The Gun Goes Bang by: Sean Griffin
Chapter One
I remember one time Robbie told me whenever he has to kill a person slowly that Wagner plays in his head. Hell if I know why. He’s a classy sort and it probably passes the time. When you have to choke a person to death, that’s a good eight or so minutes. It’s a long time in the heat of the moment. Sometimes it can even be pretty boring. Especially when death is the goal. There’s nothing worse than strangling someone for minutes on end only to find they were found, “in the nick of time.”
Either way, I’m not too familiar with Wagner. Or any of the classical guys. I know the names, Beethoven, Mozart, Wagner and guys like that. But all I can think about is that Valkyrie song while I watch Robbie choke this guy. That song always makes me think of Bugs Bunny. I’m pretty sure that’s a Wagner tune. Looking at this scene, Robbie with his bony hands wrapped around this business class asshole’s throat with his thumbs pushing on the windpipe like they’re trying to touch, I start humming the bit. Bum bum ba bum bum. Bum bum ba bum bum. Robbie shoots me a hard glance and hisses, “Not that one,” and continues to squeeze his hands a sickly corpse-like white.
I look at my watch trying to figure how long it’s been but that only really works if I knew what time he started. Five, six minutes now? It’s hard to watch this poor bastard’s eyes bulge and tongue swell like a cartoon. To distract myself, I start looking around the room. Antonia or her designer or whoever put a smattering of décor around this excessively sized apartment. Ceilings where you need a ten foot a-frame to change a light bulb on a fixture hanging from a wire. Where the sound of your voice reverberates off the nearly empty walls with an ostentatious piece of art hanging over a low leather couch. The kind where it’s a couple splashes of paint on top of a slapdash still life. Looks like a snobby corporate office in Paris. It’s snobby if you ask me. But that’s the type of air Antonia likes to give off. That stylish power.
“My dear, Robbie what’s taking so long?” I hear Antonia’s slight rasp before I see her standing in the doorway over my shoulder an unlit cigarette held delicately between her first two fingers.
“Sorry, ma’am, but this chap with soon shuffle off the mortal coil.” Robbie says with a slight nod to his employer, “We just want to be sure his asphyxia causes his death and not just unconsciousness.”
“Of course. Of course.” Antonia gestures for Robbie to continue with her ciggy hand.
Antonia walks past me and her perfume not only wafts by but it forces itself up my nostrils. Smells like an alcoholic that rolled around in some flowers. I stifle a cough which is not only polite but might save my life as Antonia is known for a fickle and ruthless heart. One moment her favorite the next her personal toilet brush. Can’t argue with the pay though. She lays on the leather couch like she’s Cleopatra, her brown eyes sparkling through the thick black eye liner. Antonia could be beautiful if she didn’t scare the shit out of me. I’ve always been nervous that she might take a fancy to me like she has with some of her other hires. Considering the amount of fear she inspires in me I don’t think I could even perform if cornered by her.
“As much as seeing Robbie work brings about a sense of nostalgia,” I start, cautiously, “And you’re doing a swell job, Robbie.”
“Much obliged.” Robbie nods at me. Always the gentleman.
“And while it’s always a joy seeing a talented professional at work,” I continue, slowly. Talking in Antonia’s presence is always a tightrope walk, “I have to wonder why else am I here?”
“A fair question,” her voice hums out her lips and she lets her observation hang.
Robbie finally let’s his victim crumple to the floor. The smell of his now loosened bowels overpowers even Antonia’s perfume. Proud of her colorful, luxury-loving hit man, Antonia smiles but screws up her face in a scrunch and with her cigarette hand waves Robbie out of the room. He pulls the corpse past me, its smell reaching its peak right when I need to step aside. Last thing I want is a dead man’s last meal on my shoes. I make the mistake of looking down at the face, features still bloated from the cut off circulation is what I figure. Either way, those eyes looking back at me, I close mine just as soon as I made contact with his but it’s too late. That image is there. It’s why I’ve always hated strangulation. Once had a girl who liked being choked but not something I could ever get into. Not after seeing the real thing. Probably Robbie’s thing though.
