Paradise Burns (2 page)

TWO

I took another
long sip of my beer, then spun around on my seat and leaned back, resting my
elbows on the bar behind me. Walking toward me were two jacked-up stereotypes
in suits - one wearing the jacket, one not. They were side by side, staring a
hole straight through me. They looked really pissed off.

They both looked pretty similar. The guy
on the left was the smaller of the two, but they were both big - they easily
had a few inches on me, and I was about a inch over six foot. The smaller guy
hadn’t shaved in a few days, and I hadn’t seen him blink his green eyes once. He’d
clearly been working on his mean stare, because he was giving it everything he
had as he came toward me. His slightly taller friend on my right looked slightly
more intimidating physically, but blinked more, which made me think he maybe
didn’t care as much about the psychological side of things as his friend did.
He was clean shaven though, and looked the more presentable of the two. He was
the one in the suit jacket on.

Behind me, I heard the barman put the
glass he was cleaning on the bar and walk away. What noise there was in this
place had stopped. You could hear people holding their breath and feel them
staring. It’s a good job I don’t get self-conscious.

The two angry stereotypes stopped three
feet in front of me. The one on my left spoke first.

‘You put that song on?’ he asked,
practically spitting his words out at me.

‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘You not a fan?’

‘That song makes my friend here unhappy.
Reminds him of someone he knew.’

I turned to his friend on the right to
speak.

‘That right?’ I asked, raising my
eyebrows with feigned interest. It was the guy on my left who replied.

‘Yeah, and we don’t appreciate a
stranger walking in here and causing problems like that for us regulars.’

I didn’t take my eyes of the guy on my
right, but I replied to the guy on the left.

‘Was just after a quiet, relaxing drink
is all,’ I said, before turning back to the guy on my left. ‘I meant no harm by
my choice of song.’

‘That’s as maybe, but harm was caused
all the same. Which leaves you in a bad situation.’

You could argue this is a flaw of mine,
but I love winding people up just before a fight. And let’s face it, this is
going to end up in a fight. Not much of one, granted, because these two muppets
couldn’t beat me if I was asleep. But it will be a fight nonetheless. A bit of
trash-talk is a good thing - if you do it right, it makes people so angry that
they attack you without thinking. Which greatly increases the chance of them
making a mistake. And all it takes is one mistake, and it’s goodnight
sweetheart.

Plus, it amuses me.

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I’m sat in a bar,
drinking beer and relaxing. Seems like a pretty good situation to me. Granted,
it’d be better if I didn’t have to waste my breath on you two monkeys, but I’ve
been to worse parties.’

I think because of my previous, albeit
fake, apology, they didn’t expect me to just sit there and start mouthing off
at them. Usually, when guys their size confront you, most people back down or
run off. They don’t spark up a conversation.

They exchanged a bewildered glance, as
if to ask each other if they could believe I’d have the nerve to speak to them
like that.

‘You got some mouth on you, asshole. You
know that?’ said the one on the left.

‘I know,’ I said. Then I asked: ‘What’s
your name?’

He didn’t expect that, either.

‘Stan,’ he replied, hesitantly, as he
frowned in confusion.

‘Stan?’ I repeated, before pointing to
his friend. ‘So this must be Oli, right?’

The guy on the right went genuinely red
in his cheeks with anger and started cracking his knuckles. I thought that only
happened in cartoons - that’s hilarious!

‘No,’ he said, in a low, agitated tone.

‘Is your surname Dupp?’ I continued.

‘No, wise-ass’.

They were both getting really angry now,
and I was loving it. I honestly can’t wait for one of them to make a move for
me. Please don’t judge me for how I entertain myself.

I turned to the guy on my right, whose
name isn’t Oli, apparently.

‘So, “Big and Dumb”, what do they call
you?’

Well,
that
did it.

