finally meet her favorite writer. Insane people have reservoirs of kinetic energy, whims that drive them. No questions now, why she is standing in a barn in Texas, about to chat with some word wizard as she is soon to be executed by sadists of a New Jersey whirlwind. These thoughts are not on her mind. His writing is tattooed in her brain, mal functioning again; she doesn’t even recognize it.

  A genius, perhaps a brutalized man lives in a barn in the center cut of nowhere.

  Geeze makes sense to her.

  “Mother... Is that you?”

  She leans through the door and it is dark, candles flickering everywhere. She sees his silhouette, he is laying on his mattress and it appears a writing pad is in his hand, candle light dancing everywhere, his hood, hair covering his profile.

  “Hello...It’s me...aaaah, Betty. I’m a guest at the Motel.” She whispers as if that in its self will answer the poor guys question.

  He sits there, terrified, pulling his hood closer to his face. In his covert cave, he has never had a visitor before, not in 35 years. He cannot takes his eyes off of her face, white skin, hair, he sees her blue eyes, almost translucent, holding light of their own. He silently gasp’s. He has never seen any creature as beautiful as her before.

  “Who are you? Why are you here? STAY there! What do you want?” Coarse words struggle from his throat as he violently coughs from the effort.

  Straining to see him and thinking nothing of invading his life, she takes another step, halts as he wheezes. “Stay away, there, I said.”

  There are no psychiatric charts, records depicting this female’s genetic anomaly, no where on earth, anywhere.

  One minute a gal hurling, ripping her soul out of her body, next, happy girl, curious girl and just out with a visit with a crazed recluse, who within his wildest nightmare retches at thoughts of her being anywhere near his insane brain.

  In reality, eating her gun would have been easier for everyone. But, that ain’t gonna happens, for she is selfish, and ME ME ME should be tattooed on her beautiful knuckles. The genie girl is so complicated, so messed up, so fucked up that she actually is having a nice time.

  Ignoring his tortured request, no worries in her world as she nudges forward, hoping her face will seal the deal like it has with every other poor bastard she has ever met.

  “I’m sorry to intrude. I saw you on the horse earlier, boy you can sure ride. I also rea....”

  “GO AWAY, PLEEEASE.” Labored voice grinds out of his throat, “GO!”

  To her surprise, a flame from a lighter follows his words. She sees smoke, the undulating ember of the red tip of the cigarette, his silhouette partially covered by the cowl. Then, a cough and another as a plume of smoke spews out of his lungs.

  Another wheeze, followed by a violent cough.

  Great. She thinks. Another masochist as she wonders what a girl has to do to get laid around here. She giggles from her own thoughts.

  Trying to focus, through the murkiness, smoke, candle flames, she presses in a little closer, and gaily says. “I read some of your poetry. A little of some of your novels. They’re magnificent, beautiful, frankly stunning. At least I think so...you’re very talent....”

  “YOU WHAT.” He yells, coughing up smoke, as he goes erect.

  She can see his eyes and that is all, they seem to be on fire.

  He rasps, more cough and smoke, as Mandal, wanting what she wants when she wants its, as if they just met at a Starbucks, sharing a nice latte, takes a half step, stops.

  “GET OUT...Please.”

  Respect, admiration, awe, filter through her brain.

  “I didn’t mean to pry. I...I write too.” She groans, laughs at herself. “Nothing like you though. Really Jason, I read...”

  Coughs of smoke.

  “HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?” He is frantic.

  She giggles, shrugs her shoulders.

  “It’s on the photograph over there.” He gasps.

  She goes right on.

  “Anyways, I was saying, I’ve never read anyone as talented as you. Why aren’t you published? Jason Cox, it’s a nice name.”

  “LEAVE NOW!”

  On the last word his cigarette flicks out of the shadows, bounces, sparks flying off of her chest as it does.

  Feeling pretty good about everything, she is getting somewhere now. Some attention is better than none as she continues.

  “I didn’t mean any harm. I just want to talk. Why don’t you chill, Jason, out.”

  He groans, as his head dips to his chin and she hears his
breathing rasping from his lips.

  Glancing at his computer, she sees more words printed on it. He lifts his head, sees her eyes gazing at it as she casually says. “What ya writing” Can I turn a light on? Maybe we can chat a little.”

  Taking a step, she freezes as his voice strains at her.

  “NO. STOP...PLEASE LEAVE...NOW.”

  Water off of a ducks back, that’s her mojo.

