The Hitman’s Tale – 1.01 Hitman for Hire

“…And that’s why I’m here,” Joe was currently sitting in the most ramshackle office he had ever seen. The place was built out of various pieces of scrap iron, stolen breeze blocks and sheer hope that it wouldn’t fall in on itself. It certainly wasn’t up to code – all the bare wiring and barely operational electrical generators alone would have sent any inspectors fleeing into a new career – but considering where he was that was hardly surprising.

The office was located in Undercit, a shanty town of a hive of scum and villainy that had been left to fester far below the City’s plates. It had started as temporary accommodation for the construction crews back when the City of Light was first being built. It was then repurposed for refugee housing for those waiting to be approved citizenship up above. Since those days criminals and outlaws had come to stay. Just on the way here alone, Joe had witnessed a violent mugging perpetrated by a gang of street urchins; a couple of nudists walking a beast that looked like the result of crossing an Afghan hound with a bear; an arms dealer demonstrating the use of an ancient grenade launcher; three mimes assaulting an Irish cyborg; and a man stuffing a cadaver into a long-pig cart.

Needless to say Joe was not happy about being in Undercit. It was almost enough to make him miss the restaurant but if there was one thing he had learnt in the past two weeks it was that he had no idea how someone entered the business of killing people for profit. He considered his apathetic feelings towards working for a crime syndicate had done him a disservice as he seemed to have neglected to learn how certain aspects of criminality worked. How did one advertise for crime? Surely you couldn’t just put an ad in the paper? “Need someone killed? Give Joe a call!” sounded like a one-way ticket to a jail cell.

That’s when Joe had remembered that Big Jim had hired the mercenaries that killed him through one Harry “The Fixer” Kilroy, manager to killers and ne’er-do-wells alike. Now Joe was in his office, staring at the large, sweaty man with the fussy moustache and inappropriate office attire.

Today Harry was wearing a string vest, floral print shorts that were a little too short and not much else. He was trimming his toenails as he listened to Joe’s tale, something that the would-be-hitman was disturbingly hypnotised by. He just couldn’t look away as the small clippings of human toenail was sent flying into the air one by one.

“Hmm, I have to admit I was worried when I heard an ex-member of the Dalminetti Mafia was looking for me,” stated The Fixer as he selected another nail for trimming. He spoke with a nasal tone of voice, one that carefully constructed its vocabulary to give the impression of belonging to someone of a much higher station than their appearance would suggest. A cigar was perched expertly between his lips. It wobbled as he spoke out of the side of his mouth.

“I can only offer my deepest condolences for the loss of your family. Dougie is extremely talented but he is also a complete meathead. Honestly, his whole crew barely make one properly sane person between them but alas, they do get results…” he tried to flash Joe a sympathetic smile but he didn’t have the face for it. Harry was born with the sort of facial arrangement that could only ever really portray “sinister” or “punchable”. Joe had the feeling that if it wasn’t for Harry’s smarmy way with words, the big automatic turrets hanging from the ceiling and the two muscular assistants sitting on the other side of the room, Harry’s business wouldn’t be thriving anywhere as well as it was.

“I can’t say I’m too heart broken to be honest. Sure, I knew the Jims since I was a kid but it sounds like our guys were looking for a fight. They shoulda known better, really…” shrugged Joe, attempting to play it casual.

“Must have been confusing, both brothers being called Jim…” noted The Fixer, another nail soaring through the air.

“Oh you don’t know the half of it! Big Jim was the smaller of the two but he had a big brain. Little Jim was his younger brother but he was a whole foot taller! They both had a stupid sense of humour, but you probably already figured that out considering how Big Jim died and all…” Joe found himself chuckling, the tension dispelling somewhat. He allowed himself to relax a little, which wasn’t easy considering how he was currently awkwardly sitting on a generator with a badly faded sticky note on it that was either warning about shocks or shacks. Considering the state of this particular shack, either was a plausible possibility. It probably wasn’t snacks as Harry was yet to offer any.

“So!” the sound of Harry’s large hands slapping together pulled Joe’s attention back to the large man in front of him, “Joey! Can I call you Joey?”

“Please don’t-”

“Joey! If you’re serious about this new line of work I suppose we should start talking business! Is it definitely a hitman you wish to be? Not an assassin or bounty hunter or what have you?”

“Err, is there really a difference between Hitman and assassin?”

