by Sam Jones
The Fever Dream
Sam Jones
Copyright © 2016 Sam Jones
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1537539450
ISBN 13: 9781537539454
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016914985
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
The hour of reckoning was close at hand as the second shot of whiskey hit Amanda like a freight train. Her skin flushed, her throat burned, and her eyes welled up from the harsh kick of liquor. Euphoria seared through her veins as thoughts of the trials that laid ahead took center stage.
It didn’t take much to get Amanda tipsy. She was a buck ten, soaking wet. One shot was good enough to get the job done. Whatever tolerance she formerly acquired had been burned off with Pilates, yoga, and a strong emphasis on cardio. She was thin, toned, and healthy.
A petite frame complimented well-defined curves in every place they should be. Flowing, dark auburn hair with red tints caught the light and mesmerized those whose gaze fell upon it, like a Siren from old folklore. Her face was an oval shape that sported quirky, overgrown sideburns, which fell past the middle of her jawline and curled up at the ends in a delicate, feminine twist. She once had the perfect nose, or ‘perfect’ by whatever shallow gauge people generally used to judge physical looks. When she was fourteen she was a dancer. A good one. The story she gave behind the breakage of her nose was a recital, when she raised her leg too high and broke her perfect nose right across the bridge. Over time, her nose had healed and pointed slightly more downward. It was charming, like a trademark. Guys had to calibrate a little bit when kissing her but it was always worth the legwork.
Amanda was an attractive girl at the tippy-top of physical perfection.
And she hated all of it.
If she had it her way, which she didn’t, she’d be on the sofa demolishing a pint of some unnecessary concoction made up of every sweet imaginable. That was how she once lived. But, again, it was not her call.
Amanda Dubin was following someone else’s orders.
She took a quick glance around the bar – It was dark and made up entirely of oak that had been lacquered-up repeatedly over the years, judging by the shine on it. A few table lamps added a little glow in an environment that was clogged up by secondhand smoke. A string of light bulbs coated in green traced along the border of the front window. In the upper right corner of that same window, alongside a glowing advertisement for Jameson, was a neon shamrock sign. Everything pointed towards the joint’s Irish heritage, despite the fact that the bartender had a song playing over the jukebox by a guy named Engelbert Humperdinck.
A murky veneer hung over everything. The patrons were noisy but kept to themselves. The place was an ideal rendezvous for a secret meeting – out of the way, occupied, and loud. It was perfect for Amanda and the hit man who was en route to discuss the terms of killing her husband.
It was a call she made several days ago. Richie Dubin, the unfortunate spouse, had seemingly pushed the woman to her limits. Her marriage, like most, had turned into nothing more than brutal enslavement. She wanted him dead, and she only knew one guy who could point her in the right direction: Daniel, the charismatic hermit that lived in her complex. He may have talked too much, and most of his stories were slightly farfetched, but he was the only person she knew that wouldn’t rat her out to her husband if she did or said something illicit. They liked each other, and Daniel enjoyed Amanda’s minute or two chat sessions they would have since the day she moved in. For Amanda, Daniel was the only person she could talk to, being that the set of ‘rules’ Richie laid out for her generally prohibited her from creating or maintaining a relationship outside of their own. Richie tolerated Daniel, so it worked out well enough.
Daniel (never call him ‘Danny’) was a tiny Hispanic man, who had been dying of the same cancer for thirty years. He was a mousy guy – how he sounded, how he was built, and especially his face. It made people smile. He was like a friendly cartoon character. His nieces even called him ‘Uncle Mousey.’ The handful of times he saw them their eyes would go wide and their lips would curl inward, in that adorable way that only kids could do, like they were drawing in a big breath in anticipation of something amazing that was about to happen, and shout “Uncle Mousy’s baaaaaack!”
One night, Daniel caught Amanda taking her trash out. It was his usual, ten p.m. ‘perimeter walk.’ Daniel was the complex’s unofficial security man. His tactic was looping around the complex, four times, and shooing away anyone or anything that didn’t reside there. You knew it was an animal when you heard him mutter ‘piss off’ and a human when he called them a ‘motherfucker.’
Tonight, he was in his usual uniform: a black tank top, olive shorts, and army boots. He intercepted Amanda walking out of her apartment and regaled her with repeat stories of old bar fights, cancer prevention techniques he invented, and the time he almost had his cousin killed.
“Mandy!” he said, saying her name like it elicited a sweet taste each time it slipped out of his mouth. “Swear to God! Motherfucker almost had his lights turned out. He doesn’t even know!”
“Why didn’t you do it?” she asked, making sure her voice was low for fear of prying ears.
“Too much money, Mandy. They wanted fifty thousand, I think… No, wait, sixty... Wait! It was forty!”
“Who’re they?”
Daniel stepped in closer, the stretched-out and faded eagle tattoo on his shoulder and tobacco-stained teeth were now in crystal, 4K view.
“You ever heard of ‘The Trust,’ Mandy?” Daniel asked.
Amanda shook her head.
“They’ve been around for a long time. Long as I can remember. They’re like the go-to organization.”