Robbie slides the body out of the room and I hear two other voices conversing with Robbie. Antonia notices my eyes glance back to where Robbie exited and she starts to speak up.
“Remember,” Her voice says each of the word’s syllables with great duration and when you took upon that contract where you needed to make a witness have an accident?”
“It’s one of many contracts I’ve completed for you.” I carefully remind her. Robbie is her call sign. A body found strangled, usually with something degrading up their end just screams of Antonia. Me, I’m for the more discreet jobs. One’s to look like accidents, muggings gone wrong, or even the result of an act of passion. Mostly because I don’t have the kind of psychosis or fetish that limits me to one method of killing, “Not to mention that many of those required a witness to have an accident.”
“Of course,” her dark lips slither into a grin, “There’s one in particular that I’m referring to. The details don’t matter but what’s important is that the authorities are investigating one such accident with scrutinizing eyes.”
“Oh,” I roll the sound around in my mouth. I’m starting to see her point, “I suppose you’d like for me to handle it?”
Antonia lets a chuckle slip past her tight smiling lips, “No. No, my dear,” Her eyes flicker to look past me for the briefest of moments and I feel the weight of a shadow on my back, “You need to deliver a message.”
Cute. Dramatic but cute. I lean forward and push my weight back leading with my elbow. Robbie’s breath hits the back of my neck as my elbow hits him in the solar plexus. Luck is with me. That hovering presence I felt was Robbie closing in for his signature. Now to deal with the two voices in the other room. Turning and placing my foot in his instep, I toss Robbie aside. While he might’ve made a good shield against the armed guards in the next room, he’d more likely get in the way. I was searched on the way in, but it didn’t leave me unarmed. Squeezing the top and bottom of my custom belt buckle, a small two finger ringed handle pops out. I slide the ring over my middle and ring finger with the small triangular blade facing out. I close as much distance between me and the door before the two men step out. With two lengthy strides I reach the first one as his hand goes to draw the gun from his belt. With my free hand, I push against his draw, holding the gun in its holster while my fist, blade first makes contact with his neck. I remove the blade from his neck and grab his hair, forcing his head down to keep from hitting me with arterial spray. The second man lets off a shot. Pivoting, I bring the body in front of me. A meaty thump is made by the bullet hitting the body center mass. My free hand twists to draw the gun from his belt and I squeeze off two shots. First hits on of those shit art pieces. Second finds itself buried in the guard’s grey matter. I need to spend more time shooting because I was aiming for his chest.
I release the dead man’s hair dropping him to the floor and steady my gun hand pointing the gun straight at Antonia’s chest.
“Perhaps you’re better for a more rough and tumble type job.” Antonia says, drawing out each word towards the end. Her hands slide between her legs and slowly up her thighs past the slit in her knee length. Like any fool or man, I look. Her legs that shapely where you know she runs a bit but not crazy on the leg press. The skirt has a slit up the side that she moves one hand up to where her legs meet. I guess I’m not too scared of her to be aroused. Good to know.
The muzzle flash and high pop of a .22 caliber issues from under her skirt followed by another and another. There’s a sharp pain in my right shoulder, just under my clavicle, and a third in my side. I’m thrown a bit. Before my brain can piece it all together I have the thought, her vagina just shot me. Raising the gun in my right hand I go to fire but the shots only damage the dry wall. My shirt feels cold and wet. Looking down I see the blood and my face starts sweating. While I can kill whomever in any such way, it seems I get queasy at the sight of my own blood. How very narcissistic of me.