“Sure, depends on how quiet you tend to be. Bounty hunters are for tracking, hitmen are for sending a message and assassins are for when you want all parties involved to have plenty of plausible deniability. If you want to be more of an odd job man, that’s a mercenary,” Harry explained, the nail clipper having been abandoned so Harry could count the different variety of killers on his hand.

“Well I’d like to aim for quiet but it’s been awhile since I was particularly… active in the killing game. The Dalminettis were always kinda… sedate…”

“…Alright, how about we start at hitman with the goal to be promoted to assassin,” the length of pause before Harry’s response told Joe that he wasn’t doing the best job of selling himself right now. He was beginning to have doubts himself.

“And how would you like to be marketed?”

“Marketed?” Joe repeated, his expression blank.

“You know, a stage name! How do you want people to know you!”

“Do I need a stage name? This ain’t show biz!”

“You’d be surprised how similar they are! Putting out a contract on a human life is a big deal! People expect a little razzle-dazzle! A name can sink or magnify a reputation. Who would you consider for such a job? A person called “The Silencer” or “Graham”?” Harry was beginning to be very animated in his speech, his hands waving around for emphasis. Joe could see his point but did he really want to invoke his old reputation? He had been skilled back in the day but would banking on that rep make him a target for people with a score to settle with the Dalminettis?

“…I’ve just been Average Joe Vekowski for the last few years…” he muttered after a while. Harry considered this.

“It lacks a certain… pizazz. I thought you went by a different name?” the large man began to click his fingers as he tried to remember, “began with “C”… c..cr…craz-”

“Not that name. Not after… that ain’t me,” interrupted Joe more forcefully than he had intended. He could feel the eyes of The Fixer and his assistants boring into him as he averted his gaze to his shoes. There was a worryingly brown substance on the soles that he hoped was mud…

“Average Joe should do fine…” mumbled the hitman. Harry shrugged. He was used to his clients having weird little quirks. Getting snippy at old nicknames was better than going into a PTSD induced rage like some of the people on the books…

“Alright then. Now being paid in cash is the preferred method of payment but you’ll soon find the taxman coming knocking if you can’t declare an income. Rodney here is our resident money launderer and will be happy to clean your accounts for you should you need it. Standard finders fee for all work is ten percent of your pay. I have a friend up yonder that I normally send newbies along too just so we can get a gauge of your skills. Get a good feel for the kind of results you produce!” Kilroy flashed a grin at him.

“Like a test to see if I’m worth keeping on the books?”

“More or less. You have to understand, if you fuck up a job then it reflects badly on me. Can’t have you pissing off the wrong client, it could topple my entire empire!” the grin seemed to beam brighter, Joe could swear he saw a tooth twinkle.

“Don’t worry, I’m not expecting Doug McCracken levels of results from you. We won’t be expecting you to take down a cruise liner full of gangsters by yourself,” he winked, “’sides, Dougie has an advantage over you seeing as he has a freaking mage working with him. Guy’s a living flamethrower. I’m amazed your mates lasted as long as they did to be honest…”

“…What?” That took Joe by surprised. It certainly explained why the trio of mercs were brought in to deal with the triad problem. Harry, however, didn’t lose a step. He continued with barely a regard to Joe.

“I’ll have ol’ Drago call you. I expect this time tomorrow you’ll have your first contract!” Harry’s sweaty hands clasped themselves around one of Joe’s limp ones for a very one-sided handshake as The Fixer stepped out from behind the repurposed air-plane wing that served as his desk.

And that was it. The meeting was over. Joe was led out into the street and left to make his own way home. Joe was left feeling very small in the face of a brave new world he was only just learning how to navigate.

No more marching up and down streets. No more collecting money from poor shopkeepers. No more breaking people’s fingers to remind them where there loyalties lay and who was supposed to be paying who. Everything was going to be different from now on.

Joe wasn’t sure if he wanted to be sick from the nerves or the general stench of Undercit…

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

Far away from the City of Light, a man in a white lab coat panted heavily in fear as he ran along a traditional dock¹, the lapping waves of the water creating an otherwise serene scene. The big black leather bag the doctor carried jingled as the instruments it held clinked together inside. He was sprinting for his life.

He had to get out of town, fast. They were catching up, he could hear their van screeching to a stop, meaning that they had reached the bollards blocking the alley that led into the docks. He had to keep running. He didn’t want to die.

He could hear the sound of footsteps, the pitter-patter of a thin man’s light step running at speed and the slow thumping of a larger man taking big strides. They were coming for him and weren’t far away now.

