Death & the City Book Two (5 page)

"Don't tell me, it's Death by Pizza Delivery," I sigh. Terry's so predictable in his fast-food habits, it would be a miracle if anyone tried to bump him off any other way. Tanoshii Meals was only the latest in a series of food-related interventions I've had to attend regarding him. He's a walking hit-man sit-com all by himself.

"Bang on," they reply, and give me the details. "Don't worry, only a couple more weeks, and this new tax year activity will slow down."

"Oh, I wondered what it was about Heavy Duty," I remark. "What is it, offsetting last year's profits that would otherwise be carried over?"

"Yeah, that's usually the case in industrial action. Creating some dead men's shoes to fill, or creating some free venues to pitch to. Or personal stuff, you never know."

"Sometimes," I concede, thinking about Terry's three ex-wives and unpaid maintenance. "What does it come under in tax expenses? Recruitment costs?"

"That, and Refurbishment." They chuckle. "In Dyer's case, probably Catering. Split that with Fumigation and Pest Control, and you've probably got a lump sum large enough to tempt a desperate wannabe hit-man out of his local pub."

"If they're using a genuine Pizza Boy, that probably only cost them a Nintendo and a subscription to
Playbike
," I remark. "Okay. I'll give you a ring when I get over there."

I hang up and fill the kettle to start the pasta, trying to establish if I also feel like a cup of tea. It's a novelty to get enough notice to make a cup of tea, never mind dinner. I could get used to this. Although to be honest, I'd rather not be doing it at all.

Today might be a good day to start thinking about change. I look out of the window for motivation, and immediately lose the thread of what was on my mind, instead wondering where the cat is. Probably out rabbitting.

I do return to that thought as I head for Terry Dyer's on my way to work. It's not that morally I have a problem with the hard line in Law Enforcement - I happen to think it's more efficient and cost-effective than lots of expensive arrests, trials and prison, or in some territories, Death Row. Although wherever that country is that Elaine mentioned, which charges you and your family for the costs of everything from your incarceration to the bullet they execute you with as a deterrent, probably has the right idea about discouraging crime. Here we have to work around overflowing prisons, and justice systems with longer waiting lists than hip replacement surgery. So what we do is basically the next level after on-the-spot fines were introduced for littering. It's just that there are no guidelines on how to move on, how to retire without being 'retired' by someone else, possibly a better shot than you.

And I don't have any financial or contractual obligation to complete any list, new or otherwise - when I think about it, I'm not even curious about current or future targets. They're living their lives, second by second, whether it's being counted down by someone else for them or not. Whatever they do in private or public is their business. Until they start to think that being a hit-man is a better get-rich-quick scheme than the Lottery. It's not like watching a TV soap, where you get to see the outcome of their individual storylines after they pass - like Connor says, often you report something, or undertake a job, and hear nothing at your end about what happens next. No feedback, no just desserts, no
Happily Ever Afters
, no empathy or attachment to the people behind the scheme they've unwittingly become a part of. And I don't have any personal attachments to keep me in either job - nightclub security or hit-man runner - unless by setting me up with a wingman, they were hoping to create that.

Hmmm. Food for thought. My fingers drum the steering wheel, as I become close to pondering the possibility of ringing Connor to ask him if he knows anything about the concept of vanilla blackmail. Using a carrot rather than a stick to keep someone's loyalty. It all sounds very Cold War spy era. Keeping your side loyal by knowing their weaknesses. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer - and those who have the job of keeping them close, the closest of all.

For the first time, it occurs to me the concerns that head office have to incorporate, regarding keeping my loyalty. Every night I go to work in my normal job, they're risking me having a personality flux where I might suddenly fall in love with a colleague or passing customer,
i.e.
the next potential target. At the moment, apart from the cringe factor (my lack of experience and moral desire to vomit at the idea of) all I think is what a bizarre concept that is. Not only lust, which old-fashioned spies were allegedly rampant for, but the thought of falling in love with somebody random and inappropriate, just like that. Meaning emotional attachment, which would affect my loyalties. Turn me into a defector. How odd.

I've never experienced it, not because my sideline requires it of me - there aren't any spoken rules, in fact - but because the motivation was never there. None of my workmates have ever asked me on a date, and the more I learn about them from day to day, the less inclined I am to think I'd accept one. Maybe in the twelve or so years in the job I've found a few of my colleagues attractive, but only from a distance. Even Joel Hardy, texting me late at night booty-call style, I find detracts from his otherwise general attractiveness and apparent good nature. Some guys are very tight-knit, will only work in the same team together, but I've never had a problem moving around different venues, and working in different teams, because I view it as part of the necessary evils of work - not part of my identity outside, in real life, that requires continuity.

In a nutshell, I basically think:
Yuck
.

But if Connor and I become an item, if this goes further than just dating, attempted brainwashing, him calling me and hanging out hoping to get lucky (in other words gets serious), then THAT would definitely give head office an advantage if I suddenly decided I was quitting for good. Especially if they weren't ready to let me retire quietly.

Definitely food for thought. Not the kind of food Terry Dyer is getting delivered today, but definitely something for my brain cells to chew over. Now I think about it, vanilla blackmail is certainly head office's normal scheme of things. In the shape of offered incentives like shoes, sun-beds and Botox - or in my case, knitting wool and tree-houses, as they try to figure out my interests and weaknesses in the absence of any addictions.

Like Elaine and her cookie-pushing, when she wants a man's loyalty and undivided attention. I've seen Des do it with alcohol when she fancies a customer, giving them two-for-one, charging single shot for a double, or giving them a jug of vodka Appletini for the princely sum of a quick snog over the bar. Rather than have faith in loyalty without a price, work out what the price is to keep them coming back at any cost. Coming back for the cookies and booze, anyway - until sugar and beer goggles make the targets more agreeable to handing over the rights to their sperm. Their own personal contract with the Devil, if the Devil in their minds is an amoral erotomaniac, with a delusional sleep disorder due to the deafening sound in her head of her body-clock ticking away every night.

