'I understand, Mr. Ammo, that in the past you have provided solutions to rather, ah,
problems.'
'That's what the brochures say.'
'Yes.' He fiddled with his walking stick, tapping it against one of the less worn spots on the rug. He seemed enormously troubled. Every trace of self-assurance dissolved in the midst of some internal battle. His words caught in his throat like fishhooks.
He stared directly at me. 'I want someone...' He hesitated. The same look of struggle ran across him. I knew what word he wanted. I refrained from supplying it. He eventually realized that I wouldn't write his script for him and said, 'Killed. I want someone killed, more or less. I want someone out of the way.' With that, his confidence returned and he relaxed.
'Sorry,' I said, 'I don't operate in that field. I'm just a gumshoe.'
'Oh?' He pulled a cigarette from a polished ebony case, tapped it, and stuck it between his lips. His motions employed a practiced slowness intended to hold my attention. He replaced the case in his pocket and raised both hands to his cigarette.
I didn't see what sort of lighter he had hidden in his fist, but the flame it put out danced red and yellow at the tip of the coffin nail. He inhaled deeply, then let a cloud of smoke escape through his mouth and nose.
'I have the ability to pay very well. The job will entail great difficulties, but the reward will be commensurate, I assure you.'
'Out of the pocketbooks of the faithful, I suppose?' Before he could get too insulted, I continued. I was too conscious of my age, my health, and my emotions.
'Sorry, Zack. I'm not able to take on any clients, regardless of price. I'm taking an extended vacation. Maybe if you came back in a year-'
'That would be too late!'
Wouldn't it, though. 'I'm sorry.' I opened the last bag of whiskey I had in the office.
'Well.' Emil stood, holding his walking stick loosely. 'Perhaps I may leave you with something to think about during the next few days.'
I automatically rose to shake his hand. His grasp was firm, not fishy as I'd expected.
'Thanks, but I don't accept advance considerations. Makes for misunderstandings. Good evening.' I sat back down and clomped my feet on the desk.
'As you wish. However, I still think you shall find my offer foremost in your thoughts in days to come. Good night.' He turned and walked out of my office.
I didn't like him. I didn't like his confidence, his total faith that I could be bent to his way of thought.
I didn't like getting drunk, either. It was preferable to thinking about him, though. I loosened my shoes and foulard and poured a glassful of the bourbon.
Halfway through my drunk, I staggered up to shut off the blower. I figured the ventilation system had screwed up again. I fell asleep with the distinct impression that the place smelled like an oil refinery.
I woke up in the same position in which I'd fallen asleep-feet on the desk, hands in my lap, my chair leaning against the stacks of books behind me.
I felt like Dante waking up in Hell.
A sick rushing sensation coursed through me. The dream I awoke with faded in my effort to reach the bathroom in the hall. I wasn't nauseated-I merely felt as if my insides had been shish-kabobbed.
The door slammed open under my urgings. Bennie the Dipso sat in one of the stalls, singing old sailor chanteys. I headed toward the wall. A certain portion of me was so filled that I thought it might burst. I faced the urinal and nearly fainted.
It felt like pissing thumbtacks. Blood and milky strands swirled around in the drain.
The room spun back and forth. My fingers clutched the edge of the urinal and held tight.
I wondered whether I'd make it to Dr. La Vecque.