Looking over at Antonia she’s removed the .22 Walther PPK from a thigh holster. James Bond’s gun, god dammit. I fire one more shot and the slide stays back showing the empty chamber. That last shot made even the frigid Antonia turn her head away. In a last ditch effort, I throw the pistol with my left hand. It makes the most satisfying crack against the side of Antonia’s head. Deciding the better part of valor will come with my survival, I’m out the doors before she can get another shot off.
The security is uncharacteristically light. They probably thought they could take me without a bit of fuss. Only this floor and the floor below belong to Antonia. Once I get past these floors it should be clear sailing. Aside from all this bleeding that is.
Sliding into the backseat of the cab the driver doesn’t even notice my wounds. Just a quick glance into the rearview when asking me where I was going.
“Christopher Street,” I wince and grunt as I speak, “Just get me there and I can walk the rest.”
“Sure thing, man.” The driver recklessly pulls into traffic, “Don’t throw up back there or nothing.”
“What?”
“How many you have?”
“Only three shots.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine. You want to open the window for some fresh air?”
“Sure, why not.”
I lean my head against the window frame and the ride begins to blur. The wind lightly slaps my face as the cab jerks me forward and back with the driver’s lack of a middle ground where the pedals are concerned. Each time my eye lids start sliding closed I pinch my inner thigh or bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself awake. Conscious. Only takes ten minutes or so from the east Eighties to Chris street. Having been shot seems to add to the journey. It also makes it hard to think and create a plan. One of my hits went bad, The law is looking into it, and Antonia is looking to drop me. She’s going to keep sending assassins my way until either I fix my mistake or I kill her. I lost my chance if I had one, to kill her. I guess I need to mend this witness fiasco. Maybe. Maybe I’ll sleep a bit.
“Hey!” The cabbie shouts me awake.
“Yeah?” It takes me a bit to get moving. All my strength to get my eyes open.
This guy says the fare a couple times but I don’t hear it. I pass a fifty through the slot. Buys me time to heave my near carcass out. I hear over my shoulder the driver cry out something like, “Hey, man! You bled all over my backseat!” But I’m already on the sidewalk and moving.
It’s at this point I start having walking blackouts. Nothing new for me. I do my best to compensate by walking on the inside of the sidewalks one hand against a building if I can. It doesn’t always work as suddenly waking up in a heap of garbage pails can attest. The most important thing is to stay awake. Focus on my destination. The block seems to be added to each time I fight my eyes open. Somewhere in the drama of bleeding out I almost pass it. The three stairs to the green door with a gold knob. Shiny from the constant use. Using the railing like a crutch with one hand, I reach for the buzzer. I end up sliding my finger down the whole row. I hear a clicking, some static and finally a voice.
“Yeah?” asks an overweight sounding man’s over the speaker.
“You’re not Siobhan…” I manage to say with one exhale and then…
My first breath of consciousness hurts like a bastard. My tongue feels like a cat’s and my lips have scales. Reaching around for anything to help me up, I feel a slap on my hand. It’s sharp but I don’t feel it much either because I might be on an opiate, or because a simple inhale makes me want to vomit from the pain. Maybe both. My vision hasn’t cleared yet. Feels like my eyes are as dry as my mouth. After several blinks I start to make the shape of the hand slapper. Did I somehow make it up to Siobhan’s apartment?
“You’re lucky I was working late.” Her voice delivers itself on a playful even tone. She has the look of a dark Irish girl. So much so that I always expect a lilt to tickle from her mouth.
“Am I?” I croak, “I’m pretty sure I’m lucky I’m not dead.”
“And you would be if I didn’t find you unconscious on the stoop.” Her tone is the kindest kind of scolding. The details of Siobhan are starting to come a bit clearer. Not so clear that I can make out the minute details that I’ve memorized. Like the slight uneven slope in her nose where she broke it.
“Yeah, well, try not to congratulate yourself too much.” With that satisfactory quip I lean my head back and fall asleep.
