Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy

by R. E. Schobernd

  “Hell, if you need money kid just name the amount and I’ll loan it to you. And for as long as you need it at zero interest.” Then Tony had another thought, “You aren’t planning to start doing this full time, are you?"

  “I don’t know, I was just thinking of the one hit to make some fast money, but yeah, I guess I am open to it, especially since I don’t have another job and the money is good.”

  “Today is Tuesday. I want you to take until Friday to think this through. I’ll have to clear it through Ricarddi and the Commission members before I can use you again, or recommend you to other associates. Be sure you know what you’re getting into and you can handle it. I really think you’ll be making a mistake, but I also told you if you ever needed anything I’d help you with it. So, even though I disagree with you I’ll do what I can to get you started if you insist on going through with it."

  “Tony, think about it. I killed a man I didn’t know because he attacked me. Then I killed Jerry O’Neil because he was responsible for Jimmy dying. That one was as premeditated as they get. And then I laid out the plan and led the attack on the people who tried to kill you. My God Tony, I’ve already been responsible for more deaths than most soldiers who go to war.”

  “I just want to be sure you can handle this long term and not regret your decision.”

  “And I appreciate your concern. But I’ve lived every day with the fact I killed two people over two years ago, and for the last six months I’ve lived with knowing I caused the death of over thirty people. I am living with it. And I can continue to live with it. But if you feel strongly about my waiting until Friday to give you an answer, I'll do it; however, I’m confident what the answer will be. I do ask one condition in return. Call your contact in Memphis and tell him you do have an experienced hit man, but he will have to wait until Friday for you to get approval and make a firm commitment.”

  “O.K. Clay, I’ll make the call, but answer one question for me. WHY are you so dead set against coming into business with me? I don’t have anyone to leave this to and in a few years the whole thing would be yours.”

  “I don’t know what it is, but I just don’t warm up to the business side of the rackets you run. It’s certainly not a moral issue; but somehow I just don’t look forward to the long term daily grind, plus looking over my shoulder watching for whoever wants to bump me off, or the police wanting to send me to prison. Doing the individual assignments of killing dirt bags brings the full responsibility for success or failure directly upon my shoulders. I don’t have a bad feeling about doing this. It’s almost like being paid to do community service work.”

  Tony chuckled and said “I’ve never heard it described like that, but I guess it's one way to look at it.”

  Clay spent the next three days evaluating the possibility of becoming a professional killer. Although there had been several rough weeks during which he had awoken from nightmares in which there were people screaming and dying while he fired bullets into their thrashing bodies, he had learned to live with it and keep the images at bay. He had also learned to avoid dwelling on the moral and ethical aspects of it and had accepted his role as a solution to a problem others had forced on the people around him.

  Actually, he’d recently had brief flashes where he had thought about the possibility of developing his apparent skills for planning murders and making money doing it. Instinctively he had pushed those thoughts out of his mind, mostly because of his relationship with his mother and a desire to maintain contact with her. But what if she wasn’t the primary reason he had procrastinated? What if he had not gone forward simply because he didn’t know how to go about getting set up and how to approach potential customers? One thing he hadn’t even considered in his decision was the fact he would need to get approval from the Chicago mob even to work alone.

  Tony had given him ten thousand dollars in cash for his past work and in a way he was already a hired gun. Granted, that one time didn’t make him an experienced professional, but it could be a start. It was ironic the opportunity had come just when he was vulnerable due to being out of work and short of money.

  On Friday morning he made a list of clothing resale shops in the local area run by charitable organizations. Driving from shop to shop he started filling a list of items he had made the previous evening; used sweat suits, running shoes, two aluminum baseball bats and several more miscellaneous items he felt might be useful.

  After lunch he made another visit to the Twelfth Street Saloon. He carried a list of ideas and a business proposal to discuss with Tony.

  “Well kid, are you still set on being a hit man?” Tony asked when they had moved upstairs to the privacy of his office.

  “Yeah Tony, I haven’t changed my mind. Were you able to get me approved?”

  “Well, apparently there was a lot of discussion, but in the end Ricarddi pointed out something we don't normally discuss openly to the other members of the Commission. Most of the hits the group makes are clumsy and too often some of our people get caught. Even when they’re not convicted there’s a stink in the papers and our names are rehashed again and again. They were all impressed with the job you did on O’Neil and the big one for me. Some of them will even use you for the more difficult hits. So you’re approved but I have to hold onto your leash and take responsibility for you.”

  “Are you alright with it?”

  “Yeah, I’m alright with it. Just don’t screw up. And if you do screw up and get caught, understand this, you’re on your own and you don’t say a thing about me or my associates, or you’re a dead man. If you talked it would be my responsibility to kill you; and I’d do it.”

  “That's not a problem. Now, I have some ideas to run by you and a proposition to make.”

  “O.K., tell me what you have in mind.”

