by Trisha Telep
I don’t know what will become of these pages. I may never print them. Or I may print them out and hide them from myself. I could slip them between the pages of a book in the stacks at NYU and leave them there for anyone to find. I could do that. I could place them in an empty wine bottle and drop them from the Queensboro Bridge so that the river would carry them down to the sea. The sea must be filled with bottles . . .
Fangs For Hire
Jenna Black
I met my client at a seedy, unpleasant bar. Not because I liked such places, but because it’s what clients usually expect when they hire a hit man – or, in my case, a hit woman.
My nostrils flared as I opened the door and stepped inside. The place stank of stale beer, stale sweat, stale cigarettes and stale lives. Even though it was late on a Saturday night, prime bar hour, the place was practically empty. As advertised by the hogs packed outside, there were a handful of biker dudes and their slutty chicks hanging out at the pool table. At the bar itself, there were a couple of men who might as well have had “loser” tattooed on their foreheads. They both looked unhappily drunk.
Remind me why I chose this place for a rendezvous? Oh, yeah. The atmosphere.
I could smell my client from clear across the room. Not because he stank, but because he smelled like he’d had a shower within the last week, which was more than I could say of the other patrons of this fine establishment. Being a vampire has its advantages, but the enhanced sense of smell is something I would happily do without.
My client occupied one of the bar’s rather unsanitary booths. He was much younger and much softer looking than I’s expected. I guessed his age at about 22 or 23 and, though he’d dressed down to meet me here, his jeans looked like they’d been artificially aged and the plain white T-shirt still had creases from being in its package. I’d bet he usually wore suits, or at least designer grunge wear.
His scent changed when he saw me coming: a delicious bouquet of fear and musk blending with his expensive after-shave. No doubt if he’d known I was a vampire, rather than your run-of-the-mill hitter, He’d have run screaming from the room. I had, of course, dressed the part. No reason to pick an atmospheric dive and then go in looking like Jane Normal. If I hadn’t been broadcasting that special vampire don’t-notice-me vibe to everyone but my client, all the guys in the bar, would have been after me, in the vain hope of getting lucky.
Leather pants, stiletto heels and some nice cleavage. Gets ‘em every time. My client – or really, I should say my potential client, because he hadn’t officially hired me yet – swallowed hard when I slid into the booth across from him. I wasn’t sure if that was from lust or fear.
I smiled pleasantly and reached my hand out across the table. “Gemma Johanson at your service,” I said, and like a good little boy he shook my hand. I could have gone for the stereotypical cold, psychotic stare, but I thought the kid was already shaken up enough. Wouldn’t do to scare away a customer.
He cleared his throat. “Hi. I’m Jeffrey Reeves.”
I arched an eyebrow. “I rather figured you were.”
Even in the darkness of the bar, I could see the blush that crept up his neck and flushed his cheeks. “Sorry I’ve never, uh, done this before.”
No kidding. “Why don’t you tell me about the job?” I prompted, because if I waited for him to get around to it, I’d have been there all night.
Jeffrey’s eyes darted nervously around the bar, but no one was paying any attention to us. He leaned over the table and whispered. “I want to hire you to kill someone.”
Apparently, my would-be client had a special talent for stating the obvious. I made a “keep talking” gesture.
He licked his lips, then took a deep breath. That seemed to settle him down some. “It’s my stepfather,” he said, his lips curling – unconsciously, I think – with distaste. “His name is Ross Blackburn, and he’s a murdering son of a bitch who deserves to die.”
Jeffrey’s body language changed completely, his fear and uncertainty buried beneath the rage that now filled him. His hands clenched into fists, his shoulders stiffened and I could hear the angry thump of his heart. I have to admit, it was rather disconcerting. He’d looked so soft and harmless when I’d first caught sight of him. Now he looked like someone who’d seriously considered doing the job himself,
“OK,” I said, not really caring if Ross Blackburn deserved to die or not. I had yet to be hired to kill someone who didn’t have it coming, one way or another. I’d made it very clear to Miles, my handler – or my pimp, as he laughingly called himself – that I wasn’t hitting any innocent bystanders who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m sure he farmed out jobs like that to someone else, but as long as I didn’t know about it, I could justify letting him live.
Jeffrey seemed surprised by my easy agreement.
“You, uh, don’t need to know any more?” The anger had drained away as quickly as it had come. He now had that lost and vaguely pathetic look he’d worn when I’d first caught sight of him.
“I’ll need an address. And, of course, a deposit.”
He swallowed hard again. “Yeah. Sure.” He leaned forwards as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket. “When will you . . . do it?”
I was pretty sure Miles had explained my modus operandi when Jeffrey had contacted him. (How this kid had managed to find Miles in the first place might be an interesting story, if I were nosier.) But he seemed too rattled and nervous to remember, so I generously answered him anyway. He slid a slim envelope across the table to me.
“Within the next two weeks he’ll disappear, never to be seen again.” I verified the amount on the cashier’s cheque inside the envelope, then looked up and caught Jeffrey’s eye in one of my more menacing stares. “If you’re killing him for an inheritance, you’ll have a long wait before he’ll be declared dead. His body will never be found.”
