Contract Killer's Next Hit

I knew that it was going to be a bad day when I read that Britney Spears was engaged. I stood in line at the grocery store behind a bickering elderly couple, a box of chocolate glazed doughnuts in one hand and a carton of milk in the other, and Britney's beautiful face smiled up at me from a number of tabloid magazines, the bold letters above her head proclaiming: "Britney to Tie the Knot!"

My heart sank. With the engagement, I could kiss about two thirds of my masturbation fantasies goodbye. The same thing had happened when Catherine Zeta-Jones got married. I have trouble fantasizing about women who are attached; as ridiculous as it sounds, I feel a little guilty thinking about bopping a woman who belongs to another man. The less attainable the woman, the less desirable, and the thing about Britney Spears was that she seemed white trash enough to be attainable if only the proper situation presented itself.

I sighed. At least I could still rely on Salma Hayek to lead my mental dream team. For now, anyway.

The cashier was a cute blonde, old enough to be legal but young enough to be a girl. I paid for my doughnuts and milk, and she slipped me a wink as I left, my purchased items weighing down the plastic bags in my hands.

I headed towards my apartment just down the block. It was comfortable but messy, more of a college bachelor pad than the dwelling of a mature and professional adult. Posters of old mafia films and hot pop stars decorated the walls. A framed and signed photograph of Mickey Mantle hung above the television. Dirty clothes and old magazines (People, National Enquirer, Maxim, Playboy... and gasp! even a copy of Cosmo with Tyra Banks on the cover, another starter on my mental dream team) littered the floor like land mines.

As I pushed open the apartment door with my elbows, arms full, dropping my keys, I heard the phone ringing. I'd turned my cell off earlier, not wanting to be bothered, but someone had the home number. "Someone" meant Pop or an old girlfriend; no one else knew how to reach me at home. Naturally, I'm not listed in the phone book.

"Hello," I said as I picked up the phone. I hoped that it was Dad. I was not in the mood to talk to my ex, to discuss feelings of our relationship, to talk about old times; she expected me to come back on my knees, begging to be received by her. She had already forgotten I'd caught her on all fours, barking like a basset hound while some muscle-bound meat-head she'd met on the subway plowed her from behind. This was a mistake that I was not easily going to forgive and forget. She's lucky I didn't kill them both, and if I had been a stupider man, I would have.

But when you're in my line of work, you can't just go around killing people you want to because sooner or later you'll get caught. Plus, if I were to kill someone and not get paid, it'd be like a surgeon giving a freebie open heart surgery. It's my job, not my hobby.

"Junior, we got problems," the voice was that of my father's former bodyguard, Jake "Sharktooth" Fontana. They called him Sharktooth because he'd chipped a tooth during a fight then bit the guy in the arm, Fontana's jagged tooth tearing out a good hunk of flesh.

"Ya bit a guy? What are ya, a woman?" someone had later asked him.

"He smelt blood and couldn't help himself," my father had replied. "Like a fuckin' shark."

Hence the name "Sharktooth" even though Sharky (only criminals and athletes have nicknames for nicknames) had a little cap that he put on every day, disguising his shark's tooth among his other teeth. Sharky was a formidable man, big, dark and dangerous, a bit of stubble seeming to always shadow his jaw no matter how many times a day he shaved. Dad demanded no less than the best for his personal protection, and Sharktooth was undoubtedly the best. Now, he was simply retired.

"What's up, Sharky?" I said. I didn't ask him how he'd gotten my number, but I knew that my dad hadn't given it him. This meant that Sharky had gone through Daddio's files, found my number, and called me without my father's knowledge. Sharky wouldn't have done such a thing if it wasn't important.

"When can you meet me?" he said.

"Whenever."

"Ok, this afternoon. My bar. Around three or so."

"Deal," I said, and I heard him hang up the phone. Sharky was not a man of many words, and I loved him for it. You never had to sort through any bullshit; he was short, blunt, and to the point. I wondered what the problem was. It had to be pretty serious for Sharktooth to call me out of the blue like that, and it probably concerned my dad.

I sorted through my bag, pulled out the box of doughnuts, and got to work. I'd worry about what Sharktooth had on his mind when it came time to worry about it. For now, I would only concern myself with chocolate glazed goodness, a cold glass of milk, and Sportscenter on the television.