A day or twenty years later, I stir. The slight movements aggravate my wounds immeasurably. Time for more of whatever Siobhan’s giving me. After several attempts, grunts, and possibly a burst stitch, I manage to sit up. My blood leaves my head or goes to my head, I’m never sure which. The pain is such that I struggle to stay conscious. I’m shirtless, the shirt I was wearing is probably in the trash. Ruined by the bullet holes and the obscene amount of blood. Such a shame. Meeting with a potential client or potential hit, one should dress like they’re going to a Mexican restaurant. No matter how fastidious, you’ll probably get something on your shirt, so best not wear your favorite. With dual breast pockets and a cowboy-like shoulder stitch and the shirt itself, a lackluster silver grey, it was certainly my favorite. Antonia, you asshole. Being shot is a much less personal blow than losing a rare-find shirt. A stylish shirt. One that made me feel just a little bit like a cowboy. An outlaw. Well, technically I am an outlaw. But it’s much less romantic than the old timey western outlaw. Being shot, I’ve been shot plenty so it’s harder to take offense.
“Siobahn!” I shout, admittedly like a child squalling for a mother’s tit.
“What!” I hear her call from the other room.
“How many times have I been shot?” I contemplate lying back down now that sitting up has taken all my energy. Shouting comes much easier.
“Individually or instances of being shot?” comes the response.
“I guess, instances?” after a pause, “Like, how many times have you treated me for being shot?”
“Seven, maybe eight times?” She sounds unsure but the number sounds right, “Why?”
“Just curious.” I begin the slow decent back to my horizontal occupation of the couch, “Siobahn?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I get some kind of opiate and some water?”
After a pause, “Alright.”
Oh joy. I nestle my head in the suede cushion and try to fall asleep until she provides. However, the current need to pee swells up south of my stomach. I think about holding it, though between healing and sitting up before, I’m not sure I have the energy. Besides, considering how long it took me to get upright before, I better get moving. My exasperating and vocalizations of strain must have given Siobhan a clue that I needed something because she hurried into the room with a couple pills and a glass of water. She stops me from hurting myself too badly and forces me to take the pills and wash them down. Her bedside manner almost makes me think she’d massage my throat to help me swallow like a dog who found the pill you hid in the peanut butter. After putting the glass down she gently puts her arm under mine to help lift me. Muttering something about me being a stubborn bastard or something equally as affectionate. We hobble to the bathroom and, with great effort, manage my pant’s zipper. Siobhan, less medical practitioner and more lady-like waits outside the door. For which, my shy bladder thanks her.
Washing my hands at the sink, I take a moment to examine my wounds. Picking at the med tape covering the hit to my side, I pull out a couple dark curls of chest hairs as I peel it back to reveal the gap in flesh and the piling mound where the wound was closed up. The skin around the gun shot looks like someone mixed two new crayon colors; jaundice yellow and muddy purple. Looking at the wound I start to sweat and get light headed again. As always, Siobahn did a semi-professional job patching me up. Most wounded people in my profession find a vet who’s lacking in scruples or desperate for a little cash. Considering most vets pay a ton to for their schooling but doesn’t really make it back in their practice. Since enough TV shows and movies have spoiled that option, I found the next best thing. Fun fact, most medical examiners have to get a medical degree on top of whatever else they might learn. Siobahn is a somewhat recent grad but like most grads, she’s working retail.
Lucky enough for me, I met her one of the many nights I decided to eat out from my most trusted Thai restaurant whose name escapes me. Although, I’m not sure I ever knew it. I make it a point to frequent them and always tip big. It buys a loyalty among the serving staff. If anyone comes around asking about me, they give a shrug and let me know someone’s poking about. But this odd night, I was ordering out and waiting at the bar having a Thai tea, that sweet gradient of white to blood orange, when I glance down the counter and see her. Siobahn, that is, standing with a drink, waiting for someone. With my drink and eyes pouring over her committing her features to memory. Like a piece of nature, her dark bark colored hair falls just past her shoulders in curls like fresh wood shavings. She’s short and athletic looking, standing tall without leaning or shifting her weight. I measured her at five-three and about a hundred five-ish pounds conservatively. Later finding out that she’s five-two and she’ll never tell me her weight but simply tells me I’m close. Her glance drifted over to me. Her blue eyes dilated a hair past the yellow spikes arranged like petals around the iris when we made eye contact. I made some impossibly clever line that escapes my memory. We got to talking and after several conversations about her work and vague descriptions of mine, I showed up shot and bloody on her doorstep one night.