“For what?” Amanda asked. “What do they do?”
“Everything. I mean everything. Spy shit, other kinds of shit.”
“Hit jobs?”
Daniel cocked an eyebrow. “Why? Who you lookin’ to kill?”
“Keep your voice down, please…”
Daniel lowered his voice and ducked into the dark hallway behind him that lead to the upstairs units in a decent attempt at acting sly.
“You need somebody iced out?” he asked.
Amanda got nervous.
“Forget I said anything.”
She turned to leave.
“No!” Daniel said. “Hold up, hold up! I can give you a number.”
Daniel rushed to his left and ducked inside the unit that was his apartment. As soon as the door opened, a whiff of old delivery food and traces of cat litter assaulted Amanda’s senses. A few seconds passed before Daniel came back out with a crumpled Thai food receipt in his hand, a phone number written on it in scribbled, red permanent pen on the blank side.
“This is my buddy,” he said. “Call him. Tell him you’re looking for ‘The Trust.’ He’ll help you out.”
Amanda took the receipt, nodded, and stuffed it in her pocket.
Three days went by before she mustered the courage to make the call.
She had pounded the pavement around Hollywood until she located one of the last, remaining pay phones in the city, being that she didn’t own a cell phone. It was one of the rules that Richie had set forth: no phones, no computers.
She picked up the receiver, which wrecked like tobacco, popped in a couple of quarters, and slowly dialed the digits that Daniel had given. It rang twice before a guy with a gravelly voice answered; the ambience in the background was reminiscent of sounds one would hear in an auto repair garage.
Amanda didn’t give her name, but said she knew Daniel and was looking for an organization called ‘The Trust.’ The auto repair guy forwarded her to another number. It was a woman. Amanda
ran through the same shtick, this time substituting the ‘I know Daniel’ bit for ‘the auto guy gave me this number.’ The woman then forwarded Amanda to another number. A man with a monotonous tone answered. He said nothing when Amanda asked him about The Trust. All he did was give her a series of digits before abruptly hanging up.
Amanda called that number. The line picked up, and a charming English woman answered—
“Hello, and thank you for calling The Trust. My name is Tara. How may I help you today?”
It’s a real place! Okay, then…
Here we go…
Amanda collected her thoughts and held her breath for several seconds before she spoke. She kept it simple: “I want my husband dead.”
“Not a problem,” said Tara.
The customer service-like delivery threw Amanda. She almost laughed at the mild absurdity of it all. Tara then offered to place a contract order. She explained to Amanda that once and if the contract were accepted, a Contractor would call her. Amanda said thank you, and when Tara asked for a number they could reach her at, Amanda left Tara with the number of a friend of hers, Nicky. It was the only one she could think to give.
Amanda called Nicky’s number immediately after she spoke to Tara. It rang. Interminably.
Then the ringing stopped—
“Hey, you got Nicky!”
“Nicky, it’s Amanda!”
“Holy shit! Where have you been, girl?! How are you?!”
Amanda told Nicky that her and the hubby were fighting and she needed a ride and some time to think. He didn’t ask any questions, other than ones that would make her stay at his house more accommodating.
She made sure to mention the fact that a stranger would be calling for her through his number. The sweetheart he always was told her it was ‘more than okay.’
The next three days consisted of Amanda laying low on Nicky’s couch, wondering what type of fit Richie was in and if he had people looking for her. He had done it before. She tried to take her mind off of it as best she could and occupied her time with a Dirty Harry marathon that was on television.
Two days later, someone called.
It was a man, sporting a solemn yet upbeat voice. A calculated yet somehow warm persona seeped through his words. Stern but a little jokey. It was as if he was the type who flipped from being funny to deathly serious at the drop of a hat. He told Amanda he was curious about taking the contract but wanted a face-to-face. The meet at the bar was arranged for two days later, ten p.m., at a dive joint called Ireland’s. They confirmed and he left Amanda with nothing else but his name before hanging up.
Amanda lied and told Nicky it was her husband. “We’re going to patch it up,” she said. “I’m back home on Friday.”
“That’s great, babe.”
Friday night came around. Amanda grabbed her stuff, thanked Nicky profusely, kissed him on the cheek, and went to the bar, where she waited for the arrival of the man who was going to kill her husband.
The clock struck right at ten when he showed.
His tall, athletic frame and build filled the doorway. An essence lingered thick in the air, reminiscent of something like John Wayne when he entered the saloon to draw down on the bad guys.
The tall man moved in slow, fluid steps towards Amanda and slid into the seat to her right. Graceful. Slick. Calculated and cool.
“Amanda?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
He extended out his right hand. Warm. Welcoming. Professional. Then he said his name. The same one Amanda was given over the phone—
“Martin Black.”
Martin Black flagged down the bartender as Amanda clocked his wardrobe – dark silver suit. White dress shirt. Silver tie. All of it cleaned, pressed, and starched. The sharp cut of the suit gave a razor-like edge to his appearance. The shine of the fabric made him blend in or stand out, depending on the lighting.