After I polished off my fourth doughnut, sucking some glaze from my fingers, I realized that I had left my wallet back at the grocery store.

***

The cashier seemed to be waiting for me. Her hands were shoved down the kangaroo pouch in the front of her red apron, and she raised an eyebrow as I walked up to her.

"Took you long enough," she said with a crooked grin. There's a certain arrogance to girls that age that I don't quite understand. Barely eighteen, these girls think they know everything there is to know, but by the time they figure out they've got it all wrong, their poorly chosen boyfriends have jaded them for life. What a vicious cycle is this world we live in.

"Yeah, I think I left my wallet," I said. She nodded, looking bored.

"Yep, you sure did," she said and pulled it out of the pouch of her apron. She turned it over in her hands as if searching for something but didn't hand it over to me. No one else was in the store, so the girl must have figured she had time to fuck around before giving back the wallet. I heaved a mental sigh. Girls and their games.

"Bet you want this back pretty bad," she said, her eyes moving up to meet my own. She slid my wallet back into her apron.

"Uh huh," I replied. I was already tired of our dialogue. I had milk and doughnuts waiting for me at the apartment. Not to mention Sportscenter.

"You'd do just about anything, huh? To get it back?" she said, her eyes deep with meaning, daring me to play along. This type of flirtation wasn't unusual, especially from this cashier; she dropped a bit sexual innuendo to just about every other male customer in the store. I came in often enough, so she probably felt comfortable spreading out her feelers to see how far I would go. The only problem was that I didn't feel like playing her coy games.

"Yeah, whatever. Can I have it now?" I asked and held out my hand.

"I get an hour for lunch in ten minutes. How about then?" she said. Was she actually trying to get a lunch date out of me? I checked my watch. I didn't want to upset her and make a scene, but I also knew that if you gave just a little to these kinds of girls, they had a habit of running with it.

"Fine," I growled. She peered down the aisles to see if anyone was nearby before catching my eyes again. A funny look crossed her face.

"But you're going to have to earn it," she whispered and paused for dramatic effect, leaning over the cash register. "My car's parked in the alley out back. Nobody ever goes back there but employees, and Maggie's already here for the next shift."

The girl was proposing a back alley rendezvous with me. I looked at the cashier, really looked at her, for the first time. Her bleached blonde hair hung just to her shoulders; long hooped earrings dangled from her ears jutting behind a scoop of hair. Her neck was long and slender, a shell necklace draped around it at the bottom. Her breasts appeared slightly small but pert underneath her shirt. She was thin enough to make me think she'd probably never had a full meal in her life but attractive in a tomboyish kind of way. Her skin was smooth, unmarked, no wrinkles lining any part of her face. If you squinted, she might even look a little like Britney in the face. A stunning youthfulness exuded from her dark green eyes, a green to match the collared shirt she wore under the red grocery store apron that served as her uniform. A tingle of desire wormed its way through my stomach.

"How old are you?" I said.

"Twenty one," she replied, her nose crinkling at having to answer such a question. No doubt she was the kind of girl who acted offended every time she was carded in a bar or a club since the very second she turned old enough to buy alcohol. She'd probably have reason to act offended for the next ten years.

"Ok, I'll earn my wallet back," I told her.

"Fuckin' A!" she replied. "And I do mean fuckin'."

***

Having sex in cars is always awkward business. There's just not enough room to do all the things that you'd like, your arms and legs and bodies tangled in a knot of flesh. Remember when you used to keep all your action figures in a toy box; and sometimes they were so stuffed together that you'd pick one up by the leg or arm; and a whole group of them would come out of the box in an entangled puzzle of limbs as if caught in the midst of a super hero orgy? Having sex in cars always reminded me of that.

The cashier, her name now known as Sheila, acted desperate to be out of her clothes, her shirt flying off in my face before the car door was even shut. My hands fumbled at the buttons of her jeans, and she swatted them away, undoing the buttons and zipper in world record time and slipping them into a pool of denim on the car floor. Neither did she allow me to undress myself. Her hands worked like bees, stripping off my t-shirt and buzzing down to my pants and through the zipper, hunting for some honey.

Apparently, Sheila had no need of foreplay. Being the sensitive lover that I am (wink, wink), I was disappointed, but Sheila's enthusiasm more than made up for it. She acted... well... hungry. Starved. She dove into the sex as if it was water and she hadn't had a drink since her journey through some vast and lonely desert.