  “I’m sorry...It’s just I don’t understand. How many novels are there here Ten...Twenty...and your poetry, it’s, well it’s enchanting, genius...are you pub...?”

  He coughs violently, leers at her. Two forces of nature are head butting one another. It is literally the unbearable force meeting the unmovable object, odd objects that they are. Since no one has ever said no to her, she continues.

  “Well, it looks I’m here until Arvan, I guess he’s your brother repairs my car. I’d like to read one of your books...Maybe we could be friends...Is that all right, reading one, please.”

  Such a Little Miss Manners she has suddenly become, she is even grifting him now.

  Silence, breathing, she hears a “CLICK” and, then like a speeding shadow she sees his cape move, hears a “SWOOSH.”

  It glints in the candle light, then “WOMP”, the throwing knife’s blade imbeds into the wall, right near her head, handle swaying back and forth. Not so much as an eye blink, she does not flinch as her eyes peek at it and she smiles.

  “WOW, that was very cool, can I read one of your books or not?

  “GO. Next time it will be between your eyes.” His demeanor changes, perhaps a hard soldier again.

  She recognizes crazy when she hears it, also his pain, perhaps sorrow in his voice, and now respecting it, she turns, walks to the door, turns back to him and sadly mutters. “Geeeze, I just wanted to read one of your beautiful novels; that’s all.”

  She nods, walks out of the room, closes the door, takes a step and hears something. She lowers her eyes and, then watches as slowly one of the blue bound manuscripts slips under the door jam.

  Smiling, she loves getting her own way, she bends, picks it up and stares at the title.

  SEEDS OF DISPAIR.

  Both hands reverently press it against her small breasts. Placing her lying lips to the door, she whispers. “Thank you, Jason.”

  She turns, happy now, she walks past the stalls, meets her horses, kisses each one on the snout, moves through the gate back towards the Motel, where a night of wonder and the memory of a soldier will transport her to his world.

  It is a nether world and a place not seen by humans yet.

  The Crew From New Jersey

  THE GREYHOUND Bus terminal looked exactly the same after the girl/thief had vamoosed in one of its buses. Haggard, frayed, an aborted fetuses of people milled around, returning to work, homes, and nothing.

  Dim Dim stood, leaning against a black Lincoln Town Car, at the curb, adjacent to the terminal. At his feet, several Snickers wrappers, in his huge mouth, death by molars was a candy bar that he was decimating.

  Parked behind him, a funeral possession, three other black Town Cars, they were the Crews car of choice.

  Three sets of two of Tony’s gulag also lean against the chassis of mobster chic, chatting, smoking, flapping with arms at the cold. Though winter has broken, it’s morning, its cold and each man is wearing the traditional knee length black leather mob coat, an insignia of prestige. Ski parkas would have been better. They weren’t the brightest guys, but were loyal, deadly, worked hard just like fisherman might chumming for sharks.

  There was Jimmie, Paulie Jr. making up one crew, Johnny, and the second Paulie making number two. In the third set there was the other Jimmy and of course the third Paulie, Mario’s son, Paulie Sr’s kid brothers.

  Big men, lots a muscles, shoulders, thick necks, lots a handguns, weapons in the trunks, they were professionals, good at violence. Bobby Ugo didn’t have broad shoulders, bulging biceps, a neck like a fire hydrant, but he did have a friend that did. The six men were terrified of the Bobby/Dim Dim duet.

  Nothing like a tight sphincter to keep the wheels of crime greased.

  Now, as Bobby Ugo stands on the bus platform chatting with a spooked ticket taker, no smiles, real serious; Bobby makes everyone fear God. Ticket taker, fondles a C note and peeks at a photo in Bobby’s hand. He tells Bobby about the doll in the black wig, ticks on Bobby cheeks, maybe a little smile. The ticket guy feels edgy anywhere near the small well dressed man. For, he feels like he is standing next to iced death. He tells Bobby about the Dish, black wig, York PA destination and that is all he knows.

  Bobby, a gentlemen, lays out another hundred, thanks him, turns, walks over to where a line of black Lincolns is parked, sidles up to a giant and talks to him. Ticket taker exhales his fear, pretty much knowing that the scary man did not have the dolls best interest in mind and he probably just signed her death warrant.

  Liking the feeling of the dough in his hand, he watches the train of four black cars drive off in the direction of York, glad, very glad he will never have anything ever to do again with the scariest little man he has ever met.

  YORK, AGAIN, the same, gray, dreary, industrial and another Grey Hound Station planted into the sewer and the same as Mandal had visited it earlier.