He shivered. “I don’t care about the money. I just want him dead.” There was a sheen of tears in his eyes, though none fell.
Generally, I don’t like to ask my clients any questions. I trusted Miles – sort of – not to give me innocent victims, and hey, since I had to eat anyway, I might as well get paid for it. But maybe I was getting soft in my old age. I couldn’t help being just a little curious, seeing as this kid was nothing like my usual clients.
“What’d he do?” I asked. I think Jeffrey was relieved to be able to tell me.
“He killed my mother.” The anguish in his voice told me that his grief was still fresh and raw. “He married her for her money because he knew she was already sick. Then when the cancer didn’t kill her quickly enough, he poisoned her.”
OK. This was definitely not sounding like my usual case. I know I said I didn’t care about the details, but I couldn’t help prodding just a little bit. “And have you told this to the police?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Everyone says she died of natural causes, but I know better. She was supposed to have another couple of years, and then six months after she married this asshole, she’s dead. And he’s got half her estate.”
I supposed it did sound kind of suspicious, at least to a grieving son. I tucked the envelope with the cheque into my pocket book, wondering if I was going to end up killing an innocent person after all.
But then I brightened. I had two weeks to make the kill, and I had an (admittedly) almost feline enjoyment of playing with my food. With a little clever investigating, I could find out for myself whether Ross killed his old lady or not. If it turned out he didn’t, then Junior here could be my flavour of the month. I don’t make a habit of killing my clients – Miles rather frowns on that – but I thought I could make an exception if it turned out that Jeffrey had hired me under false pretences. It wasn’t like Jeffrey’s death would ever be attributed to me.
“Give me two weeks,” I said, reaching across the table to shake his hand again. “After that, you won’t have to worry about him any more.”
After
Jeffrey left, I slipped back inside and took a seat at the bar beside one of the drunken losers I’d noticed earlier. He was such a sorry specimen, I might not even have needed my supernatural powers of persuasion to wrap him around my little finger, but I didn’t want to hang around this dive any longer than necessary. The moment I managed to catch his attention – not easy when his tequila was so much more interesting – I mesmerized him with my gaze. No one paid any attention to us as I led him back to the grimy, unisex bathroom. Based on the taste of him, there was more alcohol than blood running through his veins and I swear I felt a bit tipsy after I drank. No, I didn’t kill him. While I need to feed every night, I only have to make a kill every few weeks, to recharge my psychic battery. If I don’t recharge it, my body will slowly wither and die, and that’s where my line of work comes in handy.
After I left, and had a short, dark and disgusting nap to sleep it off, I decided to take a first pass by my target’s house. It was well after midnight by now, so I didn’t expect to do more than a drive-by, just to familiarize myself with the neighbourhood, but when I got there, it was to see lights blazing all through the house.
I parked my car (an intentionally nondescript brown Camry) by the side of the road and took in the sights.
It was a nice neighbourhood, a typical example of wealthy suburban America. Houses on what I’d estimate were one-acre lots, many of them hidden from the road by generously wooded front yards. Wealthy, but not ultra-wealthy, if you know what I mean. These were houses, not mansions. I frowned a bit and wondered whether someone living here really had enough money to tempt a man to marry and then murder her. I wouldn’t have thought so, but then money makes people the world over act like idiots.
It started raining, a heavy summer downpour that could last for five minutes or five hours. I made an impulsive decision to meet my soon-to-be victim this very night.
No way was I going out in the rain in my expensive leather pants. Luckily, I was in the habit of keeping a duffle bag with a change of clothes in the back seat. Comes in handy when my meals aren’t as . . . tidy as they should be.
The street was deserted, everyone with any sense asleep snug in their beds, so I didn’t worry about being observed as I changed into jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt had been a gag gift from Miles. It was white, with the words “BITE ME” emblazoned in bold black letters across the chest.
I pushed open the car door and stepped out into the rain. I was soaked through before I’d closed the door behind me. Luckily it was a comfortably warm night.
I splashed my way down the driveway towards the Blackburn house, stealing glances at the lighted windows as I approached, but I didn’t catch sight of my quarry. I was going to be pissed if I’d got drenched only to find him not home after all. I rang the doorbell, then took advantage of the covered front porch to wring some of the water out of my hair. The porch light flickered on, and I noticed that my white T-shirt had predictably, gone see-through in the rain. My sheer lace bra ensured that my assets were plainly visible. I’m not what you’d call modest, but I figured it would enhance my disguise as a helpless damsel in distress if I pretended to be, so I crossed my arms over my chest as footsteps approached. I even hunched my shoulders a bit as if I were cold.
The door swung open, and I caught my first sight of Ross Blackburn.
My immediate impression was that he was far too young to have been married to a woman old enough to be Jeffrey’s mother. I wouldn’t have put him as a day over 30. My second impression was . . . hubba hubba! If I were in the market for a toy boy, I’d have been wiping the drool from my chin. The look he gave me – a long, slow, up and down, followed by a frown and a disdainful sniff – suggested I was not making a similar impression. I unfolded my arms, ostensibly to free my hand to brush my hair out of my eyes. I have to admit, though, I was a little miffed when he didn’t even glance at my chest.
