No Hitmen in Heaven

by Dan Taylor

  He comes up to me, raises his wayfarer sunglasses so I can see his eyes, which are too small for his face. Then he says, “There’s no smoking on this street, chief. I’m going to have to ask you to put that out. There are women and children who use this sidewalk.”

  “Just give me a second and I’m done.” I take one last toke, and then go to throw it, him standing in front of me and watching the whole time.

  He stops me, blocking my throw with his hand, and says, “You’re not going to throw it, are you?”

  “I was, but I can just as well stub it out and dispose of it in the trash.”

  “I don’t mean that. You weren’t going to throw it on account of what I said, were you?”

  “I was.”

  “Because I was just busting your balls.” He takes off his wayfarers and hooks one of the temples over the neck of his T-shirt, so they hang there. “I get it. You’re a working man and like to smoke. Hell, if I had a menial gig like yours I’d smoke my ass off—what am I doing?” He slaps his forehead theatrically. “Here I am gassing and I haven’t even introduced myself. Hancock.” He holds out his hand.

  I look down at it. Not knowing what to make of this guy.

  Then he says, “Not the type of guy to shake hands. I get it.”

  “Look, guy, I better get back to work.”

  The cigarette’s burnt out, so I toss it in the sidewalk trash can to my right.

  Then he says, “Geez, I feel bad. Here you were, probably enjoying the next five minutes before you… do whatever it is you do for the next hour or so until your next cigarette break, and I came over, the buffoon that I am, and disturbed you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I was nearly finish—”

  “Feel free to have another cigarette. Sure, it’s frowned upon by the residents of this street, but there’s no law. And you know what they say about snitchers.”

  “It’s okay. I was done.”

  “No really, I insist. Take one out and smoke it. And I’ll even wait here with you, just in case your boss phones and asks what you’re doing. I can explain to him that I ruined your first smoke break and take the rap for your having the need to take a second. How’s that sound?”

  As he stands there, a sincere look on his face, I put my finger on it. This guy’s high right now. He’s grinning like an idiot.

  “Well, how does that sound?” he asks.

  “I better get going. Can’t stomach a second cigarette anyway.” I start to walk towards the truck’s cab, but he stops me with an overfamiliar hand on my shoulder.

  He looks up at the delivery truck behind me. “That your truck?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You a delivery guy or something?”

  “I am.”

  He reads the truck’s logo, slowly, like a fourth grader. “Ok-ay Deli-ver-ies. That supposed to be ironic or something?”

  “It’s just the name of the delivery place I work for.”

  “Say, you’re not making a delivery in that building over there, are you?”

  He points in the direction of the Drexler building.

  “Is that the Granger apartment building?” I ask.

  “No, it’s the Drexler. What number’s the Granger? I’ve never heard of it. It is on this road, right?”

  “Geez, that’s just my luck. Anyway, thanks for your help. You have a nice day now.”

  I make it two steps before the guy, Hancock, says, “What are you delivering?”

  I stop, turn and look at him. “A safe.”

  He whistles, impressed. “Let me take a look at the address you were given. Maybe I can help you out. The least I can do, after I ruined your cigarette break.”

  “I’m good. But thanks, anyway.”

  Around twenty seconds is the maximum time you can interact with someone before they start remembering what color your eyes are, if you have crooked teeth, what accent you speak with, and whether you part your hair on the right or left side.

  I’ve spent as long as I need to with this asshole. But the last thing I want to do is make an impression on him, by being rude or by giving him an atomic wedgie and sending him head first into the trash can.

  Instead of putting the address into his hand, I shake it. Say, “Thanks for the help, partner, but I’ve got SatNav.”

  I make it almost into the cab before he opens his mouth again. “Then how’d you get here, if you programmed in that address?”

  “I think I must have typed in the street number incorrectly.”

  “That figures.”

  I give him a two-fingered salute without looking back and get in the cab.

  Then I drive off.

  I look in the wing mirror to see him standing by the spot I was parked in. And I’m sure he still has that idiotic grin on his face.

