Page 1 of The Killer's Payment

One

James

The line rings.And again.

Is there any sound more annoying than the monotone, constant, dull-as-fuck reminder that you can’t talk to the person you’re trying to reach?

I hang up. Three rings is my absolute limit. I would rather end the call and immediately hit redial than risk taking my chances with voicemail.

What’s so risky about voicemail, you ask?

I like that split-second pause before the connection—the one where you think they’ve answered before finding out that you were sorely mistaken—even less than I like the sound of a line ringing. Better to cut your losses quickly than deal with that particular brand of false hope.

Besides, I can leave three missed calls in the same time it would take a voicemail cuck to leave just one, and I like to think that creates a certain sense of urgency.

I’m about to retrieve my phone from where it bounced along the desk, leave another missed call—ramp that urgency up to the next fucking level—when the screen lights up and the thing vibrates against the mahogany.

About time.

“Speak.”

There’s a succinct clearing of a throat on the other end of the line. “It’s done.”

Really. You see, I was confident it would be done and remained that way throughout the day… but the lack of communication—added to the fact they are over an hour late delivering any news, let alone the fucking goods—has eroded that confidence almost as much as my patience.

I’ll believe it when I see it with my own two eyes and not a minute before.

“I assume you’ve taken it to the usual place.” No question mark. Not a question.

“There’s… uh…”

I dislike the way his voice trails off there. Almost has me wishing for the voicemail voice. “What?”

“There was a problem. When I said it’s done, I meant it’s…as good as done.”

My teeth clench. Bad habit. Especially when you enjoy steak as much as I do—you rely on those molars. “Tell me, specifically, what you mean by that.”

“O’Rourke wasn’t even at the club. We searched but… nothing. And then—”

“And how exactly is thatas good as done?” I snap.

“Well, they handed over his home address without too much complaint—”

“You went to his house?” I interrupt. Again.

Interruption warranted, though—I dislike the fact they went to his house even more than I dislike the way his voice keeps trailing off.

Idiot.

Clearly, there is no degree-level qualification in this business. No professional standards or codes of fucking conduct. There’s what your daddy—or the guy doing the raising—kicked into you and there’s what you pick up along the way.

But there are unwritten rules.

Showing up at a man’s home? In full view of the curtain-twitching neighbors who are desperate for something juicer than counting how many times Sharon’s left her house today? In full view of the plastic-tinted wife who’s just looking for an excuse to divorce your ass and launder your money so she can fund her new, improved Brazilian one? In full view of the spoiled-brat, asshole kids and the dog who is always some Maltese-Bichon mongrel—the type whose only purpose in life is to be force-bred with a Poodle—and never a real dog like a Rottweiler or a Doberman or a German Shepherd?

No. Absolutely fucking not.

It’s bad optics.

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