“How much do I owe you?” I direct my voice to the open doorway of the bathroom.
“I already took it from your pants pocket.” She says with nonchalance.
“I had enough?” I ask while checking my back pockets. She cleaned me out.
“It was. I only took the paper. You know I don’t accept card.”
“And you know I don’t carry any cards.” I lean against the doorframe, drained of both urine and energy.
“Yes, yes.” She puts my arm around her shoulders and her’s around my waist, “So very cool, mister hitman. Nothing with your name on it.”
She’s right, of course. No credit card, driver’s license, nothing in my name. Naturally, I have false passports and licenses. I don’t have a credit score or anything of that nature but I’m not the kind of bloke who’ll need a mortgage or anything of the sort.
Siobahn guides me to the couch and maneuvers herself from under my arm to standing in front of me, slowly lowering me down to the cushions. Once there, I melt my way towards the pillow I rested my head on before. I look up at Siobahn still standing over me, her body imposing and her stare a mix between pity and what I wish I could say was attraction. I love Siobahn. To say I would kill for her would actually not mean a thing because, well, I kill people for a living. It’d be like a waiter saying, I’d wait tables for her. Or something of that nature. Killing isn’t hard for me. Not that I’m a sociopath. God, no. I think if I were, I wouldn’t love or have the same level of enjoyment of non-sociopathic things. There’s no pleasure in killing. Only a massive paycheck and there’s pleasure in what that money can buy. I’ll return to my views on killing later. This is about her.
There’s something about Siobahn. We’ve nothing in common on the surface and I think if we ever settled into some sort of domesticated bliss, everything would fall apart. It’s the kind of love that remains so long as it’s never consummated. Damn shame, that. So unrequited it is. I tell myself, I’m too old for her. Maybe that’s what I’ll tell myself to nurse the ache that comes with looking up at her right now. With her smiling down on me. Her glowing like she is. And that halo perfectly hovering around her head. The saint she is patching me up. Like she doesn’t shit but instead has rainbows and fairy dust shoot from her bum. Somewhere there’s a unicorn ready to offer her a cupcake.
“I take it the pain killers are working?” She says with a knowing grin.
“Oh yeah, baby.” Is all I manage before drifting off.
For reasons not worth delving into, I won’t discuss the dreams I had under such influences. But the throb of my head pulls me out of my REM delirium. I utter several swears and bring my hands to press on my head, to keep it from exploding, I assume. My inner child wants to call for Siobahn to bring me more meds but…
“Siobahn!” The inner child wins, that bastard.
“Siobahn?” My voice carries a bit but doesn’t meet a response.
She probably went to work. That’s good, I can run some errands. I stumble and rummage around her flat to find a shirt, some of the cash she took from me, and a hat and sunglasses. The shirt is probably one she sleeps in but even still, it fits a bit snug across my chest. I hope my wounds don’t leak through the gauze. I hop out real quick, although probably better to say, I hold myself up using anything sturdy along the way, trees, parking meters, walking for bits at a time leaning on the wall. Any old thing will do. I stop off a couple places. Using the cash, I buy a prepaid mobile phone, new shirt, a slate button down without any breast pockets and no cowboy style to speak of, and a taxi ride.
