Page 11 of Bleed
With a swipe of my gloved finger on my phone mounted to Luna’s tank, I bring up the contact for Gustapo and click the green call icon. The line rings loudly through the speakers three times before his sleepy voice comes into my head.
“Yeah?” He asks with his thick Italian accent, then pauses, listening for me as I swallow thickly. “Reaper?”
“It’s me.” I simply say, and I know that from the tone of my two words, he knows what’s coming.
I also know he won’t run or hide. He’ll accept his fate like the goddamned king he is. I just wish he hadn’t done whatever he did to earn my visit.
“You coming for me?”
“Yeah man. Sorry. I don’t want to wake Christine.”
“I get it. I’ll be outside.” He says solemnly before the line goes dead.
My reputation precedes me in the underworld of crime, and I’m known for being the most gruesome and effective contract killer there is. Having worked with me in the past, my old friend knows this. He knows it’s no use trying to avoid it, because it’ll happen anyways. It’s best to give himself to me, it’ll be easier and less traumatic that way.
The rest of the ride to his place, out of the city and into the suburbs is deathly quiet. I don’t turn the music back on, and I can’t even ear the rumble of the bike. I’m in my own head planning the kill, seeing every step and every stab.
Motherfucker.
The street is deserted when I turn onto it, and the house is dark when I approach, cutting off Luna’s engine a few doors down to silently walk her to his driveway. There’s no need to wake up his wife and have her be in fear for her husband. It’s best if she wakes up and it’s already done.
“Damien.” Gustapo says as I put the kickstand down and park the bike behind his black Land Rover, walking around it, finding him sitting on the front steps of his perfect little home, with a half-burned cigarette in his hand.
It’s a house like I would like to have someday, quaint and calm in a sea of crime. I can’t do what I need to do here.
“Yeah man.” I sigh, walking up to him and sitting next to his side on the pale blue, painted, wooden steps that creak under my added weight.
“It’s come to this, huh?” He sighs, reaching in his shirt pocket for his pack of smokes, pulling one out and handing it to me.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask him, taking off my helmet, setting it by my hip, and lighting the Marlboro.
“Needed the money. Christine had a stroke a couple months back. She can’t work anymore, and the family wouldn’t give me a raise.” He answers me, looking down at his feet and everywhere else but at me, hiding his shame.
“Fuck, you should have called. Will she be okay without you? Is there anyone to take care of her?”
“Becky, our daughter will. I already called her.”
There’s nothing I can say to my white-haired friend as we silently put another nail in our respective coffins with the cigarettes.
What do you even say? I’m sorry I have to kill you? I wish I didn’t have to? How do you want to die? Do you need me to watch your family for you after I murder you? Do I give him the same choice I give everyone else?
I watch him carefully place what’s left of his smoke down on the sidewalk under our feet, then grind it out completely with his shoe. It’s metaphoric, the snuffing out of a once bright flame into nothing but ruined ash and waste.
“Ready?”
“Let’s get this over with.” He says, standing up and turning to face me, offering me his hand which I take graciously.
His hands have softened over the years from when he used to do my type of work, and his dark brown eyes have lost that edge too. I can see he’s tired, almost like he’s already given up as I let him pull me up onto my feet.
We walk hand in hand to Luna in a solemn silence, then he stays next to me as I push the bike down the street, getting far enough away from the house before we get on her. I strap on my helmet and he sits behind me, his arms around my middle, his hands on the gas tank as I fire her up.
Motherfucker.
I can feel the tenseness in him as we ride far away from his home. He’s stiff against my back, and his arms shake at every stop when he does his best to push back. As we drive though, I feel him loosen up. He’s already accepted his fate, and when we pull into an abandoned parking lot he makes peace with it and melts into me with a sigh I can feel but not hear.
The air is thick, like the earth knows what’s coming, and the minimal glow from the single light overhead casts shadows that play on us as we get off the bike and stand next to her, facing each other in utter stillness. You could cut the tension in the air with a dull knife.
We stare at each other for what feels like hours, even though I know it’s barely a few minutes. Normally I would leave the helmet on, to protect my face from the victim fighting back and the splatter of blood, but I can’t with him. I want him to see the regret in my eyes as the light drains from his.
