He reaches the culmination of his narrative, and I utter some stock phrases to imply I’ve paid attention. My goal is to wrap this up as quickly as possible.
“Anyway,” the Client concludes, “our meeting just finished, and I’m on my way to your motel. I should be there in ten minutes.”
“Why are you coming here?” I ask. “Our business is complete.”
“Well, yes. Except for the refund.”
Huh. That’s a first.
I should simply hang up, but can’t resist a riposte. “Ah yes, I see what the problem is: you appear to have confused me with a Radio Shack. I do not give refunds. Under any circumstances.”
“You never said that.”
“You never raised the possibility that the contract might be terminated,” I counter. “If you had, I would have made the policy explicit.”
“Your oversight,” says the Client, “not mine.”
At this point it occurs to me that he might be joking. It happens. Some clients, having hired a hitman, come to fancy themselves “hard-boiled,” start thinking they can treat me like a drinking buddy. They pull out all the stock phrases they’ve heard on The Sopranos, asking what kind of “heat I’m packing,” wondering when I’m going to “whack the guy.” I had one client—a woman, even—who managed to cough out the phrase “twenty-five large” with a straight face. You can see why I strive to keep my contact with these idiots to a minimum.
I have a hunch that the Client is serious, though. A refund is the sort of thing he would expect.
The customer service provided by Opulence Online is legendary. Small items are hand-delivered to the buyer within hours of purchase, occasionally by the Client himself; ownership of larger items is transferred with lightning speed. You can buy an island in the morning and be sitting on its beach in time for sunset. It’s often said that the company will bend over backwards for all their customers, and bend over forward for an elite few. And they never—never—refuse a refund.
But I have a different business model, a fact I reiterate.
He barrels ahead, undeterred. “Look, I know you had to fly out here and everything. And I’m sure you had other expenses, meals and your motel. I don’t expect you to pay for that stuff out-of-pocket. But there’s no way I’m going to let you keep forty grand for nothing. That’s outrageous.”
The Client pauses, as if considering. Then: “Let’s say you keep five thousand and return the rest? I think that’s more than fair.”
“How about I keep it all and you shove off?”
I appear to have touched a nerve. He abruptly shifts into Intimidation Mode, bellowing, “Do you know who I am?”
The question is certainly rhetorical, a line used to bully his way into restaurants and out of speeding tickets. But I decide to answer anyway. “As a matter of fact I do, Mr. O’Sullivan.”
I like to foster, in my patrons, the illusion of anonymity. I tell them not to reveal their names or any information that might enable me to identify them. It’s a charade, of course. As soon as my intermediary tells me that someone is interested in my services, I conduct a thorough background check on the potential client. The goal is to weed out the nutcases. Mr. Sullivan is proof that it doesn’t always work.
The legwork was unnecessary in this case, as the Client had delivered the money to my motel room himself. I told him to send it via courier. But when I opened my motel door yesterday afternoon, there he was, Steffen O’Sullivan, with his ridiculous hair and trademark bomber’s jacket, a duffel bag of money in hand. Behind him, in the parking lot, I could see his brand-new Lexus wedged between a run-down pickup truck and a Datsun with a garbage bag taped over a missing window.
He was restless and giddy—nervous, I assumed. That was to be expected, meeting a guy like me in a neighborhood like this, with no visible form of protection. Then I realized he was exhibiting excitement, not fear. He cheerfully handed over the cash and attempted to make small talk; I cut him off and closed the door in his crestfallen face. Afterwards, I wondered if his primary interest in doing business with me was novelty, the thrill of purchasing one of those rare things he’d never bought before.
I’d given no indication during our meeting that I knew who he was. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t recognize him, as unlikely as that sounds. Maybe he just didn’t care.
Still, I expected him to drop the matter when I actually spoke his name.
Instead he sounds pleased.
“Excellent,” he says. “And do you know how I got to be where I am today?” This time he doesn’t wait for a response, answering the question himself. “Six simple words: ‘Give the customer what he wants.’ I’ve built an empire on that motto, and it’s a good rule for any business. Even yours.”
“Now,” he continues, “I’ll make this…hang on.”
I hear honking horns and screeching tires, though no sounds of collision, alas. The Client swears colorfully at another driver, but I’ll wager he was the cause of whatever happened. People who talk on cell phones while driving are a goddamned menace.
“I’ll make this as clear as I can,” the Client resumes when the crisis has passed. “I am your customer. And I am asking for my money back. What do you say?”
“What I’ve been saying all along. I don’t give refunds.”
The Client remains silent. I listen to the petulant hum of my room’s decrepit alarm clock. Someone, a few rooms down, is watching late night television, and I can hear every line of dialogue through the paper-thin walls. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping we are done.
“Fine,” says the Client, but I can tell he has some new subterfuge in mind. “However, most businesses that don’t offer refunds at least allow exchanges. A substitution would be acceptable.”
“A substitution for what?”
“The Target, as you call him.”
“You want to switch the contract to someone else?”
“I don’t want to,” he says, “but will settle for that, in lieu of the refund you so stubbornly refuse to provide.”
“Who?”
“I don’t care. Anyone will do.”
