In a nutshell, I basically think: Yuck.
But if Connor and I become an item, if this goes further than just dating, attempted brainwashing, him calling me and hanging out hoping to get lucky (in other words gets serious), then THAT would definitely give head office an advantage if I suddenly decided I was quitting for good. Especially if they weren’t ready to let me retire quietly.
Definitely food for thought. Not the kind of food Terry Dyer is getting delivered today, but definitely something for my brain cells to chew over. Now I think about it, vanilla blackmail is certainly head office’s normal scheme of things. In the shape of offered incentives like shoes, sunbeds and Botox - or in my case, knitting wool and tree-houses, as they try to figure out my interests and weaknesses in the absence of any addictions.
Like Elaine and her cookie-pushing, when she wants a man’s loyalty and undivided attention. I’ve seen Des do it with alcohol when she fancies a customer, giving them two-for-one, charging single shot for a double, or giving them a jug of vodka Appletini for the princely sum of a quick snog over the bar. Rather than have faith in loyalty without a price, work out what the price is to keep them coming back at any cost. Coming back for the cookies and booze, anyway - until sugar and beer goggles make the targets more agreeable to handing over the rights to their sperm. Their own personal contract with the Devil, if the Devil in their minds is an amoral erotomaniac, with a delusional sleep disorder due to the deafening sound in her head of her body-clock ticking away every night.
At least head office only want hit-men killed, I think to myself. I’m glad I’m not a man, risking meeting women trying to harvest my DNA every time I go out for a drink.
I get to Terry’s and wait in the car. I feel like a benefits investigator on a stakeout, or a Hollywood gangland hit-man waiting to carry out a drive-by. I’m wearing my old blue petrol/oil-resistant mechanic’s overalls over my work uniform to save time and bloodstains, my ponytail tucked into the back of an Exxon-Mobil baseball cap, and have put one of the garage’s plastic-bag seat-covers over the driving seat, as if I’m returning a car from servicing. For some reason, dressing like this makes me think I should wash the car more often.
I get my phone out and play Tetris, pretending to text or something more social, in case anyone wonders what I’m waiting around for. It does feel far too ‘Comedy Hit-Man’ to be hanging around in a ropey disguise, instead of whatever I could grab off the floor, or out of the fancy-dress box. I even had to put some thought into it. Anyone watching would half expect me to pull off a mask, and turn out to be Eddie Murphy or Chevy Chase.
I miss my Skellington outfit. I’d even be happier with a Tanoshii Meals paper bag over my head, a snorkel and goggles, or a lot of kid’s party face-paint. Or my Iron Fist killer cupcake nightshirt, and a sleep mask. I feel more obvious, hanging around dressed as something contrived, than turning up as myself on a bad day.
This better not take long. I don’t want to be late for my REAL job.
I also hope that this isn’t the way the job’s going to go from now on. Stuck in plain view, trying to act normal when I’d much rather be on a roof, or in a tree, being a psychopath. All this parading around in public is out of character for me. I’m more at home creeping around in the dark, at the dead of night. I heave a sigh. It’s probably just in my nature. Not a personality disorder that can be categorized, or a lifestyle choice, e.g. to identify with a niche group like Goth or Emo. I always was a night vigilante. Worrying what business anyone else had, to be out late at night. If they’re not star-gazing, like I started out doing originally.
Sometimes, they’re only out delivering pizza.
I wonder what hit-men emulate or pick as their role models when deciding on their character. It’s not like nightclub teamwork, where you have the osmosis of absorbing the methods, attitudes and approaches of the real people working around you. A lone hit-man only has his iconic idealism to lead him. Whether it’s Michael Caine, Jean Reno, Daniel Craig, or Samuel L Jackson. Even Timothy Olyphant. A lone hit-man has a better chance of survival than in a team, who are always at risk of the next stab being in their own back, severing them from their cut in the contract payout. But in terms of their sanity, keeping their heads above water in the job, what do they turn to if Hollywood only contributes a part of their inspiration?
Maybe alcohol or drugs. Maybe a religion. I happen to know a number of cult-like martial arts clubs with some shiny-eyed Bruce Lee and Hatsumi Masaaki fanatics in. Maybe even the Territorial Army. Or maybe just some of the more lurid console games.