  Like he prints them in the basement, Bobby layers the hand of another Greyhound employee with a C-Note, Mandals picture showing, chatting, pointing, information obtained, the bitch was hard to miss. The clerk, off loads directions to the Yellow Cab Company, jots on Bobby’s little note pad, smiles, tells Bobby the girl was a stunner, nervous, obvious black wig.

  She skedaddled out quick in a Yellow hack.

  Bobby thanks him. The clerk watches as the Wop walks over to a giant, lots of other semi giant standing at other black coffins with wheels, smoking. They look like the front line for the Patriots. Bobby moves to them, chats, swallows up HIS giants and drives off.

  The bus driver, no difference and like the other employee of the people mover he was glad for the money and to see the deadly, cold man leave.

  POKING DOWN the street, Bobby driving, Dim wasn’t so good with cars, yet he was full, maybe, happy, if he felt anything at all. Bobby, glances at his notes, finds York St. clips on his blinker, hangs a left, funeral progression of Lincolns tooling along behind him.

  “You Okay Dim?”Bobby asks affectionately.

  “Getting hungry Bobby.”

  Smiling, Bobby presses his gigantic thigh with his slender fingers, whispers. “We’ll eat soon, Dim.”

  “That’s good, Bobby.”

  Bobby, slows, Yellow Cab place, on the right, see’s the cabs sprinkled around the lot. Cabbies talking, smoking, waiting, he sees the Cab Dispatch Office, a Quonset hut. He pulls to the curb, parks, string of black army ants parking behind him.

  Bobby peeks at Dim Dim who’s staring straight ahead. Everybody needs someone to love. Bobby loves him, a dad for the big fella; Dim’s all he’s got. Peeks across the street, run down diner plugged into the slum, bad area of York, not many good ones.

  “Hey Dim, why don’t ya grab some eats across the street while I’m checkin’ things out with the cabbies.”

  “Okay, Bobby.”

  Bobby, steps from the Lincoln, straightens his black suit, adjusts a black tie over a white dress shirt, looks back, sees his crew, standing, smoking, chatting, loitering, black leather jackets, he feels good. Dim Dim, struggles his girth out, turns, makes a bee line for the diner, keeping him fed, a full time job.

  Bobby, ferret eyes sweep the desolate street. Homeless folks are pushing shopping carts, other folks, drug users, smack heads, some black pimps dealing a few dead whores for a few bucks, he groans in disgust, knowing The Street Life well.

  Knowing that soon he would have her, he flicks a Marlboro out, sticks it under his clipped
mustache, finds a gold Cartier lighter, flicks it to flame, inhales, exhales and is growing happier by the minute.

  He turns, walks over to the Quonset, finds the Dispatch, chat’s it up with a guy, nods and, then sits in a plastic chair. An hour flicks by, yellow cab, pulls in, Bobby get a nod. He walks over, another C note.

  “Sure.” The cabbie remembers, “Real cup cake, took her to an industrial part a town.”

  He gives up a little more info. Bobby,thanks him, back to the Town Car. Bobby waves at his crew, they buckle up. Bobby sets in, hits the ignition, Dim Dim, mustard on his behemoth chest. Bobby Smiles, looking at his size, giggles, like the Shark captain in Jaws thinks.

  We’re gonna need a bigger boat.

  In gear, he drives off with crew behind him armed Predator drones seeking one thing; Tony’s bitch with a pair of vice grips pinched to her smart mouth.

  The Cops

  ATLANTIC CITY, Detective Sgt. Tom O’Grady, partner, twenty-five years on the job. His partner was Detective Sgt. Paul Gallo. They were as different as crab grass was to Orchids.

  O’Grady, five-foot seven, two hundred, blue twinklers, red hair, thick, quick laugh, fat, muscle, smart, wore golf clothes, pork pie hat, kinda chapeau Hackman wore in the French Connection.

  Sgt. Gallo, Sicilian, well groomed, tailored Italian suits, thin, black hair, mustache, pinched face, super bright black eyes, brain, dapper man, wore duds no cop could afford on a muck’s salary. Mutt and Jeff, that’s what the cops at the precinct called the duet. Both cops liked their nicks.

  Cruising through the teeming baseness of Atlantic City, gangs, whores, meth heads, stickup men, etc, non descriptor tan cop Cruiser, both men, best friends, families too, were content with their lives.

  Good, hard working cops, wise cops, they were rich, schemes, some graft, a payoff here, some help here and there. They were cops, grateful that they had survived the trench warfare of the East Coast sewer; one more month and retirement for both.