The doctor looked around as he ran onwards. The dock was empty, no ships to run on to, but a ship would have been a dead end anyway, dead being the key word. Large crates and a forklift truck; hide or drive? No, they weren’t that easy to hide from or fight. He opted for the towering ship containers rusting on the end of the dock.

Running down the thin gap between the containers, he suddenly heard the voice of the thin man yell behind him, and he promptly ducked around a wall of containers as a small fireball flew past. It hit the opposite container wall, spluttering into a black smear of cooked metal.

Don’t stop, the doctor thought. Keep running. His feet hammered along the concrete as he weaved and meandered around the tall walls of stacked containers.

A hiss. Steam. There was a train nearby. An escape! But it was behind a dead end of containers. The door on the front of one ground level container was ajar, so the doctor took a chance. Feeling around inside the container, he managed to locate the bars of the door at the other end of the container, the train’s hissing just beyond. He could hear footsteps behind him outside, but as he went to leave the door resisted. It was stuck.

The doctor opened his bag and felt around for a vial. As he found it and brought it out, it emanated an orange glow from within. He threw it at the rusted door, it cracked open with a tinkle and the liquid reacted, causing what was once a rusted door to become thin air in a puff of smoke.

The noise of the glass and the chemical reaction was just loud enough, attracting attention and causing the pace of the footsteps behind him to accelerate, but so did he. The train was there, right in front of him, pulling away. He pushed his legs forward, adrenaline pumping and blocking out the exhaustion.

They were out of the container and just behind him. The thin one yelled the order to “grab him before he can get on the train!” but it was too late for them.

The doctor smiled as he leapt and grabbed on a handle on the side of the train, securing his footing on the step just under the doorway at the end of one of the carriages. He managed to open and close the door before some more fireballs impacted against the train, sizzling as the cold air rushed past the train as it began to speed up.

The two men watched as the train left them behind. One was tall and extremely thin, contrasting the huge ape-like man beside him.

“…They got away, Acheron,” the large one groaned.

“I can see that Tartarus!” the thin one growled in response. “Let’s get back to the damn van, we’ll follow the train tracks. We’ll find him again, he can’t get that far.”

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

“…A spokesman for Salmanic Inc told our reporters that the company is working to find the source of the blackouts and normal service should return soon. This has been the news on Centrissal FM, we now take you to number eight on the charts-”

The alarm clock was shrill as electronica music blared through the apartment. Joe groaned as sleep escaped him, pledging that one of his contracts would be obnoxious DJs that play stupid songs at stupid o’clock in the stupid morning. He groggily shut the alarm clock off and set about getting up in as slow a manner as possible.

Night had passed since the meeting in Undercit. Joe had considered other ways to jump start his career, a list of which was lying on his living room coffee table along with the latest edition of the newspaper ‘The Lantern Gazette’ and a pile of junk mail. He’d heard rumours of a jobs board of sorts on the feed system but that didn’t sound particularly secure to him. Not that it mattered. That particular bill was one of the first that Joe neglected to pay. He didn’t even own a digipad², only ever utilising the phone and in-built feed reader that came with the apartment. He had never been very good with technology. Small devices tended to break in his hands. His mates used to get annoyed at him for being so hard to contact, Joe always saying “why would I need to call you lot? We spend eight hours a day with each other as it is!”

Joe paused midway through getting changed, slowly becoming very aware that he had nowhere to go today. Not until this Drago bloke could be bothered to call him. He had only gotten up this early out of habit…

Joe’s apartment was slightly on the cramped side and was a bit too close to the city’s monorail tracks for most people’s liking but Joe had managed to get a good deal on the rent, something he expected to go up now that he was no longer associated with the mafia. The apartment itself looked like any other belonging to a bachelor in their early thirties. The place was a mess with dishes, clothes and magazines thrown around for that ‘homely’ feel. There wasn’t much in terms of decoration; only parts of walls were painted and some of the wallpaper was peeling off in places. The only obvious attempt at decoration was a picture placed on top of the TV, of a smartly dressed woman with big hair poised in an alluring pose. The only reason it was still there was because Joe didn’t have the heart to take it down, or possibly because it was a reminder that a beautiful woman was perfectly capable of completely tearing a person’s heart out³, hence the first reason.

Joe walked into the living room whilst slipping on his grey jacket, an odd fashion choice given that he was only wearing his vest and pants. He made his way to the small kitchen area in the back corner of room and set about making some coffee, flashing the picture an annoyed stare.

