Suckers - Jack Kilborn [7]
I considered making a run for it. But when I say that the man was “extremely large,” I don’t mean that he was an obese gentleman who would chase after me in a labored waddle. Though it was hard to tell under the jacket, he looked to be all muscle. And as he walked toward me, he moved with a grace and efficiency of motion that gave the impression that he could have me tackled to the ground and nicely decapitated before I even made it to the stairway.
But maybe not. After all, I’m rather nimble myself. I decided to let this one play out and wait for the precise moment to act.
“Are you Andrew Mayhem?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, a split-second before I realized that the more intelligent answer would be “No.”
He stood in front of me and held up the knife. “I’ve been hired to kill you, Mr. Mayhem.”
I lowered the recliner’s footrest. “By whom?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can say if you’re going to kill me, right? I promise not to scrawl the name in my own blood on the carpet.”
He shook his head. “No, I’d get in trouble.”
“If you’re going to kill me, you’ve at least got to let me know who wants me dead. Give my ghost something to avenge.”
“I don’t know…”
“It’s the least you could do.”
“Hey, I waited two weeks for you to be alone in the house. I could’ve done this while your wife and kids were home. Would you want your wife and kids to see you die? Would you?”
“Helen would kick your ass.”
The hit man smiled. “She sure puts you in your place. Damn, but you’re whipped.”
“Not whipped. Henpecked.”
“Whatever.”
“Y’know, you may be here to kill me, but you’re still a guest in my home. Let’s be respectful, okay?”
“Fine with me. I’m not here to talk. I’m here to cut myself a slice of bitch.”
I stared at him for a long moment.
“Did you just say you’re here to cut yourself a slice of bitch?”
He nodded.
“Was that, like, a planned comment? Did you actually come in here with the intention of speaking those exact words?”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means that you’re a bitch, and I’m here to cut a slice of you.”
“No, no, no, no, no, that doesn’t work at all. Trust me on this. Have you really said that to other human beings? What was their reaction?”
“I haven’t said it to anybody else.”
“Good. Don’t. What do you usually say in this situation?”
The assassin looked a bit sheepish. “Actually, you’re my first hit.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, well, that explains it. I know that you were trying to sound all cold-blooded and stuff, but the only reaction you’re going to get is ‘Oh, crap, I’m gonna be murdered by a doofus.’ What’s your name?”
“Victor.”
“Hi, Victor.” I extended my hand politely. He didn’t shake it. I figured I probably should have seen that bit of rudeness coming and placed my hand back on my lap. “Listen, you need a catch phrase that doesn’t make you sound like a street punk. Something sinister but classy. Because I’ll be honest with you, right now I should be so scared that I can barely keep my urine on the inside, and I’m just not feeling it.”
“I bet you’d feel it if I stuck this knife in you.”
“I’m sure I would. But if you’re an assassin, you need to be memorable. You need to be stylish. I mean, any common hooligan can run somebody over with a car, but you, you’re the kind of guy who gets up close and personal with a knife. It’s all about the presentation. You need to leave a lasting impression.”
Victor nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he were considering my advice. Then he scowled as if suddenly realizing that he’d become the kind of assassin who listened to helpful hints from people he was supposed to kill. “No, I don’t. You’ll be dead!”
“Yeah, but this isn’t about me. It’s about you. I might be dead either way, but how would you feel if I died thinking that your hit man persona was sub-par?”
Victor shrugged.