She engulfed my mouth with hers. Straddling me in the back seat, her hands were at the side of my face, her fingers brushing through my hair, her tongue licking the inside of my lips. Then she kissed my chin, my neck, every piece of naked skin she could wrap her lips around, hovering above me like an angel. My hands were on her hips, and I helped her slowly work me into her. She was so tight, it was almost painful, and I hoped that I wasn't hurting her. She gasped and moaned, a little murmur that barely escaped her lips.

"Are you ok?" I asked her, brushing a lock of blonde hair over her right ear. Her eyes opened, and she looked at me, her lips spreading to a girlish smile.

"Yeah, I need it. I just need it sooo bad," she said and licked the end of my nose. A thin trail of saliva hung and slid down from the end of my nose and her tongue as she peeled away. She giggled, and I returned her smile, my hands rubbing along her back. I relished the feel of her skin, so soft and smooth.

She put her hands on the back of my neck, interlacing her fingers and began to ride me, slowly and gently. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of her wet tightness gliding up and down my hard cock, her warmth spreading over me. There's nothing quite like a slow fuck: feeling every breath, every heart beat.

"Yes, yes. That's so good," I told her, my head falling back and rolling to one side on the cushion of the back seat. I allowed one eye to peek open and look at her. She was smiling, evidently very happy with herself and the power she had over me. My hands slid down and gripped her hips, fingers sinking into her lovely flesh.

"I love this. God, I love this," she said, her green eyes flaming with hunger. She closed her eyes, and her brow knitted in concentration. She looked so cute, I began to kiss her chest, her breasts, her neck. I wanted to consume her, she looked so goddamn cute.

After several minutes of this, her left breast cupped with one hand and held in my mouth, I felt her hips begin to buck, pivoting, grinding on my cock. She bit her bottom lip, her brow furrowing harder in concentration, and then her eyes flew open.

"Oh, yes! I'm cumming! I'm cumming!" she cried. I always find it so nice of women to announce their orgasms because men often would have no other clue concerning their sexual success or failure. However with this girl, I would have been able to tell even if she hadn't uttered a word. Her breaths became hectic; a squeal slipped past her lips; and then I was with her, feeling her pussy squeeze and milk my cock as she came on me. I gnashed my teeth, feeling my own orgasm erupting with frantic bursts of pleasure, filling her.

It was over too soon, and we were reduced from King and Queen of Pleasure Island to merely two sweaty, naked people who were out of breath. I ran my hands up and down her spine, simultaneously holding her and stroking her back as she gasped on top of me, still straddling me, her face buried into my shoulder.

"Can we do this again sometime? Please?" she asked between breaths from underneath a mound of messy blonde hair.

"Why don't we have dinner first?" I said, and we laughed, holding each other tight.

***

At precisely three o'clock, I stepped through the doors of The Deep End, Sharky's bar. I felt pretty good even though the news of Britney's engagement had started the day on the wrong foot and Sharky's meeting was probably not going to be good news. Still, I had gotten lucky with a blonde who only seemed to get cuter and cuter in my mind; her number was in my wallet (yes, I'd earned it back); and we had a date planned for the upcoming weekend. The bartender, a beer-bellied brawler named Kross, nodded towards me in recognition.

"He's in the back," Kross said, pushing a glass of beer in front of a sleepy-eyed customer. The customer peeled his eyes open just enough to realize that there was a mug of beer in front of him before collapsing onto the bar with a meaty thud.

I made my way to the back room where I found Sharky sitting behind a desk stacked with cash and fliers advertising a pool tournament. Sharky loomed over the desk, a bear in a totally unconvincing man suit. Seeing me, Sharky stood up and extended a large paw in greeting but did not smile. I took his hand and endured a brisk handshake. He offered a chair. I took it, and we sat down.

"Thanks for coming," he said. I smiled; the last time I'd heard the word "coming" was out of Sheila's mouth as she rode me to orgasm. I shook the thought off and brought my mind back to Sharky. His chair strained under the weight of him, joints creaking in protest, and I wondered how many he went through in a year. I guessed a dozen.

"I know you wouldn't have called if it wasn't important. Of course, I came," I said, returning his stoic gaze. Sharky's eyes were hard, were always hard, the eyes of a hard man. Beneath them, he was a teddy bear. A teddy bear that might break your neck if you got on his bad side but a teddy bear all the same.

