The Artisan: An Artistic Assassin Thriller

by Dyal Bailey

  His lips curved into a pathetic mime-like smile when he heard Antonio’s familiar voice at the end of the line. He sniffed.

  “I don't think I can help you, my friend. I’m just not up to it today.” He swallowed his tears. “I'm just not in the mood. You’ll have to find someone else.” Squeezing shut his shining blue eyes, a new rush of self-pity covered his face. “I’m sure there are plenty of talented men out there with a video camera and a knife. Besides, my tools aren’t even sharp.” He walked over to a dagger and used it to split a hair. “Is it my fault that your relatives can’t seem to control their women?” Turning to his film equipment table, he ran his fingers over his favorite high definition video camera. “You told me you didn’t like your cousin Joey anyway. Why should you be doing him this favor?” He listened and exhaled.

  Suddenly, Günter’s face lit up. “So it’s a surprise? I’ll need some new wrapping paper then.” A glimmer of intrigue flashed into his eyes. “A golden blonde? You’re not just saying that to cheer me up?” His mood continued to brighten. “What color are her eyes?” He removed a lens cover. “Greenish-blue or grayish-blue?” He raised a well-plucked brow. “Well, it matters to me.” Taking a cloth, he removed an infinitesimal fleck of dust from the lens. “Okay, but don’t blame me if my outfit completely clashes this time.” He scoffed and plopped down into a chair. “Of course I’ve heard of the Sandman, you Sicilian peasant! I’m from Munich, aren’t I?” he huffed, but stood up and glided over to his iPad, clicking to his Offenbach collection. Locating his playlist, he put on his beloved track of Belle nuit, o nuit d’amour. He sighed. “Not that it matters if I won’t even be able to pick out a proper scarf.” The tinkling harps from The Tales of Hoffman opera filled the room. As Anna Netrebko and Elina Garanca’s voices caressed his ears and intoxicated him with their unmatched version of the barcarolle, he smiled. “Sure, I’d love a scan of her bridal portrait.”

  Günter clicked off the phone with a satisfied grin.

  He made his way back to his chair and thought of his liebling mother. Almost every night she had dutifully read him his favorite bedtime story about the Sandman. He sighed and remembered how delighted he had been in the morning to find that the Sandman hadn’t stolen his eyes after all. Filled with the moment, he placed his laptop aside and stretched out on his chaise longue.

  Breathing softly, he closed his eyes and pretended to be sleeping. Then suddenly, he popped up, reached for his eyes, opened them, and squealed like a delighted child. What a wonderful story, told by such a wonderful woman.

  Yes, yes. He would very much enjoy playing the part of the Sandman tonight.

  …

  The next day, at the Peloso compound, a clueless and weeping Cousin Joey clicked on the DVD player, showing the video of his now-departed wife.

  He left the privacy of his office to several Peloso family members, as well as Joey’s father, brother, Antonio, and his Uncle Mezzo. All eyes were glued to the television screen. The movie began, and soon they heard several moans and screams coming from the beautiful golden blonde.

  “This is horrible.” Uncle Mezzo gazed at the screen, curiosity widening his eyes.

  Joey’s father nodded, “Yes. A tragedy.”

  “Whoever this man is that did this, he’s sick and depraved,” a cousin added in.

  Uncle Mezzo sighed. “I agree.”

  Everyone was still watching the screen. Suddenly, they all gasped, but more with interest than surprise.

  Joey’s father rubbed his chin and adjusted his glasses. “All this random severing—in my day, the fingers were enough.”

  Several heads shook at the killer’s waste of time. Another cousin pointed at the screen. “And what kind of outfit is that fruitcake wearing? Please tell me that isn’t lace around his collar.”

  “Whoever this is, Bruno and me are going to get them, but good,” said Joey’s brother.

  There was another scream and all heads turned sideways. Uncle Mezzo coughed. “But, you have to admit, the man‘s good with a knife.”

  The entire family nodded their heads and solemnly agreed. Forgetting himself, Antonio waved an enthusiastic arm. “And do you see how the blue in his coat just matches the color of her eyes?”