As a mental case myself, it’s more about looking for the ordinary to inspire me, away from the job - to absorb the culture of. Psychologically, I’m on the inside of a dangerous mind, looking out. I’m forever mystified at what motivates others to want to find a way in. Except for greed, in its various forms. It’s the greed that leads to acts of evil. But a dangerous mind sticks around even while you’re knitting mittens and a bobble hat. A dangerous mind needs a lot of mundane activity to start feeling normal. A normal mind, preoccupied with greed, engaged in evil acts to feed greed, merely becomes an addict, an adrenaline junkie to risk, effort and reward. A dangerous mind is not necessarily evil. The motivation and acts are what determines a person as evil. A dangerous mind with no desire to be evil is just a burden, a mental illness, like being a prison officer to your own brain, hearing it ranting late at night. Or worrying what it’s going to say about the next person passing. An imagination gone wrong, with no way of determining the difference between fiction and reality.
I notice I’ve become introspective as opposed to observational. I suppose in a way I’m lucky. I’m not in the psychological position of being able to feel any sympathy for a contract killer. For one thing, they’re taking money for it, and buffing up their image and ego in the process.
I’m just thinking, Stupid wankers.
I am aware that head office recruit - or to give it the more accurately questionable term, sub-contract - people like me, in a position weak enough to work for nothing more than a bit of Finders Keepers, and early birthday presents. Their reasons for doing so range from the logical, being that it’s more cost-effective and efficient than paying more armed undercover police, to the slightly shady, being that should we cock up ever, we’re just escaped mental patients on the run with a stolen weapon or two, which always passes scrutiny in the Press. We are basically just a step up from Joe ‘The Grass’ Public, Police Informer.
I imagine police informers also lost quite a few favours, once people started bragging about themselves on Facebuddy, making a few people redundant. Most likely they got promoted as well, I think to myself. Got put in an I.T. room, browsing Facebuddy and Twaddle to keep up with the million or so blogging criminals on the net. For some reason I picture Bob and Jay, and smile to myself. Yeah. I can imagine those two as former snitches, trying to avoid a police record for dealing chocolate chip hash brownies.
I’ve scored over 300 lines on Tetris before there’s any sign of activity, in Terry’s leafy suburban street. I stop the game in time for head office to ring.
“Little red Vespa approaching you now,” they say. “Pizza Heaven on the top-box.”
“Nice wordplay,” I remark. “Crappiest getaway vehicle I’ve ever seen, though.”
“Ah, first impressions - and all that,” they say knowingly. “He’s got a Mercedes van waiting in the wings to pick him up. Two drivers, unarmed, faking local commission roadside assistance.”
“Oh, I see. Scheduled breakdown recovery,” I reply. “Want me to give it a proper breakdown?”
“We think Special Unit have got their sights set on the Merc. About time they upgraded from that ex-Dyno-Rod Transit. Because the drivers are unarmed, we’re just sending in the wheel-clampers to impound it. You may or may not have noticed the gloriously fresh double yellow lines painted all around this block. The woman with the home dog-grooming business next door to Terry’s totally lost her cool over that this morning. Sc
reaming that there’s nowhere for her customers to park.”
“What did you say?” I chuckle.
“They’re bloody dog owners, fucking let them walk, they’re used to it - or should be,” head office reply mildly. “Anyway, they’ll all be gone when the Council get enough complaints letters and snotty emails. It’ll be a good excuse to make it a parking meter zone instead.”
“Bastards,” I chuckle. “Any idea what Pizza Boy is armed with?”
“Biohazard,” they report. “Bit of a Salmonella Streptococcus Special, with deep-fried Botulism Sticks, a side order of Crispy Garlic Fly Agaric, Angel Dusted Doughnuts, and a large Ketamine Cola, so to speak. But most food delivery boys carry CS gas now. Except for Scamways supermarket delivery drivers. They carry Tasers. You’d love to know how many people wouldn’t mind getting their hands on a nice hijacked refrigerated supermarket truck.”
