She laughed, the dumbass Yank, mutilating the accent, and I tell you, I don’t take mocking real good, she said “Use the English form.”

  My teeth were grinding, I could hear them and I near spat “Gee, I would if you’d share it, is it like a secret or something?”

  She shot me a look

  Me. . .

  Shoot me a look?

  Was she fucking kidding, you don’t give me looks, unless you’re packing something more lethal than bad attitude, but then, she changed course, like women do, said “Gerry, it’s Gerry.”

  I dropped my glass, Jameson leaking into the rug and she’s fussing, searching for a cloth, I roared “Leave the fucking thing, is that his name, are you jerking my chain?”

  She put her hands on her hips, barked

  “Don’t swear at me mister, my late husband, God rest his soul, he never swore at me and I’m not going to let some. . .”

  I cut her off, demanded

  “Why he’s here?”

  She was thrown, asked

  “What. . .he’s on holiday, he has a band he. . .”

  “I know about the fucking band, I asked you why he’s here.”

  She gathered up her coat and the groceries she’d brought for our meal, said “Well, I know when I’m not wanted, I’ll return when you soften your cough mister.”

  After she was gone, I poured some Jameson, chanced another hit of speed, needed to think. . .

  The kid in Galway, when I’d done him I’d been confused, because when I lifted his sleeve, there was no tattoo, none.

  I went to my trunk, unlocked the heavy Yale on it and pushing aside the blond hair, I took out my knife, the blade honed to wafer thin perfection, shouted out loud “Let em come, I’m so fucking ready.”

  Later, I chilled, thinking, I’d overreacted, new country and all, those spuds and the Guinness, that shit knocked you on yer ass.

  So I calmed a bit, was even able to read some Yeats, selected a poem at random. . .The Stolen Child Fuck, isn’t that what the Irish love. . .that irony they go on about. . .I laughed out loud, laughed till the tears ran down my face, the knife sitting snugly in my lap.

  Next few days were without incident, but I kept the knife in my jacket, I was easing down a notch but I was getting antsy, I was ready, they could send all the Brain Jones they liked, I’d take em all, see if I wouldn’t Changed pubs though

  On the other end of the village, was a more modern place, I preferred the traditional one but what the hell, killers can’t be choosers.

  Sitting there over my pint, Bushmills as back, the Jameson was obviously not agreeing with me, a tiny hint of speed in me blood, reading the Irish Independent, lots of reports on Iraq, I skipped them.

  Then a feature on a new movie about the life of Brian Jones, speculating that he’d been murdered.

  A shadow fell across me, I looked up to see Dolan’s nephew, sweeping the blond locks out of his eyes.

  He was wearing faded flared jeans and a black sweat shirt with the logo

  HARVARD HURTS

  Like he’d fucking know?

  He asked

  “May I join you for a moment?”

  His accent had that quasi-American uplift, as if everything terminated in a question, if he asked me about the Mets, I’d pop him in the goddamned mouth. I said “Why not.”

  He slid onto the stool opposite, never taking his eyes off me, asked “Get you a jar?”

  Least he hadn’t called it a brewski. . .yet. His sleeves were rolled down and I couldn’t see his arms, his left wrist had all those multicolored bands they collect, the barman brought him over a bottle of Bud, packet of chips, or crisps as they call them here. No glass, he drank from the bottle, cool as the hippie choker round his neck. He raised the bottle, said “Slainte.”

  I raised my pint, said

  “That too.”

  His mouth had that half smirk going, as if the joke was known to everyone but me, I asked “Help you with something?”

  He drank noisily, I hate that, all gurgle and no finesse, he belched then “Me and me band, we’re going Stateside and I was wondering if you could hook us up with the names of some hotels in the Village, Like Greenwich Village, we’re going to try for a gig at the Fillmore.”

  Good luck

  I said

  “The internet, your best bet.”

  Something dark flitted briefly across his face and he tossed his hair, said “I thought you might know someone who, like, you know, would open some doors for us?”