He was a silver fox.
A man that lived day-to-day.
A guy that liked Motown hits and didn’t care much for politics.
His face caught the light. From the weight in his eyes, Amanda put him at about thirty, same age as she was. He had a light base tan from some time in the sun. Premature wrinkles near his eyes. Eye-catching, premature silver streaks in his sideburns.
Maybe he got struck by lightning…
The guy clearly had some wear and tear on him. All in all, Amanda thought he was a good-looking cat. She glanced down at his chest and could tell through the bulky spots in his clothing that he worked out. He wasn’t too thin but he certainly wasn’t beefy, so his daily regiment was most likely done for speed and efficiency over bulk. He looked a lot like an ‘80s action hero would. Amanda’s thoughts ran to Swayze in Road House and Gibson in Lethal Weapon.
Amanda was a classic cinema type of gal.
Black spoke—
“What’s good here?”
“Whiskey,” Amanda replied. “But they might be out by the time I’m finished with it.”
“What do you suggest I drink then?”
“Anything but vodka.”
“Not a vodka fan?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah. Me either.”
“It makes my legs ache the next morning.”
“Same.”
The frivolous commentary made Amanda feel like she was exchanging quips with someone on a first date. It was kind of nice. But it didn’t last long before her thoughts quickly refocused to the task at hand.
“So, uh… What’s your organization called again?”
Black lowered his voice. “The Trust.”
“And you’re…?”
“A Contractor.”
“Right. That’s what the woman said. Tara?”
Black knew Tara and knew her well. “She’s an all right lady,” he said with a smirk.
Once again Amanda felt like she was on a first date, that awkward part where you didn’t know what to say as silence held thick in the air.
“So, what do Contractors do, exactly?”
“Whatever you need.”
Black said it in a way that a confident car salesman or retail manager would. A speech that held an emphasis on customer satisfaction. A tonality filled with guarantees that he probably had made and followed through on many times before.
He took a long look at Amanda. She was worn down. On the ragged edge. Her jeans and red blouse sported two days’ worth of wrinkles, and she held a rigid posture that suggested a couple of sleepless nights on someone’s couch.
“Do you like it?” asked Amanda, “…being a Contractor?”
“I get to travel. Do different kinds of work.”
“What kinds of work?”
“All kinds.”
“Traveling the world and killing people for a living? Sounds like a comfy gig.”
“Not when you’re doing the work against your will,” said Black.
Amanda saw a bit of green fill in his eyes. Disgust. Angst.
“But, hey,” he said with a sense of optimism. “I get a per diem. I tend to waste it on stuff I don’t need just to stick it to my bosses. Also got a cover job. Keeps me grounded. And a nine-to-five gig makes things look on the up-and-up on the tax returns.”
“What’s your cover job?”
“I’m an English teacher.”
Amanda was shocked. It just didn’t fit his persona. “Really?” she said with an incredulous tone.
“I’m serious. Little town called Fleetwood, Pennsylvania. Little bit off the map. Quiet, which is always a plus.”
“You prefer the quiet?”
“I do.”
“Must be a difficult thing for you to pull off, being that you kill people for a living.”
Black smiled. “Killing people is easy. It’s tenth grade kids that prove to be the real challenge.”
Amanda leaned in, curiosity providing her with a momentary distraction. “How does your school feel about the fact that you run off for weeks at a time to take out these ‘contracts�
�� of yours?” she asked.
“They’re under the impression I go teach abroad every now and again, believe it or not. Plus, it’s summer break right now. I tend to take most of my contracts during the summer time.”
Black waved his hand like he was swatting away a fly.
“But enough about me,” he said. “What can I help you with, Amanda?”
“I want my husband dead.”
Straight to business.
“Why do you want him dead?”
“I’m trapped. I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve been his hostage for over a year now.”
“You said he was beating you.”
“He is.”
“Not a bruise on you.”
“What are you, the cops?”
“You didn’t try hitting them up? They get paid to handle stuff like this.”
“I went to the police. I reported him. They arrested him and let him go. I guess they just didn’t have enough facts to work with...”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Black, ten percent of him feeling genuinely bad.
He looked at her wrinkled wardrobe.
“But it’s been two days,” he said. “Two nights of what I’m sure has been restless sleep for you. Two nights of being able to re-think your options.”
“I’m not changing my mind, if that’s what you’re getting at. I want Richie dead. That’s what I want.”
Black could hear the hate in her voice oozing out like an open wound. But ten percent of her tone held a trembling base. A signifier of her uncertainty.
“You need to be absolutely sure,” Black said. “You can’t undo this once it’s done. You understand that?”
“I understand,” said Amanda.
Amanda was biting her time. Black knew that. She was asking for the death of her husband. She clearly despised the man but something had her scared enough that she didn’t want to take any chances.
Whatever it was that was causing her to play the back and forth bit; Black entertained it. It would lower her guard and get the ball rolling.
“So,” Amanda said. “Is Martin Black your real name?”
Black grinned, the charismatic guy returning. “Nope.”
