The Contractor

Only an amateur would stick around the scene after finishing the job. I should know after being in this career--if you could call it that--for almost two decades.

But after years of working in roach-infested dumps, it was refreshing to see New York City's radiant avenues from behind the large windows of a posh high-rise Manhattan apartment. It was a scene only a few could ever afford. So I stayed, because dammit, I deserved to experience the spoils of the city every once in a while.

With the skyscraper lights in the background, I pulled up a chair and took out my little black book. Squinting in the city's faint neon glow, I started writing my account detailing the last moments of Skinny Jimmy, who now resided in the concrete wall behind me.

Once again, only an amateur would be stupid enough to keep detailed records of his jobs. But writing was my only way to cope. In my defense, I had always been careful. After all, I was a professional. In all the years I had been in business, no one had ever seen the secrets I wrote in the dog-eared pages of my journal.

I was halfway through my entry when I heard a thump. There were spatters of wet concrete on the floor. I looked up and saw Jimmy's stiff fingers sticking out of the wall. He had been a difficult man when he was alive, and he was still quite stubborn even as rigor mortis was starting to set in.

I picked up my finishing trowel and smoothened the rough patch in the wall with a couple of swipes. After one quick inspection of the room, I put my black book in my pocket and left.

I turned on my flashlight as I walked out of the room. I expected the apartment to be empty when I opened the door, but to my surprise, there was a group of men sitting in the living room. The dim lights hid their faces, and all I could see were the glowing embers from their cigars. They looked like fierce monsters' eyes, waiting for the right moment to pounce on me.

It didn't take long before a mysterious figure emerged from the thick cigar smoke that engulfed the room. As the man stepped into the light, I immediately noticed his goatee. It looked like a worn-out paintbrush dipped in titanium white.

Behind his thick, gold-rimmed spectacles were dark eyes that looked nefarious as he squinted at me. Seeing the two crew-cut men in black suits on either side of him, I knew I was in trouble.

One of the men stepped forward and looked at my paint-stained pants. "You seem lost," he said. "Let me walk you to the door." He feigned a smile as he gestured toward the apartment's entrance.

I held the gun in my pocket while the man escorted me out. And as we passed the bespectacled figure, the other crew-cut guy beside him whispered, "don't worry, he's just the contractor working on your new library."

Then we passed the shadowy figures in the living room. The glowing embers in the dark followed my movements as we walked out. Before I knew it, the door had suddenly slammed shut. And there I was. Outside, alone, and well, alive.

My gun slowly slipped out of my sweaty palm and back into my pocket. I fixed my collar as I walked down the hallway and out of the building. It had been a long night, and I couldn't wait to finally relax on my couch with a bottle of whiskey in my hand.

The next morning, I found myself stumbling out of my dingy apartment, feeling out of place in a sea of coat-and-tie pencil-pushers with my bright-colored Hawaiian shirt and a cheap pair of Aviators.

My next job was in Acapulco. My flight was in a few hours, but my terrible hangover muddied my visions of malefactions in a tropical paradise. I had to buy a bottle of aspirin at the corner store to relieve my throbbing headache.

I stopped in front of a parked taxi and used the side mirror to fix my hair. As I ran my fingers through my greasy curls, I saw the two crew-cut men from last night in the mirror.

They were right behind me.

So I ran.

But running was never my strong suit. As soon as I turned a corner, the two men caught up and pinned me to the wall.

"Hey, relax, Mr. Bianco. We're not here to harm you," one of the guys said. "Mr. Feinstein needs to talk to you, that's all."

The other guy gently nudged me. And as if on cue, a limousine screeched to a halt in front of us. They then took me in without uttering a single word.

After a short ride, the crew-cut guys brought me into a large office darkened by thick velvet curtains. All I could see were the familiar glowing embers I saw last night surrounding me.

A lamp on a table in the middle of the room suddenly lit up, revealing the face of the white-goateed man.

"Say hello to Mr. Feinstein," one of the crew-cut guys whispered into my ear. He then pulled up a chair and forced me to sit in front of their boss.

"Hello, Mr. Bianco," Mr. Feinstein greeted me with a deep, decadent voice. "I think you may have dropped this on your way out last night."

He slid my black book on the oak table toward me.

"I have never seen quite a talent like you before, Mr. Bianco." Mr. Feinstein leaned closer to me. "So you're a contractor, yes?"

I cleared my throat. "Yes, people hire me to build walls and paint houses."

Mr. Feinstein flipped the pages of my book. "Would you like to tell us what happened to Skinny Jimmy?"

I pushed my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and kept my mouth shut.

After a few moments, Mr. Feinstein lit a cigar and declared: "On behalf of the guild, we'd like to offer you a contract."

"A contract for what?" I asked. "And what guild are you talking about? Who do you work for?"

"I'm talking about the highly respected New York Publishers Guild, Mr. Bianco," Mr. Feinstein replied, raising his arms to acknowledge the shady figures surrounding him. "You can't expect us to be so naive, Mr. Bianco." He placed both his hands firmly on the table and leaned toward me. "There has to be a reason you were there with your little book during our meeting last night."

"What the hell do you mean?" I asked.

"We're book publishers, Mr. Bianco. And we love the little surprise you left us last night." Feinstein placed his hand on the black book.

That very moment, a frail old man in a white suit stumbled out of the shadows with his ivory cane. "You're no pulp fiction writer, Mr. Bianco," he said in a trembling voice. "Everything you write is so visceral, I could feel the sharp knife stabbing me as I read your every word." He tightened his fist and pounded his hollow chest like an impassioned thespian. "You're the kind of novelist this world needs right now."

"A novelist?" I scoffed. But before I could say anything to the old man, he receded into the dark.

Feinstein then started writing some figures on his checkbook. "So what do you say?" He ripped a check and pushed it toward me. "20,000 dollars to finish the book and tell us what happened to your character Skinny Jimmy."

"He's behind the wall of your library," I said casually.

Suddenly, the whole publishing Intelligentsia erupted with laughter.

"Bravo! Bravo!" They yelled with delight.

"Only a genius writer could ever think of something like that, Mr. Bianco." Mr. Feinstein smiled.

"Of course," I replied with a confident nod.