  I drive up Hollywood Boulevard a ways, and then park up, wait five minutes, and then go back to the Drexler building.

  Hancock isn’t there.

  I go to park in the same spot, but someone’s taken it, and the remaining fifty or so minutes I had on the meter.

  So I have to park in a different one, the one next to it, and pay again. I resist the urge to carve ASSHOLE into the car panel of the freeloader.

  Then I get the cuckoo clock out of the delivery truck with the hand truck, wheel it up the apartment building entrance, set it down, and then go over to the intercom and buzz Margaret Hammer in apartment 5J.

  9.

  “You’re early.”

  “By a couple minutes, maybe.”

  “By my clock it’s a whole five minutes. I’m not ready yet.”

  “By the time I get up there, Mrs. Hammer, most of that whole five minutes will be gone.”

  “It’s Ms. Hammer. Mrs. Hammer’s my mother, God rest her soul.”

  “Still, if you can just buzz me in.”

  There’s a long pause. And then the door buzzes, indicating it’s unlocked.

  I go to open it, but get there a fraction too late.

  I wait, expecting her to ask if I got in okay. But there’s silence.

  So I buzz her apartment again. Underneath the button, I see the name Jake Hancock, apartment 6J.

  “Who is it?” Ms. Hammer asks.

  “It’s still the delivery guy.”

  “I just buzzed you in. What are you doing still standing outside?”

  “I didn’t get there in time.”

  “Get where in time?”

  “To the door, to open it.”

  “You’re standing right by it. The kind people who installed the intercom put it right by the door. What do you mean you didn’t get to it in time?”

  “If you could just press the button again, but maybe for a bit longer, this time?”

  “Are you ready?” Facetious.

  I smile. I heard somewhere people can hear when the person they’re talking on the phone with is smiling. “Never been more ready, Ms. Hammer.”

  “Oh goodie.”

  The door starts to buzz again, and I open it. Most apartment buildings have a hook and latch, for guys like me to secure the door open while they take something through, or for people moving in or out of the building, but this entrance doesn’t have one. The building committee must be security conscious. I have to put the welcome mat in between the door and the doorframe instead, to avoid having to buzz Ms. Hammer’s intercom again.

  I wheel the cuckoo clock up the steps, open the ajar door fully, and then hold it with my foot as I back through it with the hand truck.

  Before I take the elevator, I remove the mat.

  The building has two elevators. One larger one, stated capacity 8 persons, though it looks like it could hold five at a squeeze. And a smaller one, stated capacity four persons, though it’s just enough space for me and the cuckoo clock.

  I take the smaller one. People don’t generally take the elevator up in apartment building apart from when taken from the lobby. But I don’t take chances. Someone could’ve pressed the up button accidentally, or a resident could be frien
ds with another resident in one of the floors above.

  Last thing I need is someone getting in there with me, talking about the weather, asking about who’s getting a cuckoo clock delivered today, because maybe on the off chance they know them.

  I look at the buttons a second, and curse under my breath for not asking the old bat when I spoke to her. I can’t remember which floor Peter Hammer said. And then think about it a second. Margaret Hammer 5J. That Hancock guy’s button below it, also J.

  Probably on the same floor. Shit.

  But I put it to the back of my mind, take a second to figure out J is the tenth letter of the alphabet. And what do you know, I remember Peter Hammer saying it was the tenth, and remember the discussion we had about my taking the elevator.

  Tenth floor.

  I press the button, listen to the whirr of the elevator motor high above me.

  I do a last weapon-placement check, making sure it’s seated correctly in the shoulder holster under my overalls, and that the tape securing the suppressor to my abdomen is secure but not too tight. And then I check that the 9mm rounds from the Smith and Wesson are in my breast pocket, along with a rubber-tipped instrument I’ll use to dig out the slug I put into Mrs.—sorry, Ms.—Hammer, and the slugs I’ll put into the wall and some piece of furniture in her vicinity.