Before he could answer, Stan lurched
forward and threw a big right hand at my face. Luckily for me, it was possibly
the slowest punch ever thrown by anyone - ever. In one quick movement, I pushed
myself forward off my stool with my left leg, and in the next step brought my
right foot forward and kicked Stan’s left leg away from him. Just a little tap
- I didn’t want to break it or anything, just send him off-balance. Because of
the weight he put behind the punch, and the fact his left leg was now moving
uncontrollably away from him, his own momentum sent him crashing forward into
the bar. As he went down, I stepped away from him and slammed my right fist
into his left temple. He was pretty much out cold before he bounced off the
bar, and he was definitely out for the count by the time he hit the floor.

Using my momentum from the right hand, I
continued to turn my body, bringing my left elbow up and swinging it behind me,
catching “Big and Dumb” on the side of the chin with it as he moved in. It wasn’t
the most accurate or powerful shot, but it did the job of sending him
staggering backward, as he was completely unprepared for it. As he did, I
completed the turn and brought my right fist into his sternum, just below his
rib cage. I had a lot of power behind it, and it hit him as sweetly as is
possible. When you take that kind of shot, your body instinctively doubles
over, but because he was already moving backward from the elbow, both movements
countered each other and he just slumped straight down on the spot. He landed
in the fetal position and made an awful noise as he tried to breathe. He rolled
around for a moment before giving up and passing out.

I stood up, looked around at Stan and
his friend, unconscious at my feet. I stepped back over to the bar, gulped my
Johnnie Walker in one, reached into my pocket and threw a twenty on the bar,
picked up my bag and walked out.

As I stood on the sidewalk outside
Charlie’s, the sun was beginning to set, casting an orange glow over the tops
of the buildings. I took a deep breath, and another, allowing my body to stop
producing adrenaline and slow my heart rate down.

I looked left and right, trying to
decide which way would get me to a motel faster. Coming to the conclusion that
I had no idea, I resorted to my age-old philosophy: when in doubt, go left.

I took out my phone and dialed a number
from memory. The voice that answered was one of those annoying voices that
always sounded happy, regardless of the situation. However, the voice belonged
to one of the few people on this planet I trust, so I let them off.

Josh Winters was a former army buddy
from back in my black-ops days, when I was part of a joint American and British
task force. I got out and started working freelance, and he was more than happy
to come with me. He’s worked for the past ten years or so as my handler -
making contacts, finding me jobs and supplying me with information and anything
else I might need. My life was pretty much in his hands.

‘Adrian! Great to hear from you my man!
How’s Heaven’s Valley so far?’ he said. You could tell he was smiling down the
phone as he spoke.

‘I’ve been in this town half an hour
and I’ve already been in a fight. I’ve decided I don’t like it here all that
much.’

‘You do have a tendency to make a unique
first impression, don’t you?’ he replied, laughing this time.

‘Screw you, Josh,’ I countered, enjoying
our banter. ‘We all set for tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, you’re meeting a guy called
Jimmy Manhattan. This guy, and the people he represents, are old school mafia
folks, Adrian. So I say this with all the love in the world, but try not to be
too... you, alright?’

I was almost offended, but I knew what
he was trying to say. I’ve worked for guys like these many times, and they took
respect very seriously. Disrespecting someone near the top of the mob family
hierarchy like Jimmy Manhattan would bring a whole lot of unnecessary trouble
down on top of me.

‘Fear not, I shall be at my most
professional,’ I assured him.

‘That’s what I’m worried about! Call me
afterward if you need anything.’

‘Will do. See you later Josh.’

I hung up and set off walking down the
street, hoping to find a nice, quiet motel to grab a shower and some sleep. I
found myself humming “
Fortunate Son
”, which I didn’t get to finish
listening to in the bar. . .  Assholes.

THREE

The next
morning, I walked down the quiet street that was just off the main strip that
ran through the center of town. The sun was glorious, even at this time in a
morning. The heat of the day was rising slowly, preparing to scorch the town as
it had done yesterday, and the six months before that. Thanks to Heaven’s Valley’s
close proximity to the desert, it experienced hot, unrelenting sun for a large
portion of the year.

