Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All (3 page)

“Incidentally, I must say I admire Hitman Anders for his good heart,” she said. “Just think, that baby got away without a scratch! The kingdom of Heaven belongs to the children. We find testimony of this even back in the Gospel of Matthew, chapter nineteen.”

“It does? We do?” said Hitman Anders, forgetting that just thirty seconds before he had decided to give a good licking at least to the guy who wasn't saying anything.

The priest nodded piously and refrained from adding that, only a few lines later, the very same Gospel happened to say that you shall not murder, that you shall love your neighbor as yourself, and—
apropos of the knocked-out teeth—you shall honor your mother, and, for that matter, your father.

The rising rage in Hitman Anders's face subsided. This was not lost on Per Persson, who finally dared to believe in a life after this (that is, he believed that both he and the priest would survive their current conversation with the guest in room seven). Not only did the receptionist start breathing again, he also regained the ability to speak and was able to contribute to the overall situation by managing reasonably well to explain to Hitman Anders what twenty percent of something meant. The hitman apologized, saying he had become quite a wizard at counting years while in the slammer, but all he knew about percentages was that there were about forty of them in vodka
and sometimes even more in the kind of stuff that was produced in random basements without any oversight. In some of the earlier police investigations, it had come to light that he washed down his pills with thirty-eight-percent shop-bought liquor and seventy-percent moonshine. Now, police reports were not always to be trusted, but if they were right in that instance, it's no surprise things went the way they did—with 108-percent alcohol in his blood and the pills on top of that.

Inspired by the merry atmosphere that would soon prevail, the priest promised that Hitman Anders's business revenues were about to be doubled—at least!—as long as she and the receptionist were given free rein to act as his representatives.

At the same time, cleverly enough, Per Persson took two beers from the lobby refrigerator. Hitman Anders chugged the first, started on the second, and decided that he had understood enough of what had been explained to him. “Well, hell, let's do it, then.” The hitman terminated the second beer in a few rapid gulps, burped, excused himself and, as a kind gesture, handed over two of the five available thousand-krona bills with “Twenty percent it is!”

He stuck the three remaining bills in the breast pocket of his shirt and announced that it was time for a combination of breakfast and
lunch at his usual place around the corner, which meant he didn't have time to discuss business further.

“Good luck with the count!” he said from the doorway before he vanished.

T
he man who was called the count could not be looked up in the book of noble families. The fact was, he couldn't be looked up anywhere. He owed nearly seven hundred thousand kronor in unpaid taxes to the Tax Authority, but no matter how often the Authority pointed this out in letters mailed to his last known address on Mabini Street in the Philippine capital city of Manila, it never received any money in return. Or anything else. After all, how could the Tax Authority know that the address had been chosen at random, and that the notices ended up at the home of a local fishmonger, who opened them and used them to wrap tiger shrimp and octopus? Meanwhile, the count actually lived in Stockholm with his girlfriend, who was called the countess and was a high-level distributor of various narcotics. Under her name, he ran five dealerships that sold used cars in the southern suburbs of the capital city.

He had been in the business since analog days, when it was possible to dismantle and rebuild a car with a monkey wrench rather than a degree in computer science. But he had had an easier time than most in surviving the transition to digital, which was how one single dealership had become five in the span of a few years. In the wake of this growth, there arose financial discord between the count on the one hand and the Tax Authority on the other, bringing both joy and a certain amount of irritation to an industrious fishmonger on the other side of the globe.

The count was the sort of person who saw moments of change as opportunities rather than threats. Throughout Europe and the rest of the world, people were building cars that might cost a million kronor to buy, but only fifty to steal with the help of electronics and five-step instructions you could get on the internet. For some time, the count's specialty had been locating the whereabouts of Swedish-registered BMW X5s: his partner in Gdansk would send two men to fetch them and bring them to Poland, supplying them with a new history, then importing them again himself.

For a while this had brought in a net profit of a quarter-million kronor per car. But then BMW wised up and installed GPS trackers in every new vehicle, and the nicer used ones. They had no sense of fair play: they didn't even inform the car thieves ahead of time. Suddenly the police were standing in a middleman's warehouse in Ängelholm, gathering up both cars and Poles.

The count, however, made it through. Not because he was listed as living with a fishmonger in Manila, but because the seized Poles were far too enamored of life to squeal.

Incidentally, the count had received his nickname many years earlier from his elegant manner of threatening customers who didn't pay up. He might use words such as “I would truly appreciate it if Mr. Hansson were to settle up his pecuniary accounts with me within twenty-four hours, after which I promise not to chop him into bits.” Hansson, or whatever the customer's name might have been, always found it preferable to pay. No one wanted to be chopped into bits, no matter how many. Two would be bad enough.