  I wheel the cuckoo clock out of the elevator, through the tenth-floor landing, through the door to the hallway, and then take a left, finding 5J at the end of it.

  When do I earn my money? Is it when I’m able to pull my pistol out from under my overalls, without my hand shaking or without a bead of sweat on my forehead and pull the trigger? Is it when I keep a cool head and follow my cleanup regime to the T without having to think twice about what the next step is or question whether my focus was fully on the step I just completed? Or is it when I walk outside afterwards, maybe see her neighbor Hancock in the distance, coming back from a diner after eating breakfast or having collected a newspaper or some shit, and I don’t break stride, but make it to the delivery truck’s cab without looking panicked, and spin that truck around before he notices and thinks, Hey, that lost delivery guy is back here again. That’s weird, before he goes inside his apartment building to eventually find out his neighbor’s been murdered.

  I earn my money when doing all those things, which is to say I have the watermelons to be able to do those things well, but I like to think I start earning my money when the door opens, presenting me with my target for the first time. And she stands there, in her flamingo pattern dressing gown, and I smile at her, say, “Here’s your cuckoo clock, Ms. Hammer. And there isn’t a scratch on it.”

  10.

  “It’s very…” Ms. Hammer says, and then starts searching for the right word. “Tall.”

  I haven’t made it into Ms. Hammer’s apartment. In fact, she hasn’t greeted me in any other way than to comment on the gift her nephew bought her. I’m anxious to get inside.

  “It is, Ms. Hammer. So tall that it’s been something to get up here to your tenth-floor apartment.”

  She takes her eyes off it, looks at me. I smile, but she doesn’t smile back. “You didn’t take the elevator?”

  “I did. But still, this thing’s kind of heavy. If you can let me inside. I have a number of deliveries to make this morning.”

  “Hold on a second.”

  Ms. Hammer goes back into her apartment, leaving me standing by the threshold. I glance up the hallway to my right, finding it empty. For now.

  She’s gone for what must be a minute with no sign of coming back—no calling over, informing me what she’s doing back there and definitely no apologizing for the slight inconvenience she’s causing me, the delivery guy, or the huge inconvenience she’s causing me, the hired gun who’s about to take her out.

  Two minutes later, an age in this empty hallway, she comes back, carrying a tape measure. Not the retractable kind, which tidies itself away neatly after use, but a length of plastic ribbon, which looks like it’s been working itself into a knot in some drawer for the time since Clinton was in office.

  She starts unraveling it, her lack of dexterity and older lady sausage fingers making for long work.

  I smile, even though she’s not looking at me, and say, “Can I be so kind as to ask what you’re doing, Ms. Hammer.”

  “I want to make sure it fits the nook I have for it. Peter assured me it would fit in the one place I can accommodate it.”

  My smile broadens. “Did he?”

  “He did.”

  She unties the knot, and then says, “Can you hold this at the top?” holding the end of the tape measure out to me.

  I don’t take it. “Am I right in assuming your ceiling height is roughly consistent throughout your home, Ms. Hammer?” I lean to the side and look around her at the ceiling of the hallway. “And I’m pretty sure the clock’s not nearly too tall for your hall.”

  “I know that, bucko. I want to measure how wide it is. That’s the distance from here to here.”

  “You want me to hold it at the top to measure the width?”

  “I do. I thought I’d let you measure it high up, save me getting onto my knees.”

  She smiles for the first time, but flashes it at me, denoting victory not warmth.

  I measure the width for her. Then say, “Fourteen and a quarter inches. That do you, Ms. Hammer?”

  “Hold on a second, will you. I’ll just go and check.”

  She scurries off, taking the tape measure with her, and I glance up the hallway to my right again.

  No one there. But how long until someone comes out, late for work?

  I wait around thirty seconds before making a decision.

  Then I say, “Just going to come in, Ms. Hammer. No use standing out here in the hallway.”

  I get no response, so I wheel the clock in, stepping lightly, and shut the door behind me.