  Several mouths dropped open and everyone stared at him. Uncle Mezzo gave him a severe look and clicked off the TV. “It’s nonetheless a terrible tragedy. And poor Joey.” Antonio blushed and lowered his eyes.

  The whole family chimed in—“Yes, poor Joey.” Uncle Mezzo elbowed Antonio in the ribs as everyone filed out the door. Antonio gave his uncle a sheepish grin.

  Chapter Eight

  Not yet seven a.m., Rafaela was already hard at work at Gen-Bio-Lab when Micah bounded in. She glanced up before going back to work. Micah headed to his computer and worked on the data she had placed on his desk earlier. As soon as he was finished, he sauntered up to her and handed her the results. She started to take the pages from him, but he didn’t let go. She looked around the room, before meeting his gaze.

  “Micah. Let. Go. Of. The. Sheets,” she ordered, unamused.

  “Where were you last night?” He didn’t loosen his grip.

  She scanned the lab again to see if anyone was witnessing their exchange. “Please, someone will see you.”

  He released the pages, but didn’t move away. “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Shush. It’s not like we had a date.”

  “Didn’t we?” He stared down at her.

  “Go away.” She saw Dr. Jacobs heading into the lab.

  “Meet me tonight.” Micah, following her eyes, stood his ground.

  “No,” she stated, biting her lip.

  “I’m not leaving till you say yes.” He moved closer and inhaled the scent of her.

  She glared at him then peeked back at Dr. Jacobs, who was almost to her.

  “One drink.” He enjoyed her discomfort.

  “Okay, one drink,” she snapped.

  “If you insist.” He brushed his hand across her shoulder and headed back to his desk. Dr. Jacobs walked over to Rafaela, giving her and Micah a curious brow raise.

  …

  It was well after six in the evening when she walked through the oyster shell parking lot to the entrance of Rhinehart’s Oyster Bar.

  She paused as she passed by a very hairy blue-collar working man. He seemed not to notice her and, taking out his keys, exited the bar. She felt the tiny, invisible hairs come up on the back of her neck. She stopped in her tracks, studied his features, and followed him back out. Always in tune to danger, she halted in the middle of the parking lot and studied him as he climbed into his truck.

  What a hairy devil. Even his ears are sprinkled with hair and I could make a wig out of his arm hairs alone.

  She kept thinking that there was something familiar about the man. And something that was out of place. Like he was wearing the wrong clothes, or was in the wrong town, or something worse, something sinister. Biting her lip, however, she came up with nothing.

  Unknown to Rafaela, Fritz Mittler was sitting in a car with tinted windows in the parking lot, watching her. With his window cracked, he was monitoring her with a high tech listening device. He combed his thick black bangs into the rest of his smooth blonde hair. In his side view mirror he saw several unmarked CIA vehicles pull into the parking lot.

  Fritz watched to make sure they hadn’t noticed him. After a few minutes, he relaxed, seeing that all their attention was focused on Rafaela. He squeezed his steering wheel in frustration, realizing how closely she was being watched in Augusta. But Fritz was patient. He knew he’d be able to wait her out and find a better place.

  Micah pulled in, parked his car, and walked up behind Rafaela. “Hey! Fancy meeting you here!” He kissed her neck.

  “Look, I bought you something.” Before Rafaela could stop him, he clipped a diamond bracelet onto her wrist. Basking in his boyish grin, she nibbled on her lower lip again.

  “I can’t accept this.” She fought to keep her eyes
from tearing up.

  “Of course you can…” He stopped midsentence when he saw the serious expression on her face.

  “Micah, I only agreed to meet you to—to tell you that I’m definitely leaving.” In her struggle to be strong, she knew she was coming off stern. What could she do?

  He stared at her a moment and gritted his teeth. “So you’re giving up the research opportunity of a lifetime to play fetch for those bastards at the CIA?” Both anger and sadness were all over his face. As he struggled to control his emotions, the veins began popping out on his neck.

  She started to take off the bracelet, but he stopped her. “Keep it. I bought it for you, dammit.”

  Her shoulders curled, but she didn’t take the bait. “My plane leaves in a couple of hours.”

  “To New Orleans?” he shot back.

