Her name was Trenasha, and she was a down-to-earth lady, not a spoiled, whiny brat like the late Gwen Ogg. I fell hard for Trenasha. Strange as it was, I never felt led to write a poem on Trenasha as I had Clarissa, my fantasy "it" girl. Maybe Trenasha and I hadn't lived enough life together to inspire any lines of verse. First a mutual friend had introduced us, and we generated enough sparks to plan a getaway weekend at
Virginia Beach
. Of course, I had to replay our break up scene.
"So, you're an architect. Uh-uh, Tommy Mack, I don't think so. I know T-squares aren't used now. It's all performed by computers. So, don't go on telling me your lies."
The foamy wave broke on the beachhead, a chill swishing over my bare feet. While I skirted stepping on a slimy, yellow jellyfish, I sneaked over a sidelong glance. She was the whole package, all right. Her skin glistened the shade of mocha, and, boy howdy, I couldn't drink in enough of her. Right then I didn't cotton to her changed tone, brittle and accusatory, and I laughed, my attempt to lighten her angry mood.
"The dinosaurs run our architecture firm," I said.
"Here's a catchy idea: Why don't you try being honest with me?"
"Look, hasn't our weekend been a gas?"
"Up until now, yes, it's been swell."
"Then we'll just keep that part going, baby."
I rivaled her longer strides, and we quit holding hands. "Tommy Mack, I like you a lot, but if we're to enjoy any future, trust has to be the bedrock to it."
"This might be hard to dig, but I can't tell you what my job is."
"Then why didn't you tell me your job is confidential instead of the architect malarkey?"
"It just seemed to be easier that way."
"A hunch warns me that I'm still not hearing the whole truth."
I stopped my stroll just as the next chilly wave sloshed over my feet. How would divulging my gory tote board for Mr. Ogg to Trenasha go over? Not too hot, I predicted, and so the total honesty she pleaded for between us sailed out the window. How could it ever be any different between us? I sighed.
"Trenasha, this just isn't working out, now is it?"
She also ceased her stroll and pirouetted to confront me, hands on her hips. "That's it? All because you can't share something as simple as your job with me."
"Hypothetical. I tell you I do something that's less than legal, violent even. How do you react to hearing it?"
"I say thanks for your candor; I had a memorable
Virginia Beach
fling; and I really have to get back in the city tonight."
"Uh-huh. Now tell me, do I see you again? Could I call you up? Could I still be your friend?"
"Not one chance in a billion. I don't date creeps or thugs, no exceptions."
"That's sort of what I figured. So, we better pack our duffel and hit the road."
"But isn't this just a hypothetical we're talking about?"
A nail-point scratched on my smile. "I'll level with you, baby. I'm nothing but a son of a bitch who's rotten to the core. Sorry about all that."
A grim mask hardened her face. She left me, stamped over the beach sand, and cutting straight back for our motel room. We'd exchanged our last words except for when her packed bags sat outside the room door, and she informed me that she'd call a cab to ferry her to the Greyhound depot. I nodded and slung my duffel bag into the coupé's trunk. She put her back to me. I climbed in, mashed the gas pedal, and left her yammering into her cell phone. My homeward trek turned into another long, reflective journey where I seemed to do the introverted thing a lot in my life.
Mine had to be a lone wolf's existence, I bemoaned.
Or just maybe not
, I reconsidered.
Maybe it was the right time to eject from the paid assassin racket. Maybe the romantic and poet that I knew was buried in me had started taking over at the controls.
The only sure way to know I was finished with the grisly trade was to try and make a clean break from it. Soon, too.
K
ill Mr. Ogg. Get the blind son of a bitch before he gets you
. The goal had set clear in me. Getting close enough to do him was the biggest obstacle. How did I penetrate the cordon of dark suits in their navy blue sedans poised around his bungalow? I'd never worked at a long distance. If a target was outside of my kill range (say more than a car length), my colleagues—the one shot, one kill snipers—took care of it for a fee they charged higher than mine. Give me a scoped rifle equipped with laser sights, and I turned into a complete klutz. A sawed-off 12-gauge such as the one I'd appropriated from Arky was a far different matter. Firing a scattershot at short range, I enjoyed a higher percentage to rub out my target.
Did I resort to trickery? I could masquerade as a school bus driver, bug exterminator, or postal carrier to draw in close enough then punch out Mr. Ogg. The disadvantage was hijacking a school bus, an exterminator's van, or a postal jeep took the time I didn't have. My eyes flicked back and forth to locate a different car.
The shopping plaza I approached offered me a smorgasbord of cars from which to jack one. However, a brother prowling in a parking lot and peeking with cupped hands through car windows for any keys left in the ignition raised eyebrows and sent out cell phone squeals to the police. A more imaginative approach was in order.
A russet brick funeral home—its low, squat design was that of a former gas station—bounded up on the right where, on impulse, I steered into the turn. The funeral director hadn't yet arrived and opened shop. I cornered behind the funeral home to find a loading dock, bay door, and hearse, sleek and black as the space shuttle. Slowing to a tortoise's creep, I couldn't take my eyes off the hearse. Speak of your imaginative disguises: who gave a hearse more than a cursory glance? Posing as a hearse's wheelman, I could travel to any place of interest in the city.
The coupé slotted in the shady space beside the hearse. I pocketed my keys and hustled out to the hearse's driver door. Fear charged the adrenaline in my legs to take off. First I craned my neck, straining to spot any trouble, and I had a clear field. The key in the hearse's ignition switch didn't amaze me since they'd also left the door undone. Who'd want to jack a hearse? Well, count me for one. I slithered into the hearse’s bucket seat with my gut under the steering wheel.