“I can imagine,” I muse. “Okay. I’ll look out for over-zealous personal security items on Pizza Boy, defending himself with extreme prejudice. I hope he’s brought something fun. By the sound of dinner, Terry might have to crack open a Rennie. He might even belch. Don’t you remember the fibreglass chop suey? He just coughed it up like a hairball and got minor haemorrhoids.”
“His body’s got to give out at some point. We’re hoping it’s soon, before his kids get too old to miss him.”
“It’s probably one of his kids delivering the pizza,” I mutter. “Okay, I’m guessing YOU want the Mercedes getaway van. How do you want Pizza Boy?”
“If he pulls out an offensive weapon, in a body bag,” they respond. “If he pulls out anything from a bicycle chain down, detain him for uniform to take away. If all he does is hand over pizza, let him go. We’ll follow him from his pick-up point, because as of now, the Merc’s going nowhere except to be tucked up nice and warm in Special Unit’s depot. While the drivers are on their way down the nick to answer some questions about impersonating roadside service personnel.”
“What about Terry’s Meals on Wheels?” I ask. “Are you willing to chance it?”
“He’s definitely eaten worse,” they tell me. “We looked at this kid’s shopping list on the internet. Would give a dog a bit of a hangover. But knowing Dyer, he’ll probably get away with a few days off sick and some Dioralyte.”
I leave the mobile on Speakerphone as I stick it in the dash. Pizza Boy approaches the front door, carefully balancing Death By Dinner, and then rings the doorbell on Terry’s period mews house. I’m watching Pizza Boy’s hands closely. He’s still got his motorcycle gloves on, but I’m guessing it’s as much not to absorb transient toxins as to leave fingerprints. I’m interested in case they go for any of his pockets, and what else might emerge.
“Sorry, did you want camera view?” I ask head office, drumming my fingers on the Beretta barrel, as it rests on my knee under the steering wheel.
“No, we’ve got CCTV on the lamp-post right outside his door,” they reassure me.
Terry’s frame fills the doorway, blocking any internal view of his house. His wallet emerges from his pocket, in a hand resembling a rack of pork ribs, and he towers over the boy’s ropey figure while he counts notes laboriously, swaying slightly in a very familiar way. Pissed already, I hear myself and Pizza Boy think simultaneously.
Terry stops counting and sways a bit more. I see the boy’s helmet angle quizzically, as if saying: Are you all right?
The wallet falls. Terry’s swaying is abruptly ended by the doorframe, as his left side gives way. He doesn’t so much slump as wedge upright, his eyes looking alarmed, mouth opening and shutting like a landed fish.
Pizza Boy takes a faltering step back, and looks around urgently, as Terry starts to keel. I’m already halfway out of the car, remembering to grab my phone on the way out.
“No contact, no contact,” head office order. “Hit not carried out.”
“I can see that,” I say, crossing the road. Pizza Boy turns and looks at me, and I point to the food parcel he’s still holding, with the muzzle of the Beretta. “Put that down, and call an ambulance.”
“I can’t just leave this lying around,” the lad falters, skin pallor lightening visibly under his pushed-up visor.
“I don’t care if it crawls away into the bushes, it’s not your problem any more. He is.” I wave the gun in Terry’s direction. “Get an ambulance on the phone. You’re going to tell them what I tell you to say.”
The Pizza Boy drops his delivery and pulls out a Blueberry, dialling Emergency Services. I look at Terry Dyer, now on his knees on the step, gripping the doorframe with his right hand so that the meaty knuckles are stark white. Gibberish comes out of his mouth as he sees the gun in my hand.
I’m just glad he hasn’t looked up at my face. Not because I’m aware that by the look of things, he’s having trouble with his neck muscles generally.
“Is he having a heart attack?” Pizza Boy asks. “Oh yeah, er, ambulance please.”
“Either that, or a stroke,” I correct him. “Too many additives in his diet.”
A sudden piercing siren makes us both jump, and I realise it’s my car telling me the driver’s door is open.
“Can you shut that off?” I ask head office on my mobile, and the car door slams with a beep, notifying the end of the alarm. “Cheers.” I catch Pizza Boy’s eye as he’s giving the address and his phone number. “Just talking to my poltergeist.”
“Yeah, Yuri had to install automatic and remote lockdown on your car since the last upgrade,” head office confirm. “We’ve got an ambulance at the petrol station at Scamways, can get it to you in three.”