  She paused for a moment. “Yes,” she said, unable to lie to him. His knowledge of her destination had caught her off guard, but she shrugged, remembering his unmatched computer surveillance abilities. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “So far the viruses I trained for Jacobs are remaining stable. Which means I probably won’t be back.” Her voice fell flat.

  “Puja said you’d have at least two more days.” He started to reach for her, but she moved away. His hands went limp from the painful rejection.

  “The last three vectors trained quickly. I was able to finish up just after you left today.” There was a slight quiver in her voice, and she hoped he didn’t notice.

  “What does Dr. Jacobs say?” He studied her face.

  “There is nothing to say. He knows I have a job and I have to get back to work.” She saw what this was doing to him and it was killing her. She watched as he started to speak, but changed his mind. He took one more glance at her and trudged away.

  Her arms felt heavy and tired. She let out a low sigh and headed to her car. More than any other time in her life, she hated herself, she hated her job, and she hated what was left of her life. But she had a job, an important one, and a life. Now she would just have to keep her chin up and get back to it.

  She set her eyes ahead, cranked her car, and moved on, unaware she was being watched.

  Chapter Nine

  Mallory Fairfax, Augusta’s first female District Attorney, wanted to strangle the sheriff. Intense, yet restrained by her elegant southern breeding, she had begun pacing back and forth in an attempt to control her anger. She glowered at the sheriff and wished she could jump across the desk and rip all the hair spray out of the woman’s hair.

  Wanda-Jean ignored her, adjusted her badge, and sat with her feet propped up on her desk. “I’m on it Mallory. I am on it!”

  The District Attorney continued her rampage. “The hell you are! These sickos are building steam. And y’all still haven’t found the connection between Hank Tanker and the other Dress-Up Murders.”

  The sheriff sat up in her chair. “You know my senior detective Mimi Watson? Booger Watson’s oldest girl. The one trained by the FBI.”

  Mallory stopped in her tracks. “The one who’s kind of—” She mimicked a muscle man pose.

  Wanda-Jean let out a half laugh that turned into a snort. “Yeah, that’s the one. Well, she’s pulling together a case that links the warehouse break-ins to the murders. And she has a DNA hair sample that might belong to the Peloso Crime Family.”

  “You want me to believe that members of a Chicago crime family are in Augusta, Georgia, killing people, and dressing them up?” Mallory propped on the edge of a chair, but bounced her crossed leg as if to reiterate her growing impatience.

  The sheriff leaned back and stuck a toothpick in her mouth. “I’m telling you that our Mimi is on this like white on rice. So tell your people to calm right on down. Why, ole Mimi’s a regular blue tick hound.”

  Mallory leaned forward, but appeared unconvinced.

  …

  Standing on a ladder with a lavender feather duster in his hand, Günter cringed when he heard his cell phone ring. His hand clenched, he tapped his French manicure across the shelf. The phone rang again. Günter stuck his nose in the air.

  “No! Absolutely not.”

  There was another ring! He threw back his head and tossed the duster onto the surrounding drop cloth. Bounding off the stepladder, he swept up the annoying phone with one hand.

  “I don't care how urgent you think it is, Antonio! Today is Soup Day, and my entire home is covered in filth.” He ran his finger over a spotless and perfectly polished table. “Then I suggest you go find someone else, because no one is going to die by these hands until I’m done with all my cleaning.” He took a minuscule brush and swabbed around the inner edge of a picture frame. “Do you think I have forgotten the last time you sent me to kill a policewoman?”

  He trotted to a utility sink, cleansed the tiny brush, and put it away in a miniature baggie. Picking up a cloth, he started buffing an antique end table, as if he was waxing the hood of a car. He paused and went over the entire piece again.

  Stopping to fully listen to what his friend was saying, he scoffed. “Hah! The hideous creature hadn't even the decency to shave both her legs.” He ignored Antonio’s laugh, distracted by a dusty area he’d missed on one of the bookshelves. “All I can say is, it was a good thing for you that I bring extra gloves.” The smidgeon of grey film soon fell victim to his polishing cloth as Günter rubbed it away as if his life depended on it. “This is hardly La Bohème. Besides, I never liked the Mimi character in the opera anyway.”

