Today’s
Prompt: Kristin Pedersen and Russell Ebert meet before he inherits money. One of
them is killed.
—
Courtesy: creativewritingprompts.com
Word Count: 1,234
My memory of that day is as clear as day.
The waiter’s name was Pedersen and I could tell from the way he looked at me, through me my face didn’t juggle his
memory. Not that I expected it to. I was only, how do they say it, playing my position. He had the same low
haircut. There were a few grays in there but the similarity was good enough for
rock and roll. Same chiseled chin, deep-set eyes just like the high school
picture I acquired. Don’t ask me how.
He walked briskly past me. I reached out
and tugged at the tail of his cheap waiter’s jacket and held on.
“Don’t
you recognize an old friend when you see one?” I said, flashing my winning
smile.
He stopped and turned to face me. “Not like
I can remember everybody and I’ve met hundreds since I started working here.” He
raised his hands, palms facing up, curved his lips and shrugged. “The job.”
I shook my head slowly from side to side.
“It’s that. But I’m not talking yesterday not even last week. I’m talking
years.”
“How
many years are you willing to wager?”
He was taking the bait. Nibbling at it at
the edges, eventually he was going to swallow the line and get stuck.
“I’d
like to think your face got lost in the sea of faces I meet everyday in this room.
Hell, I can’t even recollect faces I came across yesterday besides the regulars,
that is. And here you are taking down memory lane several years from now.”
“1992,”
I said. “We were part of a team.”
“Oh?”
“’92
in high school. Strikes a chord?”
Pedersen ran his fingers through his hair.
There wasn’t much left to explore. The dude was going bald.
“A
football team.”
“I’ll
be darned,” he said.
“Ugh,
ugh.”
“I
still can’t place your face or name. Wait… I think it’s coming back. Ernest,
wasn’t it?”
“Damn
right it is.” I lied. God help whoever the real Ernest is.
“You
do remember Coach, right?” Pedersen
said. “The guy who knew this much about soccer as a fish knew how to ride a
bicycle.”
“Some
people stick to the memory like cake to the wall.”
“Well,
it still comes strange to me and I really can’t tell what criteria the judges used
I believe they must have been on something heroine, probably. But Coach made the league.”
“I’ll
be damned,” I said, and looked all of the mock shock.
“Oh,
yeah. He features in some B League in Barcelona, Spain.”
“Sure,
I know where Barcelona is I just can’t picture Coach playing in the Z League
down there.”
“Hey!
Over here.” Somebody called about two tables away.
I saw the guy walk in while I chatted
Pedersen up.
“Sorry,
gatto run. Talk later.”
“Oh
sure.” I patted the back of his hand. “Dinner sometime. My place.”
“I’ll
look forward to it.” And he was gone to take the new guy’s orders.
The table was within earshot of mine to
afford me snatches of the conversation between waiter and guest.
“As
a professional, I’m supposed to be more discreet than this.” He gestured with
his hands to show the location was not right for the occasion. “But I’ve been
under a little strain… nobody, not even my associates can guess where I am
right now.”
In
your dreams bozo, I
thought.
The professional
spoke in hushed tones like he expected someone to be listening in on their
conversation and the man definitely needed to be on a diet.
“I
just couldn’t resist the temptation to fulfill a dying client’s last wish. I apologize
for intruding on your privacy without prior notice.”
Pedersen looked totally out of place in
his own domain. “I wish you would just get over and done with it and tell me
what I can offer you.” He was flustered. Any fool could see it in the dude’s
eyes. But he kept his temper under lock and key.
“No,
it’s about what I can offer you, Mr. Kristin Pedersen. This is
totally not my style. I’m more of a all-protocol-observed-guy.” He punctuated
the last sentence with a wink.
“How
come you know my name when I didn’t offer it?” Pedersen looked like a volcano
struggling to keep in its larva.
“Oh,
I know a lot about you. A lot more than you would ever imagine.”
Pedersen gaped at the protocol-guy.
“I
don’t have much time so I’ll get to the point.”
“I
don’t think I know you but if you wait a few sec your appointment might come
right through that door soon. As alternative, you can scribble a quick note and
you bet your life I’ll deliver as soon as he gets here. I’ll get some sheets.”
“Paper.
Ha! Reminds me.” The protocol-guy reached
in his three-piece suit inner pocket and fetched a document of considerable
size. “After you sign these you’re gonna have all the paper you’ll ever need.” He shoved the stash of paper into Pedersen’s
hands. “There’s the deed of your inheritance.”
Pedersen took the papers and read the
title “Ebert & Associates”
“Keep
your voice down.” The guy who was probably Ebert
said.
Russell Ebert. Son of a bitch. That was my
cue. I shoved on leather gloves, screwed the silencer on my tool. I slipped out
from behind my table like a snake. Ebert saw me coming through the corner of
his eyes. I was too fast for him. It was too late for him to do anything
besides raise both hands to shield his face. You’re no Superman, old buddy. When the bullets penetrate you it’s
taking your fingers for a ride.
Pedersen backed away when he saw the gun.
Like a man coming out of a nightmare. I moved up close to where Ebert sat, meaty
flesh overflowing both sides of his seat. I raised the 9mm and pumped two shots
to his head. He jerked and fell back on the chair. The seat could not hold his
weight and toppled over backwards spilling him to the floor. The sound of the
gunshot was muffled by the silencer but the restaurant was small and folks had
seen me walking towards the flabby man. I maximized the commotion that followed
and slipped out through the backdoor of the restaurant. I dumped the equipment
and gloves in a nearby bin and walked into the sunset.
What can I say? I’m a mob contract
killer. And Russell Ebert was a mob associate who was too greedy for his own good.
It’s one thing to walk away from the mob it’s another to filch the mob’s money.
Ebert did both. If you asked me, he shouldn’t have taken the money. My source
had filled in on a little detail. The rest I got off the mob’s google search,
that’s Mobble for the illiterate.
Russell Ebert had been on the run for
years. He wanted out of the mob and he took the first chance he got and hit the
road. Like I said, he shouldn’t have taken the money. And don’t think I’m rid my
conscious of guilt. I have killed before and I will kill yet again when I break
free from this steel bars. There’s a saying going the rounds in the mob and it’s
this
‘It’s
never about who’s right or wrong when the money is right.’
Eneh
Akpan
June
2nd, 2014
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