At least head office only want hit-men killed, I think to myself. I'm glad I'm not a man, risking meeting women trying to harvest my DNA every time I go out for a drink.

I get to Terry's and wait in the car. I feel like a benefits investigator on a stakeout, or a Hollywood gangland hit-man waiting to carry out a drive-by. I'm wearing my old blue petrol/oil-resistant mechanic's overalls over my work uniform to save time and bloodstains, my ponytail tucked into the back of an Exxon-Mobil baseball cap, and have put one of the garage's plastic-bag seat-covers over the driving seat, as if I'm returning a car from servicing. For some reason, dressing like this makes me think I should wash the car more often.

I get my phone out and play Tetris, pretending to text or something more social, in case anyone wonders what I'm waiting around for. It does feel far too 'Comedy Hit-Man' to be hanging around in a ropey disguise, instead of whatever I could grab off the floor, or out of the fancy-dress box. I even had to put some thought into it. Anyone watching would half expect me to pull off a mask, and turn out to be Eddie Murphy or Chevy Chase.

I miss my Skellington outfit. I'd even be happier with a Tanoshii Meals paper bag over my head, a snorkel and goggles, or a lot of kid's party face-paint. Or my Iron Fist killer cupcake nightshirt, and a sleep mask. I feel more obvious, hanging around dressed as something contrived, than turning up as myself on a bad day.

This better not take long. I don't want to be late for my REAL job.

I also hope that this isn't the way the job's going to go from now on. Stuck in plain view, trying to act normal when I'd much rather be on a roof, or in a tree, being a psychopath. All this parading around in public is out of character for me. I'm more at home creeping around in the dark, at the dead of night. I heave a sigh. It's probably just in my nature. Not a personality disorder that can be categorized, or a lifestyle choice,
e.g.
to identify with a niche group like Goth or Emo. I always was a night vigilante. Worrying what business anyone else had, to be out late at night. If they're not star-gazing, like I started out doing originally.

Sometimes, they're only out delivering pizza.

I wonder what hit-men emulate or pick as their role models when deciding on their character. It's not like nightclub teamwork, where you have the osmosis of absorbing the methods, attitudes and approaches of the real people working around you. A lone hit-man only has his iconic idealism to lead him. Whether it's Michael Caine, Jean Reno, Daniel Craig, or Samuel L Jackson. Even Timothy Olyphant. A lone hit-man has a better chance of survival than in a team, who are always at risk of the next stab being in their own back, severing them from their cut in the contract payout. But in terms of their sanity, keeping their heads above water in the job, what do they turn to if Hollywood only contributes a part of their inspiration?

Maybe alcohol or drugs. Maybe a religion. I happen to know a number of cult-like martial arts clubs with some shiny-eyed Bruce Lee and Hatsumi Masaaki fanatics in. Maybe even the Territorial Army. Or maybe just some of the more lurid console games.

As a mental case myself, it's more about looking for the ordinary to inspire me, away from the job - to absorb the culture of. Psychologically, I'm on the inside of a dangerous mind, looking out. I'm forever mystified at what motivates others to want to find a way in. Except for greed, in its various forms. It's the greed that leads to acts of evil. But a dangerous mind sticks around even while you're knitting mittens and a bobble hat. A dangerous mind needs a lot of mundane activity to start feeling normal. A normal mind, preoccupied with greed, engaged in evil acts to feed greed, merely becomes an addict, an adrenaline junkie to risk, effort and reward. A dangerous mind is not necessarily evil. The motivation and acts are what determines a person as evil. A dangerous mind with no desire to be evil is just a burden, a mental illness, like being a prison officer to your own brain, hearing it ranting late at night. Or worrying what it's going to say about the next person passing. An imagination gone wrong, with no way of determining the difference between fiction and reality.

I notice I've become introspective as opposed to observational. I suppose in a way I'm lucky. I'm not in the psychological position of being able to feel any sympathy for a contract killer. For one thing, they're taking money for it, and buffing up their image and ego in the process.

I'm just thinking,
Stupid wankers
.

I am aware that head office recruit - or to give it the more accurately questionable term, sub-contract - people like me, in a position weak enough to work for nothing more than a bit of
Finders Keepers
, and early birthday presents. Their reasons for doing so range from the logical, being that it's more cost-effective and efficient than paying more armed undercover police, to the slightly shady, being that should we cock up ever, we're just escaped mental patients on the run with a stolen weapon or two, which always passes scrutiny in the Press. We are basically just a step up from Joe
'The Grass'
Public, Police Informer.

I imagine police informers also lost quite a few favours, once people started bragging about themselves on Facebuddy, making a few people redundant. Most likely they got promoted as well, I think to myself. Got put in an I.T. room, browsing Facebuddy and Twaddle to keep up with the million or so blogging criminals on the net. For some reason I picture Bob and Jay, and smile to myself. Yeah. I can imagine those two as former snitches, trying to avoid a police record for dealing chocolate chip hash brownies.

I've scored over 300 lines on Tetris before there's any sign of activity, in Terry's leafy suburban street. I stop the game in time for head office to ring.

"Little red Vespa approaching you now," they say. "
Pizza Heaven
on the top-box."

"Nice wordplay," I remark. "Crappiest getaway vehicle I've ever seen, though."

"Ah, first impressions - and all that," they say knowingly. "He's got a Mercedes van waiting in the wings to pick him up. Two drivers, unarmed, faking local commission roadside assistance."