  He climbed down, wiped his hands, and glided into the kitchen. A huge pot of lentil and wurst soup was bubbling on top of the stove. Peeking under the lid, he stirred it exactly three times, and turned it down a notch.

  “Then you must be desperate for entertainment, ‘Oh Mimi, Mimi, come cough up your snot on my bed while Musetta sells the earrings she earned by having sex with cadaverous old men.’” He huffed and strode over to a paper-covered stand where he’d placed the furniture oil. Expanding the muscles on his arm, he screwed the lid on extra tight. “Hah! If I had written the libretto, then Mimi would have been a good German girl. She'd have gotten Rudolfo some firewood, ironed his clothes, and sent him off to find a real job.” Returning the polish to its shelf, label facing the front, he put the soiled mitten into a plastic bag and placed it on top of the folded clothes in his dirty laundry basket. “My attitude is blue collar?! When you dare to ask me to defile my knives on women with hair all over their bodies?”

  He slapped his chest and let out a mocking laugh. Then he stopped and listened for a moment.

  “Now that might work. But only if you send me detailed photos.” He studied his nails. “Hah! As if I would trust some backwoods spa to do an adequate waxing job.” Looking at his feet, he added, “And tell them not to forget to wax her toes.” Seeing a speck of lint on a chair, he huffed, and plucked it up with his fingertips. “No, I’m not being picky. Sending gift wrapped fingers to the police is unbearably passé. Besides, dealing with law enforcement is not only repulsive, it’s risky. So if we’re raising the stakes on this project of yours by killing a female detective, everything might as well be perfect.”

  Günter clicked off and scrolled through his iPod until he found his Roberto Alagna folder with the French-Sicilian tenor’s incomparable Che gelida manina on the list.

  …

  Antonio hung up and wandered over to the well-stocked bar inside the inner office of his houseboat. He removed a bottle of Hendrick’s gin, started to make himself a martini, but changed his mind and reached for the tonic.

  He laughed somewhat to himself when he considered his friend’s complaints about Puccini’s most celebrated opera. The persnickety assassin knew very well that La Bohème was a masterpiece. Why, the composer’s music all but ripped the tears out of your eyes. He sighed. Oh well, some people just couldn’t be fixed.

  He was sure that Günter’s childhood and life in Munich was not his problem, but rather those seven outlandish years he’d spent in Paris. Even after all this
time, a part of him was still a relentlessly complaining Parisian.

  Parisians love to complain. It’s part of their culture. And when you ask them why they like to complain, they give you one of their elegant shrugs and complain about people asking so many questions.

  Within six months of living in Paris, his friend became immersed in becoming French. He ended all his emails in a phrase or two of grammatically perfect French. He sprinkled all his English and German conversations with French. His walk, his dress, his taste in food, and his entire outlook became French. But he didn’t morph into just any kind of Frenchman, but a Parisian Frenchman. And thus as a respectable Parisian, he complained.

  Sometimes his laissez faire attitude and the fact that he was an ocean away nearly drove Antonio nuts. He’d shouted for joy when the assassin purchased his apartment in Soho. Of course he had only moved there because every Parisian dreams of living in New York City. Being the absorbent individual he was, Günter soon adapted himself to that very modern metropolis. But although his years in New York by now well surpassed the ones he had spent in Paris, he still complained as a matter of social conscience.

  And he always wore scarves. The Municher-turned-Parisian-turned-New Yorker would no more step from his apartment without some silky something draped over his shoulders than he would do so with a chip in his lacquered French manicure.

  He sighed and squeezed another lime in his gin and tonic. Taking his seat, Antonio pulled out a perfectly square piece of paper that was white on one side and black on the other. He’d started folding it into one of the mathematician Erik Demaine’s hyperbolic paraboloid origami patterns, when his cell phone rang.

  He frowned as he observed the caller ID. The call was from his man in Louisiana. He answered with his “What now?” voice and listened. His mood went from irritation to outrage. Almost dropping his phone, he shouted, “Fritz Mittler is in New Orleans?!”