  He wanted to mind fuck, I’d gone rounds with the best of em and left em in the dumpster,. . .so I could play. . .said “Kid, my age, most people I know, they’re dead.”

  Didn’t faze him, he signaled for another brew, said “Ah, tis a pity but shure, never mind, ’twas worth a shot.”

  The speed hit a wave and I before I knew it, I asked “Show me your right arm.”

  “What?”

  I kept my voice steady, said

  “You’re not deaf, you heard me.”

  He stood up, gave me his tough guy eye, said

  “Jaysus, you’re not all in it, you need to get a grip buddy.”

  He was waving away the barman and the ordered drink, I said “I’m not your buddy.”

  He moved to the counter and joined some gaggle of girls, I could see them glancing over, laughing out loud Man, jeering, that’s all they’ve got, like that rates on my radar.

  I finished my drink, made my way out and grabbed his arm, whispered to him “Hair today, gone tomorrow.”

  I stopped sleeping, I wanted to be ready lest someone leave something at my door, I slugged the Jameson, did some of the speed, read Yeats a lot but he’d stopped talking to me, the music was gone Must have been a week after, I saw a poster for the band. . .Punk, last concert before the American tour In the local hall.

  The way I have it figured, I’ll wait in the alley behind the venue, get him on his way out,. . .No, better, follow him home and do the business Then I’ll get to examine his arm at leisure

  The tattoo’s going to be on there, isn’t it?

  I don’t doubt that other blond punks will show up but I’m real easy The trunk has lots of room

  Maybe I’ll try another poet, you think?

  MONICA J. O’ROURKE

  MONICA J. O’Rourke has published two novels, SUFFER THE FLESH, and POISONING EROS (with Wrath James White). Her short fiction has appeared in more than sixty magazines and anthologies, including Gothic.Net, Nasty Piece of Work, Fangoria, Flesh & Blood, Brutarian, Nemonymous, and Red Scream. She lives in New York City and is working on a new novel.

  When asked about hitmen, Monica replied: “Hitmen appeal to the darker side in all of us. Someone who can so easily and often callously take a human life is terrifying yet somehow appealing. It makes you wonder, as a reader and perhaps more so as a writer, what kind of person is capable of killing for money.”

  Visit her at www.DeadlyMojo.com.

  BLOODSHED FRED

  Monica J. O’Rourke

  IN THE ENVELOPE his client had forwarded to him, along with his usual 20K fee, was an address followed by a single line of instruction:

  150 Beachwood Avenue

  Burnt Hills, New York

  THURSDAY NIGHT, 9:00 P.M.

  No further instructions, which Fred knew meant a single target. Easy job, ordinarily. Except. . .

  Fred grew up in that house.

  Was this some kind of joke?

  He needed to know who ordered the hit, who the target was.

  I’M WALKING INTO a TRAP, he thought as he fixed a cup of instant the following morning. He’d pick up a better cup at Starbucks on his way out of town. For now, taste didn’t matter, just caffeine.

  But he didn’t really believe it was a trap. Besides, who’d set it? His parents? He hadn’t seen them in two decades, and he couldn’t imagine they’d have any reason to set him up. No matter how they might feel about him. He smirked when he thought about his overly indulgent mother and self-righteous prig of a father. Them, set him up? He imagined the world’s most dysfunctional intervention.

  He actually hoped his father did have something to do with this. Fred loved the thought of seeing the old man one last time. Because he imagined his fingers around the old asshole’s windpipe. . .Actually, high-tension wire was much more effective and pretty much untraceable, unlike the telltale signs of prints on someone’s crushed neck. Not that it mattered, since the feds had no clue how to find Fred and didn’t know who he was.

  The rental car, an unassuming Ford something-or-other, rented using fake ID and a fake credit card, brought him to Burnt Hills in a matter of hours. Once there he drove slowly up and down Beachwood Avenue, looking for. . .what? Signs of trouble?