As the years passed, the count (with the help of the countess) developed a more vulgar style. This was the one that befell the receptionist, but the name had already stuck.

Per Persson and Johanna Kjellander set off to see the count to demand five thousand kronor on behalf of Hitman Anders. If they were to
succeed, the murderer in room seven would be a future potential source of income for them. If they failed . . . No, they must not fail.

The priest's suggestion of how they should handle the count was to fight fire with fire. Humility didn't work in those circles, was Johanna Kjellander's reasoning.

Per Persson protested, and protested some more. He was a receptionist with a certain talent for spreadsheets and structure, not a violent criminal. And even if he were to transform himself into a violent criminal, he would absolutely not start by practicing on one of the region's foremost players in the field. Anyway, what sort of experience did the priest have with the circles she was referring to? How could she be so sure that a hug or two wasn't just the ticket?

A hug? Surely even a child could figure out that they would get nowhere if they tracked down the count and apologized for existing.

“Let me handle the sermonizing and everything will be fine,” said the priest, once they had arrived at the count's office, which was, as always, open on Sunday. “And don't hug anyone in the meantime!”

Per Persson reflected that he was the only one of the two who was at risk of having a sexual organ cut off, but he was resigned in the face of the priest's courage. She was acting as if she had Jesus by her side rather than a receptionist. Nevertheless, he wanted to know what the literal meaning of fighting fire with fire might be, but it was too late to ask.

The count looked up from his desk when the doorbell rang. In stepped two people he recognized but, at first, couldn't quite place. They weren't from the Tax Authority, though—he could tell by the collar on one.

“Good day again, Mr. Count. My name is Johanna Kjellander and I'm a priest with the Church of Sweden and, until very recently, the parish priest of a congregation we can leave out of this conversation. The man by my side is a long-standing friend and colleague . . .”

In that instant, Johanna Kjellander realized that she didn't know the receptionist's name. He had been nice to her on the park bench, a bit stingier when it came to negotiations over the price of her room, relatively anonymous in the effort to bowl over Hitman Anders with words, yet sufficiently brave to come along and rip the missing five thousand kronor out of the hands of the count, who stood before them now. He had probably mentioned his name as she was trying to trick him out of twenty kronor for a prayer, but it had all happened so quickly.

“My long-standing friend and colleague . . . and he has a name too, of course. We all tend to be in possession of such a thing . . .”

“Per Persson,” said Per Persson.

“As I was saying,” Johanna Kjellander continued, “we have come here in our capacity as representatives of'

“Aren't you the people I gave the envelope with five thousand kronor to a few hours ago, at the Sea Point Hotel?” The count was certain he was right. Surely there couldn't be that many female priests with dirty collars in the southern reaches of Stockholm. At least, not at the same time.

“That's exactly it,” said the priest. “Only five thousand. Five thousand is missing. Our client, Johan Andersson, has asked us to come here to pick up the rest. He sends word that it would be best for everyone involved if his wishes were met. Because the alternative, according to Mr. Andersson, is that the count will lose his life in an unpleasant manner, while Mr. Andersson himself, as a result, will likely be locked up for another twenty years in addition to those he has already amassed for similar reasons. Or, as it says in scripture, ‘Whoever is steadfast in righteousness gives life, but whoever pursues evil will die.' Proverbs, eleven, nineteen.”

The count pondered this. Coming here to threaten him? He ought to twist that collar around the priest's neck and cut off her oxygen. On the other hand, according to what the priest had just explained, doing so would turn the useful idiot Hitman Anders into a regular
old idiot. The count would be forced to off the hitman before the hitman offed him, and that, in turn, meant that his favorite bone-breaker would no longer be available. He couldn't have cared less what the Bible did or didn't say on the matter.

“Hmm,” he allowed.

The priest kept the dialogue moving: she didn't want any to risk ending up in some sort of deadlock. So she explained Hitman Anders's reasoning when he had broken one and the same arm twice and allowed the other to remain in able condition. In doing so, he had been acting in accordance with the ethical guidelines he had worked out jointly with his agents—the priest herself and her friend Per Jansson by her side.

“Per Persson,” said Per Persson.

According to these guidelines, it was out of the question to allow children to come to harm in the execution of his duties, and that was just what would have happened if Hitman Anders hadn't acted so resourcefully in a situation that had arisen without warning. Or, as the Lord commands in 2 Chronicles 25:4, “The parents shall not be put to death for the children, or the children be put to death for the parents; but all shall be put to death for their own sins.”

The count said that the priest was good at talking nonsense. It remained to be seen how she planned to handle the matter in question, it being that the intended victim was currently driving around in and steering the very same damned car he hadn't paid for, with one arm but not the other encased in plaster.