I have the taxi take me to Grand Central and I walk to Bryant Park. There’s a sandwich stand on the corner and just past it is several stairs and a lamppost. I take a small set of keys from my pocket. I had the keys made on different color keys so I don’t have to jingle and dance them about to find the right one. My job requires more precision than that. The yellow key is a skeleton key to the base of the lampposts around the city and the boroughs. With a bit of a pry the door swings open on its hinge to reveal the electrics of the post. There’s a fake bottom that hides two thousand dollars. I pocket the money, lock up and leave. Part of why I love operating out of New York is that native New Yorkers won’t look at anything strange as a point of pride and most tourists just assume that’s the norm. End of the day, most people don’t question much.
As far as I’m concerned, my apartment in Queens is burned. Antonia either has someone staking it out or someone waiting inside to kill whoever comes in. So it’s not like I can send someone to gather my things. Everything in there is as good as gone. I’ve thought of paying someone random to pick up some things and simply drop them at a random location but there’s too much risk. Hence the hiding spots. Different bits of this and that to ensure I don’t lose all.
What I need is a plan. Someone said that in a movie or a book or somewhere. Hell, what I need is some lunch. I wonder if Antonia knows my favorite udon place. She can’t, can she? Can’t risk it. But I like that place so much. First my favorite shirt and now my favorite Japanese noodle place. This whole vendetta Antonia has against me has already cost too much. Not to mention the gunshot wounds that remind me I’m alive with each vomitously excruciating movement. Although, supposedly it’s my fault. How can it be my fault? I’m way too careful, and even though it may not seem like it right now, I plan way too much for something to have gone wrong.
Antonia said one of my hits that was supposed to look like an accident is being looked into. Problem is, I’ve done way too many hits like that to narrow it down. I take out the burner phone and dial what most might consider my agent. Eddie wouldn’t be out of place if he were a Hollywood agent. But not the big deal A-list kind of movie agent. More the B-list bloated and sweaty kind of agent. The kind that has the sweat of being constantly guilty. Which Eddie probably should be since he finds me jobs to kill people and he gets a moderate percentage. He used to have more talent in his catalog but now it’s only me and one or two others in the same line of business. Not for a lack of business. But all together we pull in enough high paying gigs to where Eddie doesn’t need many assassins to represent.
“Yeah?” The out of breath husky voice asks suspiciously.
“Eddie! It’s me.” I try to sound my usual chipper self.
“Who?” His voice no less suspicious.
“Eddie, seriously.” If he’s trying to be funny, I’ve lost the mood for it. Being shot does that.
A sigh louder than his speaking voice pipes over the phone’s speaker telling me he’s aware who he’s talking to.
“Eddie, Antonia’s trying to kill me. Says one of my jobs went wrong.”
“Let me guess,” He speaks with each exhale, “You think there’s no possible way you screwed up.”
“Pretty much.”
“You want me to look into it, don’t you?”
“Yes please. I’d be forever in your debt. As well as alive, which means more jobs for you to get a cut from. Deal?”
I must have sat with the phone against my head for a minute or two before I realized he hung up. Makes sense to keep things brief. It pays never to agree to a job or a favor over the phone, can’t be sure who’s listening. A friendly voice doesn’t always mean the best will come out of it. Oftentimes the authorities, cops, FBI, Interpol, Mi-5, so on and so forth, will use a fellow assassin or broker to bait another. Two birds, meet one stone. In instances like those, it’s always better to be the first one they find. That’s the one they make the deal with.
While Eddie works on finding me a way to get back into Antonia’s good graces, I’ll work on my plan B, killing Antonia. Which, given the odds of me getting back onto the mythical territory known as, her good side, killing her should probably be plan A.
Walking to the corner with my arm raised to hail a cab I start kicking myself for not killing Antonia before. I replay the scene of me getting hit by her .22 and my shots going wild. Could I have killed her before I would have bought it? Given that Robbie was still alive probably means if I hung around to finish the job, he would have certainly choked me like a tart. The thought elicits a physical shiver to pass through my body and throbs my wounds. I don’t like neck stuff. Certainly not choking. Also, throat slitting. None of that falls into my bag of tricks, thankfully.