“Yes?” he prompted, because I’d apparently stood there gaping too long.
“My car broke down,” I told him while batting my eyelashes. “May I use your phone to call a tow truck?” The batting eyelashes didn’t seem to make any more impression than my boobs. I must have been losing my touch.
“No cell phone?” Blackburn asked with a raised eyebrow.
What an asshole! Here was this helpless, drenched, sexy woman standing on his doorstep at an ungodly hour and he’d so far shown no inclination to invite me in out of the cold. OK, so it wasn’t actually cold, but it’s the principle of the thing.
“I left it at home,” I said and I let him hear the edge of annoyance in my voice. “Look, yours is the only house with lights on. Sorry to bother you, but if you’ll just let me make a quick call, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
The corners of his mouth tightened in displeasure, but he stepped aside and opened the door wide enough to let me in. A spoken invitation would have been much nicer, but it seemed I wasn’t getting one. I gritted my teeth against the painful resistance as I crossed the threshold. His non-verbal invite was enough to get me through, but not enough to make it a pleasant experience. Luckily, either I was a good enough actress to hide my discomfort, or he was sulking over my unwanted intrusion, since he didn’t seem to notice the effort it took me to come inside.
“Wait here,” he ordered me, and I wanted to smack him. Where did he get off giving me orders? It wasn’t like I was the hired help! I thought about dear little Jeffrey and let a small smile curl my lips. In a manner of speaking, I was hired help after all.
Blackburn wasn’t gone long. Before I’d even had a chance to look around, he emerged from what I presumed to be a powder room, carrying a fluffy white hand towel. For the first time, I realized the foyer was made of beautiful, shiny hardwood, and that I was so wet I was dripping on the small rug that fronted the door.
I took the towel from him almost gratefully. I supposed I couldn’t blame him for not wanting me to drip all over his hardwood.
“Thanks,” I said as I began to blot water from my hair.
“No cell phone and no umbrella,” he mused. “It appears you were ill-prepared for this evening’s outing.”
I glanced up at him from under my fringe. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was being a jerk or if that was supposed to be friendly banter. I’m usually better than that at reading people.
“I also didn’t bring a spare car, a hairdryer or condoms,” I quipped. “I’m ill-prepared for just about anything except a quiet evening at home.”
For the first time, a hint of humour glinted in his eyes. Eyes, I might add, that were the kind of smoky grey hue that would look blue if he were wearing a blue shirt. Yum.
“I can’t help you with the car or the hairdryer, but if you need condoms, feel free to ask.” The humour had drifted down to his lips, which were now curved into a faint, but truly sexy, smile. As far as I could tell, he still hadn’t taken in the view my wet T-shirt offered.
I let the towel settle around my shoulders and peered up at him, trying to get a read on him. I noticed the gold band that circled his ring finger. I’d neglected to ask Jeffrey how long ago his mother had died, though I knew from his fresh grief it had been recent. I thought it notable; however, that Blackburn still wore the wedding band. If he’d married and murdered her for her money, it seemed like he’d dispense with the ring while in the privacy of his own home.
He saw the direction of my gaze, and the smile faded. “Please forgive my . . . erratic manners. My wife passed away last month and I’m not quite myself yet.”
“Oh!” I gasped in feigned surprise. “I’m so sorry!” I reached out to touch his arm in a gesture of feminine sympathy. He looked appropriately sad, but it was hard to see that crack about the condoms as anything but flirting. Of course, some men flirt by instinct. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
“Thank you,” he said, gently extracting his arm from my grip. “The phone is this way.”
I prised my wet sneakers off and left them on the doormat, then followed Blackburn
through the dining room and into the kitchen. He indicated the phone on the wall, then settled his butt against the butcher-block counter across from me and watched with unnerving intensity as I dialled.
“You must not be new to car trouble,” he said.
I frowned at him as the phone began to ring. “Why do you say that?” As soon as the words left my mouth, my brain caught up and I knew what he was about to say.
“You’ve memorized the number for the tow truck.”
I grinned ruefully; I was letting myself get too hot and bothered by Mr Ross Blackburn. Hormones and clear thinking don’t go together. “My car’s a piece of shit,” I confided. “Pardon my French.”
Finally, Miles answered the phone with his usual brusque, “Yeah?”
“Hi,” I said. “This is Gemma Johanson. I need a tow truck at . . .” I gave Blackburn a raised eyebrow, and he told me the address, which I dutifully repeated.
“That so?” Miles asked. He was used to calls like these, though usually I warned him in advance that I’d be calling and let him know who he was supposed to be.
“How long will it take?”
“How long do you want it to take?” he countered.
“An hour!” I wailed in mock dismay, and Miles snorted with laughter at my acting. “It’s after midnight, and I’m stuck in some stranger’s house. Can’t you get someone here faster?”
