The Hitman

By Kirk Vanderbeek           

“I’m afraid your understanding of the situation’s more muddled than a mojito, darling.” Nash Welter stretched an arm across his desk and flicked his lighter, touching flame to the tip of the dame’s trembling cigarette. “I’m only a hitman.”

The darling in question narrowed her eyes and inhaled deeply, staining the white paper of her unfiltered cigarette blood red. Nash lowered the lighter, his eyes on the scarlet smear that matched the color of the woman’s lips, her dress, the heart she wore on her sleeve. A swollen tear trembled on her lower lash, but as she blew a thick cloud of smoke at the nicotine-stained ceiling, the tear disappeared.

Guess she’s giving up the damsel in distress routine. Nash leaned back in his leather chair. Now here comes the bitter woman scorned. Enter stage right.

“Why don’t you start over from the beginning, sweetheart? Maybe with your name.”

“There isn’t much more to say,” she replied.

“That’s quite a name.” Nash smirked.

The woman scowled. “Cynthia Strikewell.”

Nash nodded and lit a cigarette of his own. “Pleasure to meet ya, Cynthia Strikewell. Now tell me why you have it in for your husband.”

“He’s a philanderer. A liar. A losing gambler. A sloppy drunk.” She blew more smoke to the sky and sighed. “But worst of all, he’s unfunny.”

Nash raised an eyebrow. Better watch my quips around this one. I land a bad joke, and she’ll land a knife between my shoulders.

“You want your husband hurt because he’s not funny?”

“Unforgivably so. And for the record”—she slipped another coffin nail from her bronze cigarette case and lit it with the embers of her last—“I don’t want him hurt because he isn’t funny; I want him dead. The cheating, the drinking, the gambling—I can live with all of that. Hell, every woman alive has turned a blind eye to those masculine peculiarities. But his… sense of humor?”

She shivered, and Nash Welter couldn’t help but admire its effect on her form. He knew better than to mix business with pleasure—he’d barked up that wrong tree plenty of times before—but this Cynthia Strikewell might be worth a few more splinters.

“Look.” She leaned forward. “My understanding has always been that when a woman walks into a dingy little office like this to meet a dingy little man like yourself—no offense—all she needs to do is put some money on the table and aim her finger at the man she wants dead.” She pointed at Nash’s chest. “That’s where you come in.”

Nash slipped a hip flask from his pocket and knocked back a slug of warm whiskey. He grimaced as his ulcers complained. “I’m afraid you got a couple wires crossed when it comes to my profession, Ms. Strikewell.”

“Missus.”

“Of course. Mrs. Strikewell. You see, I’m a hitman. That means for the right price I’ll do exactly what my job description promises: hit the man of your choice. I refuse to hit a woman, I pride myself on that, but I’ve knocked out the eyeteeth of countless known scoundrels. I’ve smacked unwelcome sense into the dimmest of dullards. Honey, I’ve even gut-punched the mayor of this miserable city while he was walking out of the capitol building. I’ll hit just about any man if the price is right, but I’ve never killed anyone, and I never will.”

Cynthia frowned and stood slowly, her brow furrowed. “Well then, I’m afraid you’re no good to me. Anyone foolish enough to hit my husband and not finish the job wouldn’t have much time left in this—”

“I’m a hitman, sweetheart,” Nash interrupted. “Not a killman.” He grinned, savoring the flavor of his favorite joke.

Cynthia winced. She shuddered. Then she steeled her shoulders, stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, and turned her icy blue eyes up to look at Nash through her lashes. A corner of her mouth curled like a cat’s tail. “Perhaps you can be of some use to me. How much do your services cost?”

Fifteen minutes later, Cynthia strolled out of the office and into what passed for sunshine that time of year. She’d purchased Nash Welter’s “A Major Slap & Some Fisticuffs” package, slipping three fifty-dollar bills from her purse into his palm as down payment. Nash had promised her the hitjob would happen within the week. Cynthia stepped in front of a young family and walked to the curb, where she hailed a passing cab. Patience might be a virtue, but it wasn’t one of hers. She didn’t put much stock in any virtue, really. Not when vice was so much more satisfying.

Five nights later, she impatiently snuffed out yet another cigarette with a cruel twist of her fingers and watched the doorknob to her apartment turn. The door swung open, and her husband stumbled into the room. His nose was bleeding, swollen. His cheek radiated the reddened print of a hand.

Cynthia watched him pull a pistol from his pocket and toss it into the drawer where he always retrieved it before leaving home. He ran the kitchen tap until the water steamed, then he splashed some onto his face.

Cynthia spoke from the shadows. “You look terrible.”

He jumped. “Yeah, well…” His eyes darkened, and he grinned a private grin. Then he said exactly what Cynthia had known he would. “You should see the other guy.”

She smiled her own private smile and snapped her cigarette case closed. She’d already seen the other guy, and now she’d never have to look at that excruciatingly unfunny man again. She chuckled silently and eased back into the shadows. Once she was able to track down the number of a—Cynthia sneered—a killman, well, then she’d also be done with the unfunny louse leering at her from the kitchen.

She poured herself a drink and savored the moment.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kirk Vanderbeek (he/him) is a writer of fiction, poems, screenplays, comics. His work has been purchased by Falling Star Magazine, Cosmic Horror Monthly and Ahoy Comics. He lives in Southern California with his wife and son. You can typically find Kirk hunched over his laptop in any number of nooks or crannies into which he’s managed to squeeze himself, pecking away at his current project. Disturb him if you must, he’s awfully friendly.

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