Killing Jones

            I'd had a contract on Jones's head for so long I was beginning to wonder if a second assignment would ever come.
            I enjoyed wearing suits but my tie was reluctant. I had never learned the double Windsor and the single felt like a limp handshake. My gun, silencer and all, was in my front right pants pocket and I hoped Jones wouldn't get the wrong idea. In my left hand was a briefcase. My cover was I was with a law firm. Who? I couldn't remember. My infant right hand smoothed my hair and then knocked on the door.
            "Hey! Are you from the firm? Intern? You're not here to kill me, are you? Ha ha! Hey, you twenty-one yet? Drink?"
            "Um," I said.
            "Used to think 4:30 was too early for drinking. This is paradise, though, right? Something light? Rum & coke? Jack & coke? Cuervo & coke? Disaronno & coke?"
            My head listed to the left. I put my lips together and smoothed my hair. "Um, the rum sounds good, sure."
            "Jesus, you're young. I might need to see some ID, haha, just kidding, you know. You kids get younger every year. Put your briefcase on the table. Rum's good for me, too. Double? I need a double these days."
            Putting my briefcase down like he told me to, I started to say the single's fine when his cell phone rang.
            "Let me get this," he said, handing me my drink. I smoothed my hair and he answered. "Jones. Yeah. No, no, it's Lakers-Suns tonight. Yeah. Courtside, man. Yeah."
            He went on like this and I wondered if what I was getting paid for this job would cover a year in his condo. Deep red curtains. Beige carpet. Navy couch, glass coffee table in front of the massive plasma TV. Jones still on the phone. Paintings by French guys I'd never heard of. A bar with liquor I'd never heard of. Jones still on the phone. An open box of cigars. Mahogany table matching chairs. Jones still on the phone.
            "Listen, I gotta go. There's a guy here to kill me. Yeah, he's from the firm, some intern. These guys get younger every year. Give my middle nut to see Yarborough, Emery, or Gorin themselves come down here. What do you have to pay 'em for that, right? Bloodsuckers. Anyway, see you soon, man."
            A sip from his double rum & coke. "Hey, so what's your name, chief? You already know mine. Listen, can make this quick? That guy I was just on the phone with and a couple of girls will be here in like half an hour. Lakers tickets. Big game tonight, am I right? Playoffs on the line. You follow basketball? Anyway, let's get down to this."
            I almost told him, point blank, that I was here to kill him. Instead I smoothed my hair and told him it was just minor stuff, should only take about twenty minutes, if that's no inconvenience to him.
            "Long as I get to that Lakers game we're solid, my man. You sure you're not trying to kill me?"
            My eyes felt wide. This joke was not funny. How many times had he told it?
            "Maybe I am," I stammered.
            "Haha, I'm starting to wonder. Okay, what's up? Open that briefcase. What's the combination? 666? Ha ha! You ever see that movie? Pulp Fiction? Was it that one? The briefcase, the combination lock is 666. Yeah. So what's up?"
            My thumbs rolled the combination. The briefcase wouldn't open. My eyes felt wider. Awkward pause.
            "Hey, what's up, chief? What was your name again? Case stuck? Jesus, how young are you? Come on, man, the Lakers. Fifteen minutes."
            Sweaty hand smooth hair. Wipe it on my pants. Finger the gun in my pocket. Is it loaded? What's the combination?
            His fingers drummed the table. Mahogany. He sipped his drink. Rum & coke double. This is my first time. I stood up. Can I use his bathroom?
            "My bathroom? What is this, some kinda Godfather shit? You got a gun planted there? Just open the briefcase, chief. Open the fucking briefcase! Open the fucking case right fucking now!"
            Hand still on my gun went off in my pocket. No sound. Split second stop breathing. A bullet lodged in my foot. Blood seeping through leather shoes. I couldn't feel it yet. Pulled out my gun. One in his forehead, another in his chest. I downed my rum & coke in one gulp. Ran to his bar. Grabbed the whiskey. Poured some on my foot. Drank some. Shot him again in the chest. Once more in the head. I grabbed my briefcase and tracked blood all over the apartment hallway until I could hail myself a cab to the hospital, wondering about that second assignment.