At the end of the bar sat a pale girl wearing a paisley dress two sizes too small for her. She was hunched over a plate of fried calamari. Hunching and munching. Could be a useful phrase in the short story she was working on. In fact, she might just lift the whole scene, excising the rather plain-looking old man sipping a glass of oily clear liquid (Absinthe? No, that was illegal, wasn’t it?) and reading the
“This seat taken?” a voice asked at her elbow.
Tall. Blond. And yes, the red carnation in the buttonhole. “It is now,” she said, taking the hand extended toward her.
“I’m Hiram.”
“You’re younger than I expected.”
“Did you specify an age?” His smile was friendly, curious. “Because you could have. Not that it makes any difference. We all do pretty much the same thing.”
“Do you?” She looked him up and down thoroughly. “How many of you are there?”
“Lots.” He slid onto the bar stool. “More every day.” The bartender glanced down the length of the bar, and Hiram raised one finger. “Wine cooler, please.”
Uh oh. What kind of yahoo was this? She half-expected the bartender to laugh in his face, but he brought out a bottle of Bartles & Jaymes and set it in front of Hiram.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” Hiram apologized, and glanced at her nearly empty glass. “Another for you?”
She shook her head. He was a handsome young man, not that this was any requirement. In fact, it couldn’t matter less to her what he looked like. That thought made her shiver slightly.
“Something wrong?”
“I’m just not sure exactly what I’m doing here,” she said.
“Not nervous, are you?” He looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t be. We’re just talking. Nothing’s written in stone.”
But she felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. Was she going to be able to go through with this, after all?
“I wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t feeling just a tad apprehensive,” Hiram said encouragingly.
And you’re just a tad too glib, she thought. Suddenly it seemed important to knock him down a peg. “A better question,” she said, “would be whether or not I can trust you.”
He smiled, not in the least offended. “We do have a reputation to maintain. If a client doesn’t feel at ease, it’ll be a no-go from the get-go—”
“Stop sounding like Chili Palmer. I already feel like I’m in an Elmore Leonard novel.”
“Just trying to loosen you up a bit. Gain your confidence. Think a minute—how did you hear about us?”
She hesitated. “From a friend.”
“Exactly. I’m betting it was one of our satisfied customers.” He took out a small green notebook, gave her a grin. “We don’t have any unsatisfied ones.”
“Who are they?” she asked. “Your customers. In general, I mean.”
“In general?” He shrugged. “Ordinary people. Angry housewives. A shadow baby or two. Sometimes it’s just…what a woman must do.”
“So it’s mostly women.”
“Oh, no. A lot of men hire us too. Let’s just say your needs are not unique.”
“That’s how you look at it then? You’re supplying a need?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I assume you’ve read our brochure?”
She nodded.
“And was there anything that particularly caught your eye?”
“Would it make a difference?” she asked. “In terms of cost?”
“Most definitely. It’s a bit like ordering pizza—the more toppings, i.e., the more exotica, the more expense.” He clicked the point of his Cross pen—a cheerful gesture designed to put her at her ease. But it didn’t. She’d been lying to herself, she suddenly realized. Pretending to explore her options. She had no options. She was in this for keeps. She gave a long sigh.
“If anyone were to find out—”
“No one will,” he assured her. “Anonymity is our motto. And it works both ways. For instance, I’m just the one who signs you up. I won’t be providing the services.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Too bad. I was just beginning to like you, Hiram.”
Again he grinned. “That’s my job. Do you have any questions? Any preferences?”
“Yes.” She almost whispered it. “I want to know what happens to…the leftovers.”
“The remains? Not to worry. We take care of all that. It goes to a place where the sea remembers. A rainy lake. And there’s no telling. After all—the body is water, you know…” He paused and gave her a quizzical look. “Would you mind if I asked you a question? For our private files? How much did they take you for?”
“Twenty thousand,” she said gloomily.
He whistled. “The price keeps going up.”
“At first they said it would be $688. But when they found out I wasn’t just another crook like them—that I was the real Kendra Schilling trying to buy back my own domain name— they jacked the price up.”
“Highway robbery,” Hiram said.
Kendra took the last swallow of her Syrah. “You know, I never thought it would come to this. When my lawyer said there was nothing I could do—”
“Nothing legal, that is.” Hiram smiled. “People don’t usually find out about this scam until they decide to get a web-site. And suddenly you discover that someone has bought your name, and for a tidy little piece of your income they’ll be only too happy to sell it back to you.”
“The worst part is how darned chipper they are about it,”Kendra said.
“Kind of sticks in your craw, doesn’t it?”
“Like having a bee in my bonnet.”
“They’re jackals,” he said. “Hanging’s too good for them.”
“They prey upon a person’s ignorance and lack of computer savvy.”
“You’re savvy-less,” Hiram said. “But not helpless. Not anymore. Not when you’ve got us. We’re Assassins Anonymous. The score-settlers.” He leaned back on his stool. “So have you picked out a weapon? We have some premium choices—the 9mm Glock, the Mercedes-Benz, the magic whip…”
She waved them away. “Nothing that smacks of luxury.”
“Right. Sets the wrong tone. Something cruder. Baseball bat. Clothesline. Hair dryer in the tub—”
She covered her ears.
“Or you can simply leave it to us. Some prefer the hands-on approach. Others only want to be informed after the fact. Are there any modes of elimination that especially interest you?”
“Yes,” she said carefully, “I like cruel and unusual.”
He entered this in his green notebook. “Multiple wound-ings? Dismemberment? Recitation of suitable Bible verses…?”
“You mean like in
“Not at all,” Hiram said. “We have a number of them in stock.
“Could I get back to you on this?” Kendra asked. “I think I may want to compose something.”
“Very good.” He made a note.
“Now, about payment—” Kendra said.
His turn to wave. “Someone else handles all that. You’ll be contacted on completion of the contract. We’re flexible. If you like, you can spread the payments over a number of months.”
“I was more concerned about how to get the money to you,” Kendra said. “I don’t want to write a