A cab cuts off a line of cars to swing into the lane closest me. God bless the cabbies of New York for some stereotypes never fail. I ask him to drop me at the corner of Prince and Broadway. I’ll walk the rest. If I have anyone following me, I can lose them in the Soho lunch rush.
Leaning my head back, I close my eyes and rest a moment. I may have strained myself too much for my first day out. This isn’t the first time I’ve almost died. Thankfully, most have those times have involved being shot. Getting shot might be one of the better ways to die. If I had to pick the worst way to die, I’d say getting choked or slowly stabbed while the person is looking at you. Being helpless aggravates me to no end and there’s no worse death than one that really pisses you off.
I take that back. Well, the point still stands. However, the worst way to die has to be drowning and being eaten by a shark. And the shark has spider legs and clown face paint on. Hands down, discussion over. Worst death ever. This is probably why I don’t support genetic engineering. I mean, a spider-shark or a shark-spider or a shark-spider-scorpion. That last combo would have to be the most fearsome. Shark body, spider legs, and a scorpion tail. Mind you, all in proportion to the shark’s body. Hell, I don’t think I’ll sleep without the aid of drugs or alcohol again.
The driver wakes me.
“We’re here, buddy!” He calls through the plastiglass slot.
“Yeah, how much?” I reach for my back pocket my eyes adjusting to being open.
Regardless how much he says, I shove a twenty through the opening and get out. My first couple of steps are like a baby deer’s. Each one weakly feeling weight being slowly put on it and shaking the whole time. It takes me longer than I would have rathered to get my stride. If anyone’s following me, I’ll be making it real easy for them being injured and unarmed.
I need a weapon at some point.
When looking for someone to follow you, it’s always good to vary speeds. If you try to be too obviously tricky, they’ll know you’re onto them and they might turn more aggressive. I cross the street quick as I can and start walking north on Broadway. At the corner I go left down Houston. I step into the closest coffee shop. While on line for my drink I keep an eye on the window for anyone wandering by looking much more closely for people in the crowd than the nine to five work crowd here.
Not so much as a single person makes my hitman-sense tingle. Too many overtly business types. The usual power suit and brief case or oversized purse. But a lot more companies and startups in the Soho area are pushing the laidback company vibe. A lot of the people I see, you wouldn’t guess they work in an office. Or best guess, they do graphic design.
I start to order a black coffee but I pause, to the dismay of the gauged eared barista. He stares at me a moment over his thick horn-rimmed glasses making his round face look like folding putty towards what might be his chin. I realize a black coffee might not be the best move considering my current health. Instead I go for a mango smoothie. I figure I need food to regain my strength. Continuing that thought, I order a chocolate chip muffin.
Getting back to Siobahn’s apartment, I feel like I may have eaten too much and might burst a stitch. My will finally gives way to my body and I drop onto the couch. That same moment, I fall asleep.
My eyes are open. I wake up in such a way where it feels like I’ve been awake and I’ve only just noticed it. My mind starts immediately. This usually happens when I’m on a hit. My mind doesn’t stop trying to work out a plan and a backup plan. This is the first time it’s ever happened when I’m not on the job. Without the slightest bit of grogginess to shake I’m already thinking of ways to kill Antonia.
Siobahn’s back. At least I feel like she is. There are the most subtle differences when you’re alone or not. Like you can feel the displaced air from another person being there. With Siobahn, it feels like the apartment’s warmer. Not like she turned the radiator higher or anything but the place glows a bit more. As if she has an uncontrollable visible radiance that keeps her glowing even when she sleeps. Then again, I may have noticed her shoes by the front door. Those completely white, completely covering sneakers that seem to only ever sell because of medical professionals. One’s on it’s side, its laces looking like abandoned jump ropes on a playground and the other is several feet from it standing upright still tied.