By now I’ve decided that the Client never jokes, even when jest seems the only explanation for a statement. “You think it’s that simple?” I ask. “Do you have any idea how much effort I put into planning an operation?”
“I’m not asking you to plan,” he says magnanimously. “Just shoot the next person you see. Take his driver’s license and mail it to me afterward. I’ll have someone verify that he was killed, and we’re square. You keep the cash, I get my money’s worth, everyone’s happy.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Listen,” I say. “I read the papers. I know how much you’re worth. If forty grand fell out of your pocket it wouldn’t be worth your time to pick it up. We made a contract, and you broke it. Write the money off. Why drag an innocent person into this mess?”
He barks out a theatrical guffaw. “Yes, heaven forbid an ‘innocent person’ gets involved. Everyone you’ve murdered in the past had it coming, no doubt.”
Well, he’s got me there.
I mull over his proposal. Targeting a stranger has some advantages, actually. For one thing, there will be no way to trace the victim back to me. With a hired hit, there’s always a chance that someone will blab, or the death will prove so convenient for a client that the authorities start poking around.
But I am hesitant to select the target myself, even at random. I wonder why. Maybe because doing so would run afoul of my nicely honed rationale: that I am just a gun to be pointed by others. Just doing my job, just following orders. Ultimately not to blame.
The Client remains quiet, patiently awaiting a reply. I curse myself for even considering the idea—my delay in responding implies that the “no refunds” policy is negotiable.
I am about to say something, but sensing indecision, he pounces.
“I’m about a minute from your motel, so
let’s cut the crap. I want my money back. Or I want another killing in exchange. If you don’t have the guts to do the latter, then I’m taking the cash. If you don’t do either, I’ll drop a dime on you.”
Drop a dime. Christ, I hate these people.
“And what?” I say. “You think I’d just neglect to mention your name?”
He laughs, and it sounds genuine. “Say whatever you want; I’ll take my chances. In the unlikely event that anyone takes you seriously, I have the best legal team in the nation on speed dial. You don’t want to scrap with me, boy. You’ll come out the loser ten times out of ten.”
That’s the problem with these rich guys: they think they are above the law.
No, I take it back. The problem with these rich guys is that, by and large, they are above the law. He’s absolutely right about the odds. If it comes down to a legal pissing match between me and the Client, I’ll wind up in jail and he’ll come through unscathed. If anything, the rumors of dirty dealings will probably bolster his reputation as a hardball negotiator. I know it, and he knows I know it.
The blinds on the front window glow briefly as headlights rake across them. A moment later, through the phone, I hear the sound of a pulled emergency brake. The purring of the car’s engine, which had served as a backdrop to our conversation, ceases.
“So,” he says lazily, “how about that refund?”
I consider my options one last time, but he has me over a barrel. I have no choice but to comply with his demand.
“All right,” I growl, “we’ll do it your way.”
“Excellent.” He speaks briskly, closing the deal. I hear him open the car door; when it slams shut a moment later, the sound comes to me in stereo: a sharp report from the receiver, a distant bang from the parking lot outside. “I knew you’d come around.”
A crescendo of footsteps, expensive shoes on asphalt, ceases outside my door.
“Knock, knock,” says the Client into his phone before ending the call.
I cradle the receiver and yell, “It’s open.”
The Client, clad in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, lets himself in. He takes two steps into the room, pivots, and closes the door. He is grinning when he turns back around, his face awash with triumph.
We lock eyes for a second. Then he breaks contact, glancing around the room in search of the duffel bag. “Is the money still here?”
“I think I’ve made my policy clear,” I say, rising to my feet. “No refunds.”
He continues to smirk, but his eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “I thought we were doing it my way.”
“Oh, we are,” I reassure him. “I believe your exact words were ‘Shoot the next person you see.’”
His smile falters as I draw the gun.
“Give the customer what he wants,” I say. “That’s my motto.”
High Limit
Scott Wolven
Stripers swam up the Hudson earlier than usual that spring, and right away the fishermen were talking. I was working near Woodstock, hauling shale and aggregate for my cousin, and every day the other drivers would bring back stories about who caught what. Describing the good fishing spots on the river in detail, or lying about them—to keep the good fishing to themselves. The truth depended on who you were talking to. Baseball scores came first, then the fish stories. As far north on the river as the Athens lighthouse and as far south as you felt like sailing, although most of the guys didn’t go below Poughkeepsie. My cousin’s materials outfit was acting as a subcontractor on a state job, so we weren’t hauling weekends. Saturday and Sunday were good days to be on the river. I was simply glad to be out in the world and earning money at the time. I got involved with the wrong side of things up in Canada—moving meth on the northwestern border of Maine—and had just come back after four years away. It was my first stretch and I wanted to put it behind me. Listening to the guys talk about fishing made me want to get out there and put a line in the water. They were catching some big ones.