  “I thought about what you said about how hitters are ostracized by most people, even in your line of work. First, what if I don’t advertise what I’m doing, but rely on you to pass work on to me, for a ten percent cut of the fee? Just like on this one. This way there’s no direct tie to me from the customer and I don’t personally build a reputation people know about. I’ll stay in the shadows and be obscure. Also, it lets you take jobs only from people you trust and believe can hold up under possible interrogation by the police. Secondly, I only work for bosses at the top of crime families, or special situations where you feel you can rely on the people involved. Third, and this is not negotiable, I only do people involved in criminal activities. I won’t do somebody’s wife just because some cheap rich bastard doesn’t want to pay for a divorce. Fourth, I won’t do kids. Nobody under the age of eighteen, and even then it will have to be a special case. Fifth, I’ll only work in the U.S. and sixth, I don’t want any high profile targets like Senators or a President. What do you think?”

  Tony had been listening attentively; he rose slowly and crossed the room to retrieve a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. Setting back down at the table he poured the glasses half full of whiskey and slid one across the table toward Clay. Leaning back in his chair Tony stared past Clay and was deep in thought, going over the details presented to him. Finally, after several minutes he replied slowly and softly “I like it. Jobs will be slow to come in at first until word gets around, but then you’ll have all the business you’ll want to handle. There are only a small handful of top notch professional hitters around. Are you sure I can’t talk you out of this? I guess I’m selfish, but I’d really like to have you working with me. O.K., O.K. I can see by your look you’re not going to be talked out of this.”

  Clay cut in, “I also have a list of items I want provided by each customer about the target. They’re simple things like a description of the targets car, license plate number, home and work address’, phone number, a picture of the target and any other useful information. Like, things the target does regularly, church on Sunday morning, routine exercise appointments, weekly supper with parents, drinking at a certain bar every Saturday night etc.”

&nb
sp; “O.K. kid, I said if there was any way I could repay you all you had to do was ask, so I’ll be your manager. But, there won’t be any fee charged, I still owe you big time. With out you I’d probably have been killed seven months ago.”

  Tony leaned over toward a table near the wall, grabbed a telephone and placed it on the table in front of him. “I’ll call Auggie in Memphis and get you set up right now.” He dialed the number and waited for the party to answer. “Auggie, Tony Giliano. About the matter we discussed last week, the man I’ve got is available to take care of your problem. Yeah the price is what we discussed, in cash and up front. Get the money to me and things will be put in motion. Don’t worry about the guy’s name, he’s good and reliable. No, no, I’m positive if things were to go sour this guy wouldn’t talk. He knows the game and I trust him. The best part is nothing will go wrong, because this guy covers all the bases and is the most disciplined and competent hitter I’ve ever seen. Now, write this down. I’m gonna give you a list of information he wants up front. Auggie; quit your bitchin and write.”

  While Tony read the list of information Clay had requested, Clay thought to himself, there’s no turning back now. I’m committed. I hope I don’t come to regret what I’m getting myself into. But I don’t think I will or I wouldn’t have come this far with it.

  When Tony got off the phone he told Clay, “The money and the information will be delivered here Sunday afternoon. You’re all set.”

  “Well, not quite,” Clay replied. “I’d like to borrow three thousand dollars from you until the payment comes in. And I’ll need to know who to contact to pick up a .38 caliber automatic with a silencer, a good high powered rifle with a scope, ammunition for both guns, and a set of brass knuckles. Also, when I head to Memphis Monday morning I’d like to stop by your farm and do some target practice with both guns.”

  Tony poured more whisky into both glasses and the two men made a toast, “You’ve got it, and here’s to a successful first hit and a long and prosperous career.”

  Sunday afternoon Clay picked up the money and information packet from Tony. As Clay was heading for the door to leave Tony said, “When you get back from Memphis, I plan to have a surprise for you.”

  At home, after the family finished dinner, Clay said goodnight to his mother and went to his room. He had told her he was leaving for a couple of weeks just to get away from things for awhile. She didn’t know he was running close on money, but had expressed concern about his being off work for so long.

  In his room, Clay removed the nine inch by twelve inch manila envelope from under his mattress and reviewed the contents. A newspaper clipping showed a middle aged man identified as Harold Carlton Holland to be in his early fifties and slightly over weight. His appeared to be a man few people would take notice of; one of the many people who drift through life without leaving a mark, unless they commit acts akin to what this cretin would be eliminated for doing. The face showed a sullen, cold look with rather boyish features for a man of middle age; a sort of grown up pouting expression. The man wore black plastic framed glasses and had a flat top hair cut. The clipping gave a brief account of the last trial when Holland had been released. A year old copy of a police report gave the man’s age as fifty two, height five feet eleven inches, with a weight of two hundred and fifteen pounds. The report indicated he had no distinguishing marks or tattoos, listed a last known home address, and gave a nickname of “Cooter”. A hand written note on a piece of standard lined paper gave the description of a car and license number along with the information Holland lived with his mother at the address indicated and the car belonged to her. The only information provided on “Cooter’s” routine habits showed he occasionally attended services at a nearby Baptist church on Sunday morning with his mother, and jogged almost daily at a local park.

  Chapter 14

  Monday evening Clay pulled into East Memphis Arkansas after the eight hour drive from Tony’s farm. Even as far south as Memphis, early spring was cold and damp. The sun was setting and it was getting dark before he found a suitable motel. After checking in and getting settled in the drab room, he left to find a place to eat supper. Time to sample the famous Memphis bar-b-que he’d heard about.