“Yeah, you just keep smiling, Ms. Career…” he muttered to the smiling face before turning his back. He was slightly annoyed that no messages had been waiting for him when he awoke. The smiling face of his ex-girlfriend just seemed to rub in the lack of business coming his way. He had expected to be bombarded with calls after a minute of announcing his new chosen career path. This was the City of Light after all, a place where there was always someone who needed someone else dead. Two weeks later and all he had to show for it was a new lingering smell on his suit and the promise that at least one person will probably call. If Harry up held his end of the bargain-

He nearly choked when the phone began to ring. He quickly put the mug down and engaged a hunt for the cordless phone which had once again escaped its docking charger. Joe knew it had to be Drago; he only had one living relative, his old mother who had been put into a retirement home years ago and seldom had any reason to call, not that she could anyway. His friends, his remaining friends, also had no obvious reason to call, not that Alfie or Fingers ever had anything much to do with him anyway. Joe came to the conclusion that the call was definitely Drago – he just needed to find the phone before whoever it was hung up.

The ringing was coming from the table in the corner. Joe ran to it and started rummaging through clothes until his hand felt the phone’s casing. The would-be hitman grinned as he clicked the answer button and raised the device to his ear.

“Hello?” he asked, making his way over to the sofa as he listened to the slightly disturbing breathing sounds of the person on the other end. Right when Joe was sure that the person had hung up, a raspy voice spoke.

“This the assassin bloke? The one The Fixer vouches for?”

“Yeah, that’ll be me,” Joe replied, quickly mentally retracting every bad thing he had said about Harry Kilroy.

“Do any job if the cash is right? Hit man for hire? No questions asked?” the voice quoted.

“Yes,” Joe again responded, a little less sure as this wasn’t something he and Harry had discussed. It sounded like Harry had taken a few liberties…

“Good. We’ve got the dosh so name the price. Our little gang’s got somethin’ for ya to do.”

Joe listened carefully to where the hit would be and the money arrangements before the phone clicked as the caller hung up. A few minutes later and Joe had finished sorting out the rest of his grey suit and his black tie. His clothes were cheap, almost obviously so, but they were comfy. Joe had paused to look at the only different suit in his wardrobe, the only one that cost more than all his other grey suits put together, the one wrapped in diamond-studded satin. He stroked the plastic launderette cover holding it and sighed. He’d wear it again one day, once he felt ready to wear it again.

Once in his suit, he opened the drawer of his beside unit. Inside was foam, specially cut to house weapons. Once, quite a while ago, it had kept five revolvers in pristine order. Now the foam lining remained hollow, holding only two old battered revolvers. The original five revolvers had been sold on long ago, when the magic of the mob had disappeared, leaving behind only a dusty hollow shell of foam crusted with dead insects and dust.

Retrieving his holsters from the drawer underneath, he slipped one on under each arm, placing one revolver into one holster and spinning the other around his finger before holstering it in the other. He then eased on his jacket, ran his fingers through his greasy hair, opened the door, went out and locked it behind him.

Walking down the street he counted three alleyways and turned down the long passageway. Just past the rusting skip there was a door that had corroded just as much. Joe smiled at just how far down the road the raspy voice said the meeting place was. Tapping on the metal door briskly, a hatch opened to reveal the end of double-barrelled shotgun.

“Hello?” Joe chirped, trying to hide the lump of shock in his throat. The gun hesitated, there was a grunt and the barrels slid away, to be replaced by two bloodshot eyes.

“You the guy?” the eyes muttered. Joe cleared his throat and tried to think how to phrase his answer.

“Er…yes,” was the only thing he could come up with. It was surprisingly hard to sound like a hitman. He was new to all this. What was a hitman supposed to sound like, exactly?

“You were quick,” the eyes replied, one narrowing with suspicion.

“…Sorry?” Joe suggested in apology. “I only live around the corner” didn’t seem to cut it as an answer. He didn’t want to be branded as the friendly neighbourhood hitman.

“No, ‘s okay. The boss likes punctuality,” the eyes replied, before the hatch slid closed and the door echoed as several bolts and locks were opened. The door creaked open, wafting musty stale air into Joe’s face.

He stepped into the darkness, remembering to look confident, to look professional. There was the clink of bolts and locks sliding back into place behind him, but he resisted the urge to turn around. It would have made him look nervous. Instead, he peered around the corner into the light.

