Sarah Weinman - Sex, Thugs, Roll, and Rock & Roll

Agent Johnson could hear the screams from Point Emery two miles to the north. He put away his cell phone and walked back to the white van, where two of his men stood by the open door, watching the smoke drift over the burning bridge.

“Call the units,” he said. “Tell them to start the raids immediately. Secure the warehouse in Colfax and call in the forensic team.” He lit a cigarette. “Remind them that evidence in this case is classified as Sensitive Compartmented Information requiring Special Access Clearance and media access will be restricted to Senior Command by orders of the Director.”

Sirens wailed in the city. Johnson watched the agency helicopter circle the island, filming the carnage for early release.

They needed maximum exposure.

The telephone rings as I’m loading my gun. I jam the clip home, slap the pistol into my shoulder holster, take two short steps to the faux-mahogany end table, and glower down at the ancient, rotary phone.

There’s no reason for this thing to be ringing. For starters, it’s quarter to two on a Tuesday morning, well outside the acceptable hours for calling anyone. Furthermore, the phone’s number is known only to the Client, and he’s been instructed to never contact me again. I’ll do the job, he’ll learn of it later today, and our business will be concluded.

That’s the plan anyway.

I arrived by plane yesterday morning, encumbered only by a change of clothes, some toiletries, and a paperback biography of Alexander Hamilton. My first stop was at the home of an associate, who gave me the Smith & Wesson he’d procured on my behalf. Then I drove to Seattle and checked into a small and shabby motel, just within the city limits. The clerk-a truant middle-school student, surely-assigned me to this first-floor room on the front of the building. With shag carpeting, a fraying floral comforter, a television that predates the remote control, and a single faded seascape painting adorning the otherwise barren walls, it’s as if I’ve taken up lodgings at a thrift store. Still, they accept cash and it suits my modest needs, so what do I care?

I could have completed the job hours ago, but felt no sense of urgency. Drive to the Target’s home, fulfill the contract, arrange things to look like a burglary-by my reckoning, the entire operation would take little more than an hour. So I frittered away the evening, first reading my book, then alternating between the television’s two stations. Procrastination is a bad habit of mine, and one of the many reasons I am self-employed.

Finally, five minutes ago, I decided to get on with it. I slipped on my shoes and jacket, started preparing the weapon. It looked to be a straightforward assignment, and I anticipated no difficulty.

But now the phone is ringing, and that can’t be good.

I settle on the edge of the bed and study the telephone warily. It rings a fifth time, and a sixth. If someone has dialed a wrong number, they are in it for the long haul.

That, of course, is the likely explanation: a drunk in a bar, somewhere out there in the city, has accidentally punched a 7 instead of a 6 while calling a cab, and is too soused to even consider hanging up. But I know otherwise. Professionals in my field can sense impending complications like sailors smell rain.

I sigh on the eighth ring and pick up on the ninth.

“What?” I say without inflection.

At first I hear nothing but an intermittent hiss, the hallmark of a cell phone. Then a voice I immediately recognize as the Client’s. “Is…is this the, the person…?” He trails off, bewildered.

It’s strange, though not unpleasant, to hear him at a loss for words. Whenever I’ve seen the Client on television-and when I briefly met him in person yesterday afternoon-he’s been self-confident to the point of arrogance. Understandably, I guess, as one of the few dot-com billionaires to survive the crash in the late ’90s. His Web site, Opulence Online, sells luxury items to the obscenely wealthy-art, yachts, jewelry, even low-orbit space flights-and he currently presides over the company as CEO. While not the richest man in the country, he is rumored to be in the top twenty.

So I let a couple seconds tick by before answering. Let him sweat, for once in his life.

“This is Xerxes,” I say at last. “Did you forget our arrangement? No more contact, ever. Those were the terms to which you agreed.”

“The…? Ah yes! That’s why I am calling!” He instantly reverts to his typical, businesslike manner. “It’s off. I’m canceling the job.”

I shrug. “Okay, fine. It’s off.”

“Excellent.” The Client’s voice is fraught with relief. “I’m glad I caught you in time.”

“Just. I was walking out the door.”

“My lucky day.”

He hesitates, waiting for me to ask something. I don’t take the bait. “I suppose you want some sort of explanation,” he prompts.

“Not especially,” I reply. But I know he’s going to provide one. They always do.

It’s the same when they hire me: clients seem compelled to account for themselves. I tell them up front that I don’t give a damn, but they tell me all the same.

When I first started in this line of work, I thought they felt guilty, or didn’t want me to think them a bad person. But you become a pretty astute observer of human nature after a few years of doing this, and I eventually tumbled to the truth.

See, here’s the thing. To get to the point of killing someone, the typical person has to invest considerable time and energy into justifying the decision. They don’t call it “premeditated murder” for nothing. By the time they contact me, clients usually have a nicely polished rationale all queued up and ready to go. A real labor of love. Something to be proud of.

And they want to show it off. Convincing yourself that murder is acceptable takes as much skill and dedication as building a ship in a bottle. My clients don’t want to set their completed project on a shelf somewhere; they want someone to admire their handiwork.

So I pretend to listen, assure them that, were I in their shoes, I’d be doing the same thing. They beam like they’ve won a blue ribbon at the fair.

I don’t often get to hear the other end of the story, where they explain why they no longer want a target dead. Only three of my assignments have gone uncompleted-four, if you count the guy who keeled over from E. coli the day before I got to him. Even in the cases where a client calls it off, it’s never because of misgivings. It’s always for reasons as self-serving as the first.

This client’s tale is no different. The Target is a business rival who’d been blocking a key acquisition. Suddenly, the situation has changed. They’d been up all night negotiating a new arrangement, one in which the Target is now essential to the transaction’s success. Or something. I’m only half listening, honestly, though I dutifully hold the receiver to my ear for the entire story.

He reaches the culmination of his narrative, and I utter some stock phrases to imply I’ve paid attention. My goal is to wrap this up as quickly as possible.

“Anyway,” the Client concludes, “our meeting just finished, and I’m on my way to your motel. I should be there in ten minutes.”

“Why are you coming here?” I ask. “Our business is complete.”

“Well, yes. Except for the refund.”

Huh. That’s a first.

I should simply hang up, but can’t resist a riposte. “Ah yes, I see what the problem is: you appear to have confused me with a Radio Shack. I do not give refunds. Under any circumstances.”

“You never said that.”

“You never raised the possibility that the contract might be terminated,” I counter. “If you had, I would have made the policy explicit.”