I was meeting Jimmy Manhattan at nine
a.m, so I wanted to get there early and scope the place out. A very old habit,
drilled into me from the very first day of boot camp – reconnaissance can save
your life. Always know where the enemy will come from, and always know how you
can get out. Especially in this situation where I’m meeting someone I don’t
know or trust. I like to plan my exit strategy long before I make my entrance.

The meeting itself was in a nice, small,
family-run coffee shop called Dimitri’s. On the outside, the window frames were
painted a faded brown, and the window itself had the company logo emblazoned
across it. Next to that, on the left, was the entrance. There was enough room
outside for three sets of table and chairs, which I imagined would be occupied
most of the day, given the likelihood of sunshine and heat.

Inside was bigger than you thought it’d
be from outside, but not by much. It was laid out like a grid, with seating set
out in three rows of three in front of the serving counter, which covered
nearly all the length of the far wall. The rows on the left and right were
booths, which seated four people, two facing two. The middle row had round
tables with four chairs on each compass point around it.

It was just after eight a.m. and the
café had just opened. I figured Jimmy Manhattan would do what I was doing - get
there early, scope the place out, watch for me turning up. Unfortunately for
him, I’m better at planning than he is.

I pushed open the door and walked in,
right up to the counter. An aging guy with short, gray hair was setting up the
cappuccino machine. He turned as he heard me walk in and eyed me up and down
before turning back to his machine. He was probably in his early seventies, and
his tanned skin was like old leather. He had faded, blue/gray tattoos on his
forearms, presumably from time served in the military, back in the good old
days.

‘Morning,’ I said, not expecting a
response. ‘Can I get a coffee, black with two sugars, please?’

‘Be right over,’ he replied, without
turning round.

I turned away and surveyed the layout,
trying to decide where would be best to sit and wait. I opted for the booth
near the window, on the right hand side. I ordered my coffee and went and sat
on the side facing the
café
interior. Twisting slightly to my left, putting my back to the wall and resting
one knee on the seat, I could see the entire place in front of me - the
entrance, the counter and the doors behind it, as well as outside through the
window. From here, I could see everyone coming, and didn’t have to worry about
anyone coming up behind me. More old habits, instilled at an early age. Old
habits which have saved my ass more than once. Some people call me paranoid.
But it’s not paranoia if the bastards are really after you.

A few minutes later, the old guy brought
me my coffee and asked if I wanted any breakfast. I politely declined, and
waited for him to walk off before taking a sip. They were some good beans. I
put my cup down again slowly, and glanced around the empty place once more
before looking out the window and up the street. Yeah, this was a good spot. I’d
see him coming before he saw I was already here. If I didn’t like it, I could
be out of the building and down the road in no time.

It was just then when I saw the door
behind the counter open, and three men walk out, come round the counter and
head toward me.

Dammit.

The first guy was early fifties, wearing
what looked like a very expense three-piece suit, which was a light brown. He
was a thin, wiry guy, but walked with the utmost confidence and grace. He was
clearly a man who never rushed to be anywhere. Or who needed to, for that
matter. He was staring at me, but not in an aggressive way. More purposefully.

I looked past him to the two bodyguards
he had with him. I sighed a little louder than I intended. They were my two
friends from the bar last night. Both looked like they were suffering from a
really bad hangover. My face betrayed nothing, but inside I couldn’t help but
laugh. Only I would manage to get into a fight with the hired muscle of my next
employer.

I looked at both of them in turn, before
directing my gaze back to the expensive brown suit. I didn’t make a move to
stand, and I certainly didn’t extend my hand to greet them. I simply picked up
my coffee and took a sip.

‘Jimmy Manhattan, I presume?’ I said,
looking at him before gesturing with my eyebrows for him to sit down.

‘Adrian Hell,’ replied Manhattan, as he
slid into the seat opposite me in the booth. His voice was smooth, and his
accent was very East Coast. New York, maybe. He was a long way from home
anyway.