I was living on an old run-down farm—thirty acres—between Saugerties and Catskill that had been in my family for years. My great-grandfather’s brother George had owned the property. Nobody remembered what George had done for work, but he must have enjoyed his privacy. The farm was set way back off the road—the dusty dirt trail that led to it was close to a mile and the mailbox on the road never had a name on it—with the two-story main house on a slight hill. The main house was white and blue, with a wraparound wood porch overlooking the pond. A couple large sturdy red barns and two buildings about ready to fall over. The property had three little gray cabins on it, facing the mountains. Someone, years ago, put the cabins up and tried to get people to stay there. It hadn’t worked. The cabins each were equipped with a sink and a stand-up shower in addition to a flush toilet, which was probably illegal given the size of the property. The cabins had black phones in them, hanging on the wall, and when you picked them up, they rang to a single phone in the main house. For the guests, I imagined. There was still a gas pump and buried tank next to the one barn. I suppose if I went through the trouble of having someone come out and inspect the pump, I could have had my own gas on-site. It was an empire of dirt, but it was paradise to me.
I pulled the truck up the road that Friday and my father’s silver truck was parked in front of the house. He was sitting on the front porch in a lawn chair with his ball cap on, drinking a soda. He’d retired two years before from a local lumberyard.
“Hey there,” he said.
“How’s it going?” I said. “How’s retired life?”
“Can’t complain,” he said. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“You’re going fishing with me and Rich, okay? Be the best thing for you.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
He was getting in his truck. “See you at six a.m. Catskill dock.”
“See you tomorrow. Say hello to Mom for me.”
“Will do,” he said. “She’s going to visit her aunt.”
“Wish her a good flight,” I said.
He waved as he pulled away from the house.
Rich had a new boat he kept at the Catskill dock. It wasn’t brand-new, but it was new to him and he kept it shining. He was retired too, from a state conservation job. He made extra money running fishing charters out of Catskill and did pretty well for himself. Rich knew where the fish were. The other guy in Catskill who knew where the fish were was Tom, the man who owned the bait shop. Tom was a big, tall guy, an old basketball player. He had owned the bait shop in Catskill for years, and it was the best bait and tackle shop on the Hudson. All the fishermen along the river knew to stop at Tom’s before they went fishing, to get the latest report on conditions and fish. And to buy bait and everything else—reels, rods, the latest lures. Maps and charts. Tom could wind your reel with new line while you stood there and have you back out on the river in half an hour. Listening to Tom could keep you from getting shut out. No fish was no fun. When I passed Tom’s on my way to the dock, I saw my father’s truck in the parking lot. He pulled into the dock parking lot behind me and we headed out onto the Hudson River with Rich driving the boat.
“Tom says go north,” my father said to Rich.
“We’ll try it,” Rich said.
My father turned to me. “I asked you here for a reason,” he said.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Do you remember Bob?” he said. “Bob Threepersons?”
“Sure,” I said. “Still lives in Florida?” Bob had been in the army with my father and Rich. They hadn’t been in the same units, but met back here in the States when their tour of duty ended. Bob had been a tunnel rat. He was originally from Idaho. His whole family lived on a reservation out there. He still had a sister who lived on the reservation. He came and visited, almost twenty years ago. He stayed in one of the little cabins on the old farm. I remember Bob kept an owl for a pet.
My father nodded. “He’s having a heck of a time.”
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“What type of problems?” I said. We were moving north through the water. The great Rip Van Winkle Bridge was overhead, with its huge stone pilings diving deep into the water around us. Rich stayed in a channel and we passed underneath. Rogers Island was on our right and the train tracks ran along the bank.
“Money,” my father said. “Drugs. Booze.”
“Is he ready to clean up?” I said.
“He says he is,” my father said.
“Does he need money?” I said.
“No.” My father shook his head. “Having extra money is part of his problem right now.”
“Are these the type of money problems that are likely to follow him up here?” I said.
“There’s a chance of that,” he said. “Anything can happen.”
We let the conversation sit, because he’d hooked a fish. Rich and I watched him bring it to the boat, as the pole he was using bent around. Rich got the net and we wrestled a good-sized striper to the deck. The fish had bright-colored scales and a white belly. After we removed the hook, my father tossed the fish back into the Hudson.
“You want him to stay in one of the little houses?” I said.
“Yeah,” my father said. “That’s a good plan. He kicked heroin there one summer, so he knows he can get clean there.”
“I never knew that,” I said. “I just thought he was visiting us.”
“He was,” my father said. “But he was having some problems at that time too.”
“Why do you guys keep helping him?” I said.
My father sipped his coffee. Rich shrugged.
“You can’t turn your back on people when you know what they’ve seen,” Rich said.
My father nodded. “War loves young men,” he said. “Those aren’t my words, somebody else said them first, but I don’t remember who. Anyway, Vietnam got hold of Bob and hasn’t let him go yet. We’re lucky”—he motioned at Rich and himself—“that we don’t have the problems Bob does.” He drank another mouthful of coffee. “I can’t watch TV anymore except baseball. The war coverage makes me think about those men and women overseas and how, even if they make it back and with all their limbs, it could still ruin their lives. I can’t stand people—ordinary, average, everyday people—suffering the consequences of politicians. Bob is like that. He’s nobody special, he’s just special to us.” My father finished his coffee and Rich nodded as he watched the water.
Sex, Thugs, and Rock & Roll Page 27
