He was restless and giddy-nervous, I assumed. That was to be expected, meeting a guy like me in a neighborhood like this, with no visible form of protection. Then I realized he was exhibiting excitement, not fear. He cheerfully handed over the cash and attempted to make small talk; I cut him off and closed the door in his crestfallen face. Afterwards, I wondered if his primary interest in doing business with me was novelty, the thrill of purchasing one of those rare things he’d never bought before.
I’d given no indication during our meeting that I knew who he was. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t recognize him, as unlikely as that sounds. Maybe he just didn’t care.
Still, I expected him to drop the matter when I actually spoke his name.
Instead he sounds pleased.
“Excellent,” he says. “And do you know how I got to be where I am today?” This time he doesn’t wait for a response, answering the question himself. “Six simple words: ‘Give the customer what he wants.’ I’ve built an empire on that motto, and it’s a good rule for any business. Even yours.”
“Now,” he continues, “I’ll make this…hang on.”
I hear honking horns and screeching tires, though no sounds of collision, alas. The Client swears colorfully at another driver, but I’ll wager he was the cause of whatever happened. People who talk on cell phones while driving are a goddamned menace.
“I’ll make this as clear as I can,” the Client resumes when the crisis has passed. “I am your customer. And I am asking for my money back. What do you say?”
“What I’ve been saying all along. I don’t give refunds.”
The Client remains silent. I listen to the petulant hum of my room’s decrepit alarm clock. Someone, a few rooms down, is watching late night television, and I can hear every line of dialogue through the paper-thin walls. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping we are done.
“Fine,” says the Client, but I can tell he has some new subterfuge in mind. “However, most businesses that don’t offer refunds at least allow exchanges. A substitution would be acceptable.”
“A substitution for what?”
“The Target, as you call him.”
“You want to switch the contract to someone else?”
“I don’t want to,” he says, “but will settle for that, in lieu of the refund you so stubbornly refuse to provide.”
“Who?”
“I don’t care. Anyone will do.”
By now I’ve decided that the Client never jokes, even when jest seems the only explanation for a statement. “You think it’s that simple?” I ask. “Do you have any idea how much effort I put into planning an operation?”
“I’m not asking you to plan,” he says magnanimously. “Just shoot the next person you see. Take his driver’s license and mail it to me afterward. I’ll have someone verify that he was killed, and we’re square. You keep the cash, I get my money’s worth, everyone’s happy.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Listen,” I say. “I read the papers. I know how much you’re worth. If forty grand fell out of your pocket it wouldn’t be worth your time to pick it up. We made a contract, and you broke it. Write the money off. Why drag an innocent person into this mess?”
He barks out a theatrical guffaw. “Yes, heaven forbid an ‘innocent person’ gets involved. Everyone you’ve murdered in the past had it coming, no doubt.”
Well, he’s got me there.
I mull over his proposal. Targeting a stranger has some advantages, actually. For one thing, there will be no way to trace the victim back to me. With a hired hit, there’s always a chance that someone will blab, or the death will prove so convenient for a client that the authorities start poking around.
But I am hesitant to select the target myself, even at random. I wonder why. Maybe because doing so would run afoul of my nicely honed rationale: that I am just a gun to be pointed by others. Just doing my job, just following orders. Ultimately not to blame.
The Client remains quiet, patiently awaiting a reply. I curse myself for even considering the idea-my delay in responding implies that the “no refunds” policy is negotiable.
I am about to say something, but sensing indecision, he pounces.
“I’m about a minute from your motel, so let’s cut the crap. I want my money back. Or I want another killing in exchange. If you don’t have the guts to do the latter, then I’m taking the cash. If you don’t do either, I’ll drop a dime on you.”
Drop a dime. Christ, I hate these people.
“And what?” I say. “You think I’d just neglect to mention your name?”
He laughs, and it sounds genuine. “Say whatever you want; I’ll take my chances. In the unlikely event that anyone takes you seriously, I have the best legal team in the nation on speed dial. You don’t want to scrap with me, boy. You’ll come out the loser ten times out of ten.”
That’s the problem with these rich guys: they think they are above the law.
No, I take it back. The problem with these rich guys is that, by and large, they are above the law. He’s absolutely right about the odds. If it comes down to a legal pissing match between me and the Client, I’ll wind up in jail and he’ll come through unscathed. If anything, the rumors of dirty dealings will probably bolster his reputation as a hardball negotiator. I know it, and he knows I know it.
The blinds on the front window glow briefly as headlights rake across them. A moment later, through the phone, I hear the sound of a pulled emergency brake. The purring of the car’s engine, which had served as a backdrop to our conversation, ceases.
“So,” he says lazily, “how about that refund?”
I consider my options one last time, but he has me over a barrel. I have no choice but to comply with his demand.
“All right,” I growl, “we’ll do it your way.”
“Excellent.” He speaks briskly, closing the deal. I hear him open the car door; when it slams shut a moment later, the sound comes to me in stereo: a sharp report from the receiver, a distant bang from the parking lot outside. “I knew you’d come around.”
A crescendo of footsteps, expensive shoes on asphalt, ceases outside my door.
“Knock, knock,” says the Client into his phone before ending the call.
I cradle the receiver and yell, “It’s open.”
The Client, clad in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, lets himself in. He takes two steps into the room, pivots, and closes the door. He is grinning when he turns back around, his face awash with triumph.
We lock eyes for a second. Then he breaks contact, glancing around the room in search of the duffel bag. “Is the money still here?”
“I think I’ve made my policy clear,” I say, rising to my feet. “No refunds.”
He continues to smirk, but his eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “I thought we were doing it my way.”
“Oh, we are,” I reassure him. “I believe your exact words were ‘Shoot the next person you see.’”
His smile falters as I draw the gun.
“Give the customer what he wants,” I say. “That’s my motto.”
High Limit by Scott Wolven
Stripers swam up the Hudson earlier than usual that spring, and right away the fishermen were talking. I was working near Woodstock, hauling shale and aggregate for my cousin, and every day the other drivers would bring back stories about who caught what. Describing the good fishing spots on the river in detail, or lying about them-to keep the good fishing to themselves. The truth depended on who you were talking to. Baseball scores came first, then the fish stories. As far north on the river as the Athens lighthouse and as far south as you felt like sailing, although most of the guys didn’t go below Poughkeepsie. My cousin’s materials outfit was acting as a subcontractor on a state job, so we weren’t hauling weekends. Saturday and Sunday were good days to be on the river. I was simply glad to be out in the world and earning money at the time. I got involved with the wrong side of things up in Canada-moving meth on the northwestern border of Maine-and had just come back after four years away. It was my first stretch and I wanted to put it behind me. Listening to the guys talk about fishing made me want to get out there and put a line in the water. They were catching some big ones.