Even Assassins Get the Blues

He pulls up short, halting forward motion. He is nearly there, nearly to the open entrance when he sees her, the patron holding ajar that needlessly heavy glass and steel shop door.

She is not relevant. Merely an outbound patron weighed down with three heavy bags.

Timed perfectly to surprise him—to jolt him—the doorbell chimes, the angelic sound ringing clear and distant as handbells heard long ago in an abbey in a sluggish Scottish town.

He nods his intention, for her to proceed. He takes the mighty door into his left hand. Holds it open. Frees her to flutter away.

She nods her appreciation and moves serenely past, her blonde bob carrying larkspur, and cinnabar, and the salty shot of an opaque ocean, although she finds herself closer to nowhere.

She takes full measure of the man, noticing the flat calm blueness of his blue-green eyes. The dawn's flicker catches and clings to a speck of amber.

The baleful smile in his eyes triggers, and dims.

He clears his throat, paying too much attention to her, to her breathing, her bearing, her indelicacies, the tug of her white blouse against her pale neck, the hem of her pencil skirt, the softness of her touch against his cool frame. She is a fascination. But he has work to do.

She moves on, oblivious.

He moves in. Spots his target.

He hugs the west-facing brown brick wall. His cyan eyes flit from surface to surface to surface, averting attention, averting eyes. His task is easy enough. Few patrons are in the shop at opening.

He drinks in the scene: magazine racks, children's books, pastries, coffee concoctions. A choir of tables threatens to break, nearly buckling, overwhelmed with wondrous offerings to the silent small gods of silent small things.

He sees it happening. Before it happens. He sees himself lifting and lowering his right hand from his right side. Moving that same hand slowly, surreptitiously toward his ribs, and back and down, beneath his impeccable black jacket to his softly pressed black wool pants, to his immaculate waistband, to that scintillating metal masterpiece tucked carefully into his tidy black leather belt. He knows it's loaded. His Beretta.

Involuntary spasms in his throat do not give him away. He clears away the dryness as if to suggest he's parched. Subtly he moves along, circling deeper and deeper into the shop, deeper toward decision time.

"Hello." He offers pleasantries to an obscured someone behind the curtain. He speaks in even, flat tones. He keeps his eyes down. Places his left hand atop the counter, a disarming gesture. He'd seen that move a thousand times. In movies.

An operative emerges, a square jawed short stack counting sugary dough as she meanders in, unflappable. She takes a firm position stood behind an imposing shatterproof glass counter, shifting her weight from hip to hip. Rheumatism's acting up. But there's no time for that. Someone's got to make the doughnuts.

"Your 'hello' is a lie." She spits into the running sink behind her. Her back is turned to him. He's no threat to her. She taught him better than that.

She gives him a B.

He gristles at the bad grade. He wanted an A.

"I was smooth."

"Ha! I saw you coming."

"But I got in—all the way."

"Yes, perhaps. But, what, no way out?!"

He checks his shirt pocket. Checks it again. Long fingers weave a frantic web against his supple 6A silk. Empty.

"Her, I give a B+."

Through the glass he spots the blonde bob beckoning, still there, stood merrily smiling, leaning against his get-away car, parked in the top spot, closest to the door. Parallel, for the quick exit.

She holds aloft his passport, wallet, keys. Her eyes say nothing.

"What? You think you are the only one I train?" Helga smiles broadly, winks a desert brown eye at the middle-aged trainee with the souring mug. She invites him to gnaw at a lemony Madeleine fresh from the oven. She slips him a steaming hot cup of coffee pounded with creamer, two sugars.

He nods his acquiescence, slumped shoulders and fallen faith no longer at the ready.

"Not everyone is cut out for it, darling. One more try? Yes? We go again, tomorrow."

Out of the corner of his eye he registers movement, but barely. And far too late. A small hand belonging to a small child, maybe 12, has extracted its long cool handle.

"Bang bang, mister! Bang! Bang!" The kid smiles, the pointy end of his massive weapon winning a serious staring contest with the hardwoods.

"Put that down, Reginald, my sweet. You'll take an eye out."

Helga smushes the last of her Madeleine into her pie hole. Through crumbs she sprays, "This one? Him, I give an A."

***

Copyright © 03/05/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.