The Kill

Fattie Shaw was eating a cheap-ass meal in a cheap-ass diner and casually pretending to read the newspaper when he saw the man with the yellow hatband and green suit walk past. He walked fast, looked like he was in a hurry. Had to find someone. Meet someone. Pay someone. Kill someone? Shaw slapped more than the meal was worth on the table and walked out of the diner. It was a crowded street, but Shaw could keep an eye on the hatband man pretty was, he was maybe six foot five and stood out pretty well. He was carrying a big briefcase. Probably stuffed with money, Shaw thought. Or H. You never knew with these high rollers. Probably lived pretty damn comfy. The man walked. And walked. Turned. Shaw turned. Pretty easy job, Shaw thought. But then: don’t jinx it Fattie. You’ve seen enough murder mysteries to know that the perfect crime never goes right. The man checked his watch. Seemed relieved. Pace slowed down. He went into the nearest diner. So did Shaw. The man ordered some coffee. So did Shaw. Then Shaw went to the bathroom. Went into the stall, pulled out a revolver and silencer. Spun the silencer on quickly and expertly. Shaw had deft fingers. They almost stroked the revolver as they checked the bullets in it. The hands of an artist. Shaw liked to think of himself as an artist.

Fattie stuck the revolver into the waistband of his pants, flushed the toilet, washed his hands. He buttoned up his suit jacket so no one could see the butt of the gun sticking out. Went back into the diner. Man only half done with his coffee. Slow drinker. Shaw was a fast drinker. They evened out. Finished at the same time. Left.

The following went on for a while. Man didn't seem very conscious of his surroundings, he never noticed Shaw. He turned into an alley where Shaw presumed the man was going to drop off the briefcase. It was one of those dead-end alleys that the heroes always get trapped in in movies. They always make a miraculous escape, though. Not this time, Shaw thought to himself. Not this time.

Shaw anxiously fingered the butt of his gun, stroking it like it was his pet poodle. Shaw peeked into the alley cautiously. The man was facing the dead end. The man checked his watch. The bullet made a hissing noise. The man was dead.
Fattie took the briefcase and walked away. Better get away quick, before someone sees you.

On the subway back to the boss’ house, Fattie wondered who the man was that he had to be killed. What was in the briefcase. What was his name. Things like that. But Fattie kicked it out of his mind. Best not think about details. You’ll slip up, and then it’ll be you they’re gunning for. Twenty years and a couple of jail raps and like hell he was going to mess a job. No use in thinking about it, he thought. I kill. They pay. Done deal.