Page 14 of Assassin Anonymous

It helps, a little.

“You okay?” she asks.

Nope.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she says, a smile creeping across her lips. “Because some of these firemen are pretty cute. I think I’m going to go see if any of them are single.”

“Knock ’em dead, sweetheart. I have to take P. Kitty somewhere safe. I’ll be right back, okay?”

She turns to the building, watching a firefighter atop a ladder spraying a burst of water into my apartment. I duck into the corner bar down the street and find that Tom is working. Finally, something works out in my favor.

Tom looks like an extra from a biker movie, with his barrel chest and thick gray beard. Half a life in Boston and half a life in New York has left him with an accent like a cartoon bear, and the Santa hat perched on top of his head makes him look like a dirtbag St. Nick.

He’s also the only bartender in this joint who’ll let me come in with the cat.

The Blinds is a tiny little corner spot mostly frequented by locals. No TV, so it doesn’t attract a sports crowd. Right now, there are a handful of folks, most of whom I recognize, which offers me some level of comfort. No one at all seems bothered by the conflagration happening a few blocks down. I take a seat against the back wall, where I can see the front door but it’s not as obvious that I’m here if you were to look in the window.

Tom ambles over with a glass of rye on the rocks. “That your building down there, Mark?”

“It’s been a night,” I tell him. “Not a good time for booze, but I’ll take some of that jet fuel you pass off as coffee.”

Tom shrugs and places the glass down in front of Mike, a former cop now employed at holding up that one particular barstool. He downs it without any acknowledgment.

“Coffee coming right up,” Tom says. “Bowl of milk for the kitty?”

“He’s good right now, thanks.”

“Seriously, though,” Tom says, “the owner will be back in a bit and she’ll flip her lid if she sees him in here. We can argue extenuating circumstances, but I just don’t need that kind of trouble tonight.”

“I need a minute to get myself situated,” I tell him. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

With the Vicodin in full effect, I’m feeling muddy, my brain full of wet sticks. Tom places a mug on the table and heads out for a smoke. The coffee is blazing hot and blacker than the void of space. Immediately my neurons fire.

So, I need twelve grand. My chief source of money is the pile of cash in my apartment, and that’s going to be tricky to access if someone is watching. I’ve got a debit card for traveling and emergencies, which pulls from an offshore account on the Isle of Man, but I’m limited to a grand a day from ATMs. Which I don’t like using because they tend to have cameras.

And I still need to find someplace to stay tonight. Preferably off the grid, and amenable to cats. I’ve got about six hundred in my wallet. I need a shitty hotel that’ll let me pay in cash. P. Kitty seems to have settled now that we’re inside, but he’s going to need to eat soon.

The door opens and my heart leaps a little, but it’s just Tom. Then again, he’s got a look on his face. The kind of look I don’t like. He comes over holding a folded piece of paper between two fingers and says, “Here’s a weird one. Gentleman outside asked me to pass this to you.”

“Must be mistaken,” I tell him.

He places it on the table in front of me. “Described you perfectly. Russian accent.” He must see the wave of panic that crashes into my face because he asks, “You good?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

He tugs at the felt marker dangling from the collar of his sweatshirt and tosses it on the table. “Never leave home without one.”

I take it and point it at him. “Thanks, man.”

He tips his Santa cap to me and heads for the bar.

In his twenties, Tom worked security at one of the most notorious punk bars in Boston, and he said the marker got him out of more scraps than he could count. I’ve always appreciated that—for both the ingenuity, and, after going sober, the concept of a nonlethal personal defense. Something about holding it makes me feel safe.

I take another sip of coffee to keep from throwing up, then unfold the paper. Immediately this incredibly shitty night gets a hell of a lot worse.

In neat, block letters it says: SHE’S PRETTY.

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