The navy blue, double-breasted jacket left folded up on the passenger seat was my chauffer's attire. My shoe tapped the accelerator pedal, I flicked the ignition key clockwise, and the V-8 engine purred awake. I goosed it a few revs, ecstatic over hearing the throaty rumbles pulsating from under the long hood.
Lips moistened to whistle a jaunty tune, I palmed the gear selector into reverse then checked out the side and rearview mirrors.
Oh-oh
—my eyes flitted back to the rearview mirror. I saw it reflected a flame mahogany coffin, but I hadn't signed up for ferrying around a stiff. Surely the coffin was a sales prop the funeral director used between making his formal deliveries. But I wanted a positive check of that before going anywhere.
I cut off the engine. After worming about in the bucket seat and clearing the steering wheel, I snaked through the open glass center divider and crawled into the rear compartment. My knee clunking the gear selector smarted, but I didn't quit wriggling until I was crouched next to the coffin. The steel bier pins underneath secured it in place while in transit. My several breaths were sharp sniffs, but nothing unsavory defiled my nostrils.
I still better confirm the empty coffin was for ornamentation purposes. The clearance from the crown of the coffin to the hearse's skylight gave me the right space to hoist its lid. I didn't require a casket key to undo the lid, and the piano hinges proved well-oiled when I pushed up to lift the lid.
The eye-popping shock at what I saw petrified me, or I'd have slapped down the lid and barreled it out of there. Gwen Ogg in repose lay nestled amid the ivory satin that lined her coffin. Her sallow, papery face was a candidate for Madam Toussauds that I'd once toured as a school kid. Evidently the undertaker or his slipshod lackeys on their rush job had forgotten poor Gwen. But the undertaker had permed her dyed blonde tresses to veil both prim bullet holes perforated behind her ear.
She'd soon lay six feet under to meet the dung beetles in her pale blue dress with its Peter Pan collar. Even if lifeless, she was foxy, highlighted by her aquiline nose, high Roman cheekbones, and curly eyelashes. Whoa, the quiver to a woodie thrilled me. I'd never before gotten it on with a corpse—and I still wouldn't. However, our meeting was opportune because we really needed to talk things out.
So Gwen girl, I'd've thought Uncle Watson had more regal tastes for your sendoff, but what can you say about a multi-millionaire skinflint who dwells in a third-rate bungalow? This is the cheapest funeral parlor in the city. Well, he's brought in his dark suits to whack me for your murder, but I didn't put the two fatal caps in you. You know it, and I know it, but a fat lot of good that does me.
All this time I've played his trusty axe man, and this is the shoddy manner I get repaid for my loyalty. I deserve better. He owes me. You owe me, too. No, Gwen girl, I remember I killed on your behalf. I'm paid to forget, but I can't purge it.
The abortion doctor was a lech if not a quack. You had reasons—valid ones, I agreed—for keeping your visit to him under wraps. The old-line Mr. Ogg would’ve exploded if he knew your home pregnancy test had dyed a positive test line. His cash packets would quit dropping like the golden goose's eggs through your mail slot. Grow up, I suggested. Bopping through life as a vapid party girl jammed you up with strife, the latest dispatching you downtown to see the quack.
You'd called me, and I rushed over, and we sat as conspirators at your kitchen table. You seemed angry, bitter, and isolated. The arrogant lout responsible was a diplomat's son, you told me between your cascades of tears and gut-twisting sobs. "Diplomatic immunity" made him untouchable in the eyes of the law. Getting any payback, it appeared, was all but futile.
By far the wiser, I smiled. Nobody, including this arrogant lout, I corrected you, was immune from payback. Trust me, I knew of these matters since I handled them daily.
A sly glint informed your eyes. That was my first hint of trouble, but I missed heeding it. Gullible me fell under your hex. My timing was impeccable, you said, since I had the right stuff to secure your revenge. I thought my face burned with my love for you, but it was my lust to jump in your yoni pot. So, you had your agenda, and I had mine. We schemed away. It was, I declared, a foolproof plan. Then you smiled, and I liked it. A lot. I complimented your perfume. You giggled. We kissed. Things heated up, and like that I was flat out on your sofa. You climbed into the saddle and rode bronco on top…
You knew the arrogant lout, an ice skating freak, every Thursday rented out a
Springfield
arena off-hours to enjoy it all for himself. He'd money to burn. That peculiar habit provided us the ripest ambush site. Arriving early at one a.m., I loided the front door lock, hustled down a chilly corridor, and ducked through the clear vinyl strips hanging down in a doorway to seal off the heat. The manager's warmer office upstairs was the nook where I waited.
The office's interior window overlooked the semi-dark, NHL-sized ice rink. The Zamboni, burly as a bull rhino, squatted in the far corner. Hours ago I knew cheerful pairs and singles of men, women, and children had skated below on the oval of ice. Sitting on the wood benches behind the plastic shield wall and lacing up their skates, new enthusiasts hurried to get out on the ice.
But not me. I determined I'd better rub out the arrogant lout before he tied on his skates and glided over the ice. I was no fan of slippery surfaces, especially when I locked into my stance and flexed the .22's trigger. All my targets went down fast and clean. That was sacrosanct. I wanted no parts of a messy hit.
For now, I kicked back in the swivel chair behind the desk. My body clock demanded sleep, and with slack time on hand, I catnapped. The next thing I knew the harsher illumination from the overhead lights flared on to brighten the ice rink below, and the glare through the office window prodded me awake. Heart sent riveting, I stole over to the window and peeped down at the ice rink's new brilliance on the lone skater.
"Oh shit."
The arrogant lout had put on his skates while this sleeping beauty snoozed, and he was zipping around like a hockey puck. The .22 I'd brought couldn't nail a speeding target. I watched him zigzagging in a figure-8 as if taunting and daring me to pursue him. I always held out the option to abort, regroup, and whack him at a future place and time of my choosing.