“Not Adam Grayson,” I say.
“He can get rid of that pizza box as biohazard. Make sure no-one else touches it.”
“Yeah, it’s my Dad,” I hear Pizza Boy saying. “Terrence Wilberforce Dyer. He’s forty-four.”
Points to me, I think.
He disconnects and looks at me.
“Three minutes,” he says, and I nod. He looks down at my gun again suspiciously. “Who are you working for?”
“Him,” I say truthfully, pointing at Terry. “I’m one of his door staff.”
“Oh,” he says, and his attitude changes slightly. “He said he gets someone to watch the house occasionally. Usually when he’s away.”
“One of the small benefits of running your own security firm,” I shrug. “What’s your name?”
“Ian Dyer.”
“Everything okay?” head office ask me.
“Yeah, it’s all good,” I report. “Got his next of kin here. Can go in the ambulance with him.”
“Who’s that you’re talking to?” Ian asks.
“The police,” I tell him. A wink of light catches my eye, and I look up at the rooftops opposite. “They’ve been keeping an eye on your Dad too.”
Ian’s gaze wanders uncomfortably to the pizza parcel.
“I’ll have to call work and tell them where I am,” he says miserably.
“Yeah, you can sort that out when Terry’s fixed up,” I tell him, and a flashing blue light announces the arrival of the ambulance. The big lemon-yellow van pulls up, and Adam Grayson gets out and approaches, while two other paramedics open the rear doors and pull the stretcher down. “Hey, there. Got a cardiac or stroke victim for you.”
“Okay.” He surveys the scenario quickly. “All right, fella, you’re off to hospital. What’s that?”
He points with the pen in his purple latex-gloved hand, at the dark blue pizza bag on the ground.
“Biohazard. Yellow bag job.”
“That bad, huh?” He looks questioningly at Ian the Pizza Boy. “You get this reaction to your food often?”
“First time ever,” Ian mutters. Adam looks at me. His blonde cropped punk hairstyle hasn’t changed in ten years since I last saw him. He adjusts the wireless hands-free earpiece in his ear, and I recognise the tinny sound of head office talking to him on another line.
“No contact,” head office remind me on my ph
one, in unison. “The weapon’s on the ground, it’s a non-hit.”
“Put that away,” Adam says quietly, touching the back of my hand which has the gun in it, as the other paramedics approach. I shove it into my overalls pocket. He turns to Ian. “Right, we’re going to assess your Dad in the ambulance on the way to hospital, we need to treat him ASAP. You can give us the details on the way.” He unzips his green equipment satchel to take out a yellow biohazard disposal bag, while the other two ready the stretcher, lengthening the safety straps. “Chuck your delivery box in here. Nobody’s going to want that now.”
Ian complies, and Adam seals it.
“Hazard secure,” Adam and I both report at once.
“Clear the scene,” they tell me, as Terry is loaded onto the trolley, Ian helping by lifting his feet. “Your part is done. We’ll get the kid counselled in A&E and find out what’s going on with him.”
“Cool, I need to get to work,” I say. I nod at Adam in passing and head for my car, which unlocks as I approach it, taking the key fob out of my pocket. “Give me a shout if there’s anything else.”
“We’ll look after Dyer,” they assure me. “Since last week he’s only worth about the cost of one of his small dinners anyway. Looks like this was personal, family business. It’s all politics and pet protesters in fashion this week, and supermodels who wear fur.”
“Sounds like an interesting contract,” I remark politely, getting back into the car and returning the Beretta to the glove-box. “What is it, hit-men for hire to go and bag a new endangered species of coat?”
“Don’t joke about it,” they chuckle. “You never know what’s coming up next.”
Chapter 23: Karmachanic
I greet my workmates, and pay my routine toilet visit when I arrive at work. All on autopilot as my mind’s not on it, thinking about Terry Dyer’s lucky escape so far. Not that he wasn’t killed by a hit-man, but that he was lucky enough to have both his hit-man and his hit-man’s executioner on site to assist him, when he almost spontaneously died on his own doorstep. My mind is replaying it over and over, as I stand at the Dyson Blade hand dryer.
Death & the City Book Two Page 4