If there had ever been a definitive hive of scum and villainy, the large dimly-lit room before him would probably been a close relative. There was a pool table with a large lamp hung above it just low enough to constantly bang your head on, as is traditional with all pool table lighting. There was a mini-bar too, complete with mini-barman – a dwarf in a greasy apron wearing a moustache and a general expression of ‘mess with me and you’ll suddenly need some new kneecaps’. To complete the atmosphere of attempted fun, there was even a jukebox. Joe harboured the distinct feeling that there was a large knife stuck in its top it for a reason. Joe didn’t want to look at the various people around the room too hard, just glancing at them made him want to wash his eyes.

The doorman shuffled up alongside him. The bloodshot eyes were part of a complete set of facial blemishes, including wrinkles, crow’s feet, bags under the eyes, mange, and scarring. Your ideal hive of scum and villainy doorman, in fact.

“If you’ll follow me,” the doorman murmured, shuffling away at top speed. Joe quickly followed, his eyes darting around the room to count the people and guns present. One shotgun, five pistols and two Uzis spread between 9 people, he finished counting in his mind. Strictly small time. Half the people here don’t even have their safety catches off on their guns, for crying out loud. Amateurs. Joe sighed but kept smiling. As long as they had the money he’d do a hit for them.

The doorman led him into another dusty dim room, the bosses’ office. He was sat behind an antique desk, featuring almost-real green office leather, and held a general air of small time money-maker around him. He was also quite fat.

“You must be the Fixer’s newest meat,” the boss stated as he sucked on a cigar the same way a baby sucks on a bottle of milk. The boss lingered on his inhaling of cigar smoke a bit too long for Joe’s liking. Even Joe knew that you weren’t supposed to take cigar smoke back into your lungs on account of it being too acidic. The boss grunted out a breath of misty smoke with a smile.

“Yes. That’s me,” Joe replied, eyes stinging in the cigar smoke that engulfed his face.

“You’re punctual. I like a man who likes to be punctual.”

“I aim to please.”

“Haha, a little hitman humour, eh?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Aim to please? No? Maybe not then.” The boss took another exceedingly long drag of his cigar. “You’re Joe Vekowski, aren’t ya?” he continued.

“Yeah,” Joe answered, considering that anonymity was an advantage after he’d answered, much to his own annoyance. It did make him wonder what exactly Kilroy had told this man about him…

“Hmm. Ex-Dalminetti. Shame what happened to them. Good news for me though,” the boss commented. News travelled fast, speeding across Lusinia towards the City of Light like metal towards a magnet. “Ol’ Crazy Fingers working for contract now, eh?”

Crazy Fingers? It had been a while since anyone had called him that, Joe considered. He hadn’t been called that in a long time. Occasionally the name followed him around and resurfaced like an ex-girlfriend. A particularly unwelcome one. Harry wouldn’t have mentioned that name; this guy was well connected.

The boss leaned forward and clasped his hands together, his cigar now comfortably seated on his lower lip.

“I’m Alphonse Drago. Small-time smuggler but living comfortably, thank you. Pleased to meet you,” he stated, offering his hand. Joe took it firmly in a brief handshake.

“What’s the job?” Joe asked, getting to the point.

“People muscling in on my turf, getting’ in the way,” Drago muttered in reply, leaning back in his chair. “A small yardie gang making a noise down on the dock front, think they can mess with me, real personal like. So I’m gonna mess with them. Well, you’re gonna mess with them. I want you to take out their leader, guy with blonde dreadlocks.”

“I know who you mean. Drives a purple low-rider?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. You know him?”

“He drives downtown past the Dalminetti Restaurant a lot with his radio turned up. Can’t miss the guy.”

“Ha, can’t miss the guy,” chuckled Drago, appreciating the hitman’s choice of words. Joe stared blankly.

“Er…yeah, that’s what I said.”

Drago paused. He shrugged at Joe’s wordplay blindness and continued.

“Good. Okay. I don’t care how much noise you make. They’ll know who did it.”

“And the money?”

“Two grand. It’s not much I admit, but respect goes a long way around here. I’ll put in a good word for ya to some of my associates if you come through good. Come see me once the job is done.”

“Cash, right? I don’t do plastic or cheques.”

“Ha haa, yer a funny guy, Vekowski. You’re my kind of guy.”

“Right,” Joe replied, completely unsure of what had been so funny about what he’d said.

---

Post by Sean Patrick Payne | April 27, 2014 at 9:32 pm | The Hitman's Tale | No comment

Tags: Acheron, Alphonse Drago 'the Dragon', Dr. Frederick South, Harry "the Fixer" Kilroy, Joe Vekowski, Tartarus, The City of Light, the Galactic Finders of the Tserulian Monastery

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