  Signs of anything, actually.

  He was surprised the house hadn’t been condemned by now. It had been a mess when he was a kid and his folks never had the money to fix it. Now, it was more than twenty years since he’d last set foot in this tiny excuse for a town.

  He glanced at the note. Today was Tuesday. It was after dark. He’d run out of reasons to procrastinate. He had an obligation and needed to keep to the timeframe.

  He grabbed the bag containing his small arsenal and headed for his car. He wondered again if he was stepping into a trap but decided he had to take the risk. His parents were assholes, but they weren’t more clever than him. He could handle this.

  WITH HIS GUN DRAWN—a Glock 19 fitted with the silencer he’d made using a Pepsi can, flex coupling, PVC bushing, and a couple of band clamps—he approached the house from the front, entering through the gate long in need of a paint job. There was no need to sneak around the side—no one was on the street. And the closest neighbor lived too far to see the front of the house. He was about to pass the mailbox when he noticed an oversized red envelope sticking out. The name FRED was clearly written across the front. He snatched the envelope and tore it open.

  It contained further handwritten instructions:

  DOOR IS UNLOCKED.

  TARGET IS IN LIVING ROOM.

  WELCOME HOME.

  He could still recognize his father’s pathetic scribble.

  Something Fred had never experienced crept into his stomach: dread. But he couldn’t leave now. He’d never failed to complete a hit, and he had a reputation to uphold. If he bailed now, he’d never get work again.

  At this point, his approach to the house wasn’t even close to stealthy. He sauntered up the path as if he’d just returned home from a date. Not that he’d had many dates. Girls thought he was rather strange and, as one called him, icky.

  The front door was unlocked, as the note had said it would be. He stepped inside the foyer and the door snicked shut behind him. By now he was past pretenses or real concern; this had become too bizarre and he wanted answers.

  “Welcome home, son,” his father called from the living room.

  Fred smirked and shook his head, amazed at the casualness of this situation. He stepped into the living room, the Glock hanging at his side. He expected to see the old man brandishing a shotgun or rifle. Instead, his father sat empty-handed on the sofa.

  “How good to see you,” he said, and Fred recognized immediately where he’d learned his own particular smirk. He’d forgotten how much he emulated his father. And how alike they looked, though he’d imagined that after twenty years things would somehow be different. But not only were their mannerisms similar, so was their receding hairline. Their bodies shared the same lanky lines, same stooped posture. Fred wondered if his father had grown a backbone somewhere along the way but highly doubted it. His passive—and pacifist—father had always disappointed him.

  Fred asked, “Care to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  “Not much. Same old, same old.”

  “Answer my fucking question!” He raised the gun and aimed it at his father. “Or I swear to god I’ll blow your fucking head off right now.”

  Then he regretted his impatience. This could be a setup, and he’d just threatened the old man’s life. He waited a few seconds, expecting to see cops explode from their hiding places to arrest him.

  No exploding cops.

  “So it’s true. You’ve come to kill me.”

  Fred lowered the gun. “So it seems. Those are my instructions. But why you? Why did you hire me?”

  His father sat forward on the edge of the sofa. “Been a long time, Freddie. Miss me?”

  Fred smirked. “I never miss.”

  His father licked his lips and sighed. Held out his hand as if hoping his son would take it but quickly lowered it again to his lap. “It’s been so long. I’ve missed you so much. Please, have a seat.”

  Fred grinned despite the rodent gnawing on his intestines. “A seat. Well sure, what the heck, why don’t I have a seat? And maybe you could get me a beer. And hey, while you’re at it, maybe you can tell me why I’ve been brought here to kill you.” He sat on the chair near the door.

  “You never were patient. Want coffee or something?”

  The Glock resting against Fred’s knee brought him little comfort. “Are you planning to keep making small talk? Or maybe you can give me some answers.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Well,” Fred said, standing. He sniffed once and wiped his palm on his pants. “Anyway, this has been. . .surreal. But I have a job to do. You understand.”