‘I see your reputation for preparation
and borderline paranoia is justified.’ He motioned to the coffee shop, tipping
his hat to the fact I’d been so early, despite not being early enough, it would
appear.

‘Well, you know what they say: the
early bird gets the professional contract killer. I see you’ve brought some
friends.’

I looked up at them and addressed each
in turn.

‘Fred. Ginger,’ I held up my hands apologetically.
‘No hard feelings about yesterday?’

Stan looked very angry, as did his
friend, but neither spoke, or even moved a muscle. They just glanced at Manhattan
and remained very still. I looked back at him.

‘You’ve got the monkeys well trained. I’m
impressed.’

Manhattan half-smiled, but remained
unwavering is his cool, confident demeanor.

‘And I see the reputation about your
mouth is justified too.’ He looked over his shoulder at Stan. ‘Give me and Mr.
Hell some privacy, would you?’

Stan and his slightly taller, angrier
friend walked off and pulled up a stool at bar, sitting facing me. I stared
back for a second, giving them my best “cold bastard” gaze to show them how it
was done properly, then looked away. They didn’t bother me. They were there to emphasize
Jimmy’s importance, and to intimidate whoever Jimmy was meeting. That wouldn’t
work with me, and everyone here knew it.

‘Mr. Hell,’ he began. ‘Can I call you
Adrian?’ He was very professional and respectful - almost friendly. I suspect
his manner is practiced, so as to disarm the other person, get them feeling too
comfortable, and that’s when he’ll reel you in. Again, it was never going to
work on me, but I appreciated his friendly approach and I reciprocated.

‘I’ve been called worse than both, so
feel free,’ I replied. I did quite like “Mr. Hell” though - I might try and use
that, see if it sticks.

‘Adrian, I represent Roberto Pellaggio
and I’m here on behalf of himself and his interests to offer you a job
befitting of your particular set of skills.’

He produced a brown, A4 envelope and
slid it across the table to me. I opened it and took out a photograph and some
papers. It was a black and white eight-by-ten of a man in a suit walking across
the road. He was talking on his phone and carrying a briefcase.

‘This is Ted Jackson,’ he continued. ‘Until
very recently, we were working with Mr. Jackson on a business deal to secure
some land on the outskirts of the city. Mr. Pellaggio was looking to expand his
business portfolio by building a casino there.’

‘Go on,’ I said, studying the photo.

‘A few days ago, with no warning or
explanation, Mr. Jackson backed out of the deal. He kept the deeds to the land,
as well as the money Mr. Pellaggio had already invested into it.’

I looked up from the photograph to
speak.

‘And you want me to make him disappear?’
I asked.

‘Mr. Pellaggio is a well-respected
businessman, with a – how can I put it – well-known and somewhat formidable
reputation. A slight of this kind toward him cannot be tolerated under any
circumstances. A message must be sent.’

‘I understand. Consider it done.’

‘There’s something else,’ said
Manhattan. ‘While taking care of Mr. Jackson is a must, it’s of vital
importance that you retrieve the deeds to that land. Mr. Pellaggio is eager to finalize
this deal and begin construction of the casino, and that paperwork is the key.’

‘Not a problem,’ I said.

I was more than happy to take this job.
It was easy money. Find a businessman, kill him and take his land. Give the
land to the mafia, get my money and I can be out of town in two days, three
days max.

Jimmy stood, prompting Stan and his
friend at the counter to do the same.

‘I look forward to seeing more of your
work, Adrian,’ he said, glancing over to where his bodyguards were sat. ‘It
comes highly recommended.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, with a grin.

‘We’ll speak in a couple of days.’

Jimmy nodded his head in a silent
goodbye, then turned and walked back to the counter and into the back room,
followed by his bodyguards. As they walked off, Stan turned to me and gave me
the finger. I smiled and waved back.

God, I wish I’d hit him harder.