  I take it through to the hall to the living area, find Ms. Hammer bent down, measuring the width of the space between two bookshelves. She must be hard of hearing, as she has no idea I’m behind her.

  During the second it takes me to undo a button on my overalls, gaining me access to the Beretta, I glance to my left, noting that the blinds are shut.

  I then remove the duct tape from the suppressor on one side, slide out the Beretta from the holster, and then whistle.

  She turns around, looking disgruntled, until she spots the delivery guy she was talking with a mere minute earlier—about the width of a cuckoo clock, no less—to find him holding a pistol on her. Ms. Hammer is no longer disgruntled.

  “Don’t you point that thing at me, buck—”

  I put one in her throat, and she goes down hard. Whacks her head on the carpeted floor. She only struggles for five or so seconds before her last breath, which I don’t wait around to observe.

  I’m too busy putting a bullet in the bookshelf behind her, and one in the floor, making it look like the Tasmanian Devil’s just been in a gun fight.

  While the slugs cool, I go through the door to my right, the one Peter Hammer said would lead to her bedroom. In the top drawer of her dresser is the jewelry box. Like a panicked thief who’s just killed someone for the first time, I open it and put my hand into it, grabbing a handful of necklaces and whatnot. I stuff them into my pocket, dropping some in both the drawer and on the floor. And then, like a thief who’s calmed enough to realize that’s an ineffective way of relieving his victim of all her jewelry, take the whole jewelry box.

  I go back through to the living room, and realize the mistake I’ve made: I’ve shot her in the spot designated for the clock.

  Sure, there’s space by the right-hand bookshelf, but that would leave a gap where Ms. Hammer had obviously pulled apart the bookshelves for the arrival of her new clock, which I’d be dumber than an out-of-work garbage man to haul back down to my delivery truck.

  I think a second. Come up with a solution.

  I put the cuckoo clock by the opposite wall. There’s a nice s
pace that Ms. Hammer, hardly the interior designer, could’ve decided upon a couple days earlier.

  But that still leaves the gap between the bookshelves. The more obvious choice for the clock and, more importantly, the space that looks like it’s been designated for the clock.

  I pull out the bookshelves, so that there’s a gap between them and the wall. They look like two cars parked by drunk guys.

  Our thief, after watching too many movies, checked behind them for a safe or a cubbyhole used for safekeeping, found bupkis. But he was smart enough to not take the time to move them back to where Ms. Hammer likes them.

  Ms. Hammer must’ve moved one of the bookshelves days ago, probably got a neighbor to do it, as there are two rectangular indentations in the carpet for the right-most bookshelf: the original one, deeper, made over years; a second one, shallower, made over the last couple days.

  It’s the last sign that Ms. Hammer moved those bookshelves apart for a cuckoo clock that—what do you know—got placed somewhere else. Apart from the tape measure lying by her body, which I’ll take with me.

  Indentations like that are an eyesore. I should know. Sandra got into Feng shui a couple years before the accident. Every time she felt like freeing the energy flow in the room, I’d be the only one who noticed them afterwards.

  But in this case, they’re more than the topic of a petty argument. They’re a trail of crumbs leading to a mouse hole.

  I learned a trick for making Sandra believe that they magically disappeared like she thought they would when I pointed them out. I go through to the kitchen, take out the ice cube tray from the freezer, and go back through to the living area.

  I place two lines of ice cubes on the part of the indentation that’s showing, the one that denotes the second place she put the bookshelf, and by the time they’re melted, that indentation won’t be visible. They’ll still be the rest of the indentation, now hidden underneath the badly parked car, but by the time the crime scene investigators notice that, they’ll have pulled and pushed every piece of furniture this way and that it’ll look like a spaghetti junction.

  All that’s left is the slugs. The one aimed at the bookshelf missed and went into the dry wall. I pry it out with the rubber-tipped instrument and replace it with a slug I shot into the dry wall section back at the range. Then I pry out the one in the floor, settle for replacing it with a slug I shot into plain concrete.