"I know your Dad likes to solve his own problems and doesn't want to bring you in on this, but I thought you should know. There's a hit out on him."

My pulse stopped for a moment, but I didn't let on. My face was devoid of expression. Sharky was telling me this because he knew that I would take out the competition before the competition took out Pop. The decision was made as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and we both knew it. It was more a matter of loyalty than the fact they were after my Dad. No one took out my employer, regardless of who he was. Who else would pay me?

"Word on the street's Simeon Dread hired a hit man called the Black Ghost," Sharky continued. His hands balled into trembling fists, and he drove them into the top of the desk. A wad of cash strapped by a rubber band toppled off the side and landed in the trash can. Sharky wasn't usually so emotional, but the frustration he felt was understandable. What kind of egomaniac thought that he could take out my father without fear of repercussion?

"Hit-WOMAN," I corrected. Sharky's eyes widened.

"A broad? She black?"

"Just her heart," I said. "Just her heart."

Time for some much needed back story for you people out there who have never heard of A) Simeon Dread and B) the Black Ghost. I'll keep it short and to the point, just the way Sharky liked it.

Simeon Dread was a wealthy real estate guru who had his hand into just about every jar that had cookies to offer. Some time or another, he began building a criminal empire to rival my father's, in turn becoming a business rival. My father never had a bone to pick with Dread, but Dread couldn't handle someone being bigger and better than him at anything. In his attempt to become the biggest fish in the sea, Simeon wanted to eat up my father's network piece-by-piece but hadn't found much success. Apparently, his next strategy was to take my father out of the equation entirely.

So Dread hired the Black Ghost. The Black Ghost was Catwoman to my Batman; although we'd never met officially, our paths always seemed to cross one another's every now and again. It wasn't surprising that Dread hired her to assassinate my father; other than me, she was the best: cautious, thorough, brilliant and deadly. Still, I knew that I was better, and she hated me for it. I'd successfully avoided being killed by her twice before, but as they say, the third time's the charm.

They called her the Black Ghost because she seemed to strike best in the dark and never left a trace... like a ghost. In fact, some people claimed that she had been killed and had risen from the dead like Jesus Christ. Or a zombie. Do you think Jesus would have been classified as a zombie after rising from the grave? In any case, criminals are a superstitious bunch.

If you made it through all that boring back story, pat yourself on the back. I would have zoned out minutes ago.

***

So I shadowed Dad, hoping to catch the Black Ghost before Pops caught a bullet between the eyes. It was tricky business, but I had two advantages. One: I was better than the Ghosty babe, and two: she had no idea that I was on to her. Surprise would be key if I was going to turn the tables on the bitch.

I figured that Ghosty would make her hit on Pops at his favorite restaurant. I would tell you the name of it, only it's in French, and I'd get the spelling all wrong. I don't understand why Daddio likes it so much; there's not a single cheeseburger on the menu. I guess it makes him feel important or something, you know, old men and their money and blah blah blah. I often wondered when he found the time to learn French.

Anyway, the restaurant made sense because he was in and out of there three nights a week like clockwork. You could set your damn watch by it, and it was the one place where Ghosty could be sure of catching him. Not only that, but an abandoned complex sat across the street, one building to the left. It was due to be torn down at the end of the month and replaced by a fancy new Italian restaurant, one I actually looked forward to trying out. This abandoned complex would serve as the perfect perch for someone with a high-powered sniper rifle, hiding behind the large billboard that stood on the roof. She could get off a shot, jump to the roof of the building behind it, slide down the fire escape and make her getaway in a car parked on the opposite street.

She'd waste Daddio and disappear into the shadows before his corpse thought to hit the sidewalk; that is, unless I got to her first.

The day that my father was due to eat out at the French restaurant, I staked out the abandoned building. Arriving earlier than the Black Ghost would think to be there, I forced open a boarded up window and climbed inside. The scent of musky feces coupled with bitter piss and rotting food assaulted my nostrils with dizzying force. Apparently, some vagrants had recently lived here. I assumed the cops had rounded them up and sent them on their way because I saw no sign of anyone. My eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom; the only light was that of the window I had just forced open and yellow spears sneaking through the slits of the other boarded up windows. Dust covered everything with a thin coat; a few old newspapers sat crumpled on the floor; a few overturned beer cans poked up through the debris. I was alone for now.