  Finding a small bar and grill near Beale street, he sat down for supper and a couple of beers. A lone musician was picking a guitar and singing crying in your beer music. He relaxed and anticipated tasting the ribs he had ordered. The bar was a hole in the wall and didn’t draw many patrons on a week night, but was probably crowded on Friday and Saturday. The tables and chairs were scratched and well worn. The cheap plastic coverings on the booth seats had splits and tears patched with duct tape. The woman behind the bar was an older hard featured woman with bleached blonde hair contrasting sharply with the dark roots showing near her skull. She wore a low cut bright red blouse stretched tight to keep her ample breasts constrained. After his second beer Clay felt like he would loose his appetite if she kept giving him the “come and get me” grin she kept flashing at him through dirty teeth surrounded by bright red lipstick. The skinny girl waiting on his table appeared to be about college age, shy, and too immature to be working in a rough joint. While finishing the ribs and potato salad, he located the street of the target’s home address on a city map the motel clerk had provided.

  After leaving the bar he drove out to Cooter's neighborhood. The house, a small four room shiplap sided frame with peeling white paint, belonged to his mother. License plates on a green 1962 Pontiac four door sedan parked on the street matched the information provided by his patron.

  Tuesday through Friday Clay followed his target who seldom left the house before noon. Most days after lunch, Cooter went to a park to walk and jog for about an hour. On Thursday the temperature had warmed to near seventy and several women had brought their young children to the park to play in the sun. Cooter found a bench where he sat and watched the young kids playing for over an hour. Each day he would leave the park and stop at a coffee shop for donuts and coffee. He’d then drive to a nearby shopping mall and find a spot inside where he could sit on a bench and watch the customers. He showed special interest to the ones with young children in tow.

  Clay had started out wearing a sweat suit on Tuesday and by Friday felt the routine at the park might be one he could use. Also, he needed the cover of jogging around Cooter’s neighborhood instead of sitting in his car day after day where he was sure to be noticed. It would be ironic if he were mistaken for a cop on surveillance. On one of his jogs past the house, while he was on the other side of the street, Cooter came out onto the porch with an old woman. Clay learned from the loud conversation the woman was Cooter’s mother. She looked frail and appeared to be in her late seventies. She was pushing a small two wheeled cart, and as he learned later when she returned, had walked the two blocks to a small neighborhood corner grocery store. He had shortened his surveillance of the house so he was arriving in the neighborhood just before eleven in the morning, and then following his prey when Cooter left for the park.

  On Saturday, after jogging in the park and stopping for coffee and a donut, Cooter again found a bench in the mall on the first floor where he could watch people. The temperature continued to be warm and the mall was full of kids tired of being forced to stay inside their homes because of the cold dreary weather. Clay had taken up a position on the second floor and behind his prey. He bought a cup of coffee and sat at a small round table near a railing where he could observe the man without being noticed. A young boy about seven or eight years old, obviously left on his own by his guardian, was exploring the mall on his own.

  Cooter watched intently as the boy wandered over toward the bench where he was sitting. When the boy was within talking distance Cooter started a conversation, enticing the chubby young boy closer, until he had taken a seat beside the older man. The two of them talked for close tot ten minutes and then stood up. Clay watched as they left the bench and both began walking toward the exit where Cooter had parked his car earlier
.

  Clay made a quick decision, knowing he could not allow the young boy to leave with the old pervert, even if he blew his cover while stopping them. Taking the stairs two and three at a time he quickly reached the first level and jogged through the crowd to catch up with the pair just before they reached the exit doors.

  Clay said loudly and sharply, “Sir” more of an authoritative command than a greeting. “I’m Sam Johnson, with mall security. I have a report of a missing boy who fits this child’s description. What’s your name son?”

  The youngster replied “Josh Morgan, sir.”

  “Well Josh, a relative has reported you as lost, and is waiting at the Security Office for you. If you’ll come with me I’ll take you there.”

  “This is my new friend Howie. He said he would take me to where my mom parked our car, and she might be there waiting for me.”

  “Well, it was kind of him to offer to help, but I’ll take you to where she’s waiting. Come along now.” Clay took the boy’s hand and turned and began to walk away while the boy waved and said “Good bye, Howie.”

  During all of this Cooter Holland had remained silent. He breathed a sigh of relief as the “guard” escorted the child away. “God Damn cops”, he muttered to himself as he pushed the exit door open and hurried to his car.

  Clay escorted the boy back into the main mall until he saw a real security guard in the distance. Squatting down to the boy’s level he pointed to the guard and instructed the boy to go to the guard and tell him he was lost and wanted to find his mother. As the boy ran off in the direction of the guard, Clay made his way back to the exit doors where he could see Cooter backing the Pontiac out of the parking slot. Now he felt a new urgency to complete his work before Harold Holland completed his.

  There was no need to follow Cooter any more for the remainder of the weekend. Clay thought he knew enough about the man’s routine to move forward. A plan of attack needed to be developed quickly to put an end to the man’s perverse desires.