  His father bowed his head. “So it’s true.”

  “What’s true? That I’m here to kill you? You hired me, remember?”

  His father ignored the question. “I was hoping somehow I’d been wrong. And it took years. You know?”

  “No, I don’t know. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I hired a private detective to find you. Your mother and I were worried sick and wanted to find out what happened to you. And finally. . .we learned. Rather, I did.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Your mother died of a heart attack before learning the truth. But I learned what you do. . .” He cleared his throat. “For a living.”

  “So that’s what this is about?” Fred shook his head and snorted. “Do you understand your stupidity? You hired me to kill you. That’s one fucked up way to get an answer.”

  “I know,” the old man whispered. “But that’s not what this is about. Though I am sorry. Somehow I failed you. Somewhere along the way something went bad. But I had to know.”

  “Yeah, well now you know. And you must know I have to kill you.”

  “I beg you not to. Not for me but for yourself. Don’t do this, Fred. You still have a chance—”

  “Shut up!” He raised the gun and aimed it between his father’s eyes. “Don’t beg for your life, old man. It won’t work.”

  “I’m not begging for my life, I’m begging for yours! There’s still a chance for you. You can change things. Please, Fred, listen to m—”

  Fred shoved the gun against his father’s temple and shot him in the head. The old man flew back and hit the sofa, the shocked expression on his face now nothing more than a rictus of cracked bone and shattered dentures.

  Blood splattered Fred’s face and clothing—the reason he rarely fired at such close range. But he wasn’t concerned with appearances, and the silencer—though mostly a misnomer—was still quiet enough to not alert the neighbors. Hopefully. But he was prepared for such an event, should someone come along to investigate. The duffel bag he brought and dropped near the front door was his own Magic Bag of Tricks.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, wiping bits of brain matter off his cheek. “You stupid old fuck.” He spat on the corpse. “This was too good for you.”

  He turned to leave but then stopped. There were still too many unanswered questions. If only he could control his impetuous nature better, he thought. That way he could have tortured his father into giving him answers. Fred would have enjoyed that.

  A search of the house might reveal something.

  He started in the parlor. Searched drawers and shelves, knocking knickknacks and useless framed memories off the bookcase, overturning chairs and cushions. Nothing but dust behind the TV or under the stereo, nothing inside the fake Ming vases his mother had collected.

  He glanced at his father’s corpse, reluctant to go near it, never mind touch it. Not that Fred was squeamish; he just hated the thought of touching him.

  His father was in an almost upright position, and Fred reached inside his robe, separated the lapels. Nothing. He checked the pajamas—also nothing. The body tipped on its side and slumped over, almost falling to the floor.

  Taped to his back was a large manila envelope.

  On the outside was written, simply: FRED.

  He snatched it from his dead father’s body.

  The unsealed envelope bulged with papers. Fred separated the seams and looked inside.

  The first set were medical reports indicating his father was terminal, had been given six months to live before the cancer would claim his life. They were dated three months ago.

  Fred shook his head. Dying?

  The next set of papers was his father’s will. A quick skim showed the beneficiary was the hospital where his father had been receiving his cancer treatments. They would get the house, the car, any money his father had in savings. Nothing for Fred. He rolled his eyes. How fucking typical.

  And the next page showed a nice retirement fund, though it also showed a sizeable amount had been withdrawn just a few weeks ago. The twenty thousand he had paid to hire Fred for the hit.

  This kept getting better.

  But what was Fred’s part in this? His father could have swallowed a bottle of pills or stuffed up the car muffler in the garage. Why involve Fred?

  At the bottom of the stack of papers were two envelopes. On one was written OPEN FIRST. He read it:

  Dear Fred,

  I’m sorry I failed you. Your mother and I raised you the best we could. I guess sometimes that don’t matter. Sometimes the wiring just gets messed up. We blamed ourselves through the years and wondered what we could have done different.