“That is a conundrum we have considered in great detail,” said the priest, of the problem she had just been made aware of.

“And?” said the count.

“Well, we suggest the following,” said the priest, in the very instant she thought of the solution. “You pay Hitman Anders the five thousand kronor you owe him from his previous assignment. At some later date, as we know, considering your line of business, you will need his help again. At that time, if those of us in upper man
agement consider the job worthy of him, and I'm sure we will, we will accept the assignment according to the applicable price list, and we will also return to Object A: make sure that no babies are in the vicinity and break his arms. Both the one that has just healed and the other, which so infelicitously survived unscathed last time. And all this at no extra cost!”

It felt strange to negotiate with a priest and a—whatever the other person was—about this sort of thing, but the count found what he heard acceptable. He paid the five thousand, shook hands with the priest and the other man, and promised to get in touch when it was time to teach a lesson to whoever it might be for whatever it might be.

“And I suppose I ought to apologize to you, Per Jansson, for that bit about your dick,” he said, as a farewell.

“By all means,” said Per Persson.

“A limb for a limb . . .” the priest happened to say, out of sheer momentum, but she stopped herself before she got to an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, all in accordance with Leviticus 24.

“Huh?” said the count, who suspected that he had just been threatened, and threatening the count twice in the span of a few minutes was at least one and a half times too many.

“Nothing,” Per Persson said quickly, grabbing the priest by the arm. “My little Johanna just happened to get lost in the Bible on our way out. My, it's warm. Come along, honey. Here's the door.”

T
he priest and the receptionist didn't speak as they strolled away from their visit to the count. They were each gathering their thoughts from different directions.

The receptionist suspected that misfortune was headed their way. And so was money. And even more misfortune. And money. He was used to the misfortune part. Surely he would hardly notice more of the same. But he had never laid eyes on considerable amounts of money, other than in his nightmares about Grandfather. And yet he had to consult with the priest . . . Having people beaten up to order?

Johanna Kjellander appeared to be searching for a good answer, but the best she could come up with was that those who fear the Lord will be taught how they should choose.

“Psalm Twenty-five,” she added, without conviction.

The receptionist said that was one of the dumbest things he'd ever heard and suggested she start using her head instead of reciting quotes from the Bible as if they were in her very marrow. Especially considering that the marrow in question belonged to someone who believed in neither God nor the Bible. Not to mention that, in Per Persson's opinion, neither of the last two quotes had hit their mark. By the last one, had she meant that she and he had been dispatched by God to guide those with questionable morals to the correct path via Hitman Anders? In which case, why had God chosen a priest who
didn't believe in him to lead the project? Along with a receptionist who had never even considered cracking open a Bible.

Slightly wounded, the priest replied that it wasn't always so gosh-damned easy to navigate through life. From her birth until about a week ago, she had been locked into a family tradition. She now found herself in a new role, in upper management over a torpedo, but she couldn't say for sure whether that was the correct way to take revenge upon the God who didn't exist. She would have to feel her way forward, and maybe she'd come across a krona or two in proceeds during this trial period. Speaking of which, she wanted to thank Per Jansson or Persson for his resourceful intervention when her Biblical autopilot happened to reel off that bit about a limb for a limb in front of the count at the worst possible moment.

“By all means,” said the receptionist, not without pride.

He didn't comment on the rest. But it seemed likely that the priest and the receptionist had a few things in common.

They were back at the hotel. Per Persson handed over the key to room eight and said that he and the priest could discuss the room rate another time. Quite a bit had happened for just one Sunday, and he was hoping to turn in early.

The priest thanked him in as worldly a fashion as she could manage. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for a nice day. I expect I'll see you tomorrow. Good night to you, Per. Good night.”

* * *

On the night following the day he had met, first, a priest, then a count, and subsequently become a consultant to the hitman he already knew far too well, Per Persson lay on his mattress in the room
behind the reception desk and stared up at the ceiling. A broken arm here and there probably wouldn't be the end of the world, especially when they were dealing with people who deserved nothing better, and when it also enriched both the executor and his management.

The priest was one of the strangest people he had ever encountered. The receptionist was able to say this, even though he had encountered a lot of strange things in his years at the Sea Point Hotel—the hotel God had forgotten.

But she moved things forward, and she did so in a financially ingenious manner (even if she might have prepared her prayer on the park bench a little better—she had lost herself twenty kronor back there).

“I think I'll hitch my wagon to your train for a while, Johanna Kjellander,” Per Persson said to himself. “I think I just will. You smell like money. And money smells good.”

He turned off the bare lightbulb next to his mattress and was asleep in only a few minutes.

And he slept better than he had in a very long time.