Room 409 had an identical layout to his fifth-floor room. This was only important because the desk was to the left of the open door and upon following her in, which he’d insisted upon, he had an unimpeded view of her computer, and clippings she’d made about him. Being someone else’s “mark” for the first time in his life was disconcerting, mainly because he knew the hitman, woman, or perhaps what he could only describe as “hit person” more personally than he would have liked. Her hair was ear-length now, wavy and brown. He liked it, but not as much as her high school look. Her almond-shaped eyes were as captivating as ever.
Looking at all the images, Kip said, “Do you know about L.A.?”
“Of course.”
“So, then you know, I had cleared the mansion’s premises, run background checks on the guests, caterers, and anyone who might be there during the all-night party before allowing them to return, but the kid about to turn eighteen had a best friend with a secret.”
He left out what else she surely must know. That there had been another party involving roofies and a girl who was only sixteen. Rape at any age is unforgivable, but especially one where chemicals destroyed any ability to fight back. The rapist, at eighteen, knew precisely what he was doing. The girl had told someone in confidence the next day. The birthday boy was oblivious to his best friend’s behavior even though he knew he had a hard-on for the underage girl. Kip’s charge hadn’t been at that previous party, but it didn’t matter on that night in L.A., at least not to the other hitman.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m aware.”
Kip continued, “And you know that as the blood poured from the newly minted eighteen-year-old’s chest, I tried to place pressure on the wound, but it was coming out too fast for anything to have stopped the inevitable. I had a responsibility to protect the kid and the guests, but I failed. Not long after, the intended recipient of the bullet, the rapist’s best friend, got a matching one of his own. He was injured, but an ambulance saved him temporarily only to die of a second shot before he reached the hospital. The hitman had to have been inside the ambulance, for, as I found out later at the ER of the hospital, he was shot at point-blank range, and the EMT inside the vehicle was knocked unconscious, remembering nothing of the intruder.”
“I know,” said Charlene.
“All of this initially left me baffled. Who would want to off an eighteen-year-old? The girl was pregnant, so a voice told me on the other end of the phone call was a female voice. It was familiar but until now, I couldn’t place it. ‘It’s your job to know who you’re protecting.’ It was your voice.”
“Yes, it was me,” she admitted without emotion. Like she was waving a bottle of fine French perfume, Charlene slowly dangled a bottle of Gentleman Jack off the nightstand nearest the desk and in front of Kip, saying, “It’s five o’clock.”
“I know,” said Kip, “But not until we’ve sorted some things out.”
“Like what?” asked Charlene with nonchalance.
“Like, for starters, what do I call you? Chazz? Charlene? Victor?”
“Oh nonsense, Kip, I never go by Victor without facial hair.”
“The hotel register lists you as Victor.”
“I checked in with my Hercule Poirot mustache,” Charlene said with a smile.
“Are we going to play Cabaret, or are you going to give me your preferred name today?”
“Charlene is fine; you’re an old friend, after all.”
“Friend?” Kip said with a pointed question mark. He eyed up the pictures of him wearing shades with and without his weapon drawn. This was the image of his private life up to that point. He took a final pause at an image of him standing over the body of the new and forever permanent eighteen-year-old who met an early death no thanks to Charlene.
“I’d be lying if I said I was sorry about L.A.,” she said.
“The kid’s friend was your mark, not my kid,” said Kip, turning his entire body towards her as she sat down on one of the queen beds.
“I had to take the shot. Your birthday boy moved at the last moment.”
“They were kids,” Kip said. “Even if you could justify taking the job because of what the bastard did, there would have been plenty of opportunities later where they weren’t so close to each other. And, hey, how the hell did you wind up a hit…a hit…”
“Woman?”
“If that’s what you prefer,” said Kip with a touch of exasperation.
“I could ask you the same question,” said Charlene.
“Yeah, well I asked first and you took out my kid, so I deserve that at least.”
“That’s fair,” she said. “Wasn’t a kid, though.” She crossed her legs at the thighs, her long peach-colored skirt wrap was tied tightly in front, revealing nothing above her mid-calves. Under the shoulder holster was a white polo shirt and a silver necklace with an iridescent butterfly pendant made of abalone shell pieces that gave it a rainbow effect as it hit the light.
Kip remembered the jewelry. One summer after she returned from a vacation to Hawaii with her family it appeared. He thought it strange she should still be wearing it at her age, especially when assassins were not known for hanging onto keepsakes or anything from their past. A reference to a past that might lead to the early deaths of people she cared about. In addition to the pendant, he noted a new piece strung around her neck on a chain that looked like a white lustrous vial of some sort with a screwed-on lid and he wondered what was in it. This was more distracting for him than the butterfly, since he’d been familiar with it.
It was clear that Charlene was parting her lips to start her story, but he stopped her, “Wait. I need to know before we ‘catch up’ so to speak. Do you intend to kill me after this?” He swept the air with the back of his hand in the direction of the numerous photos and clippings.
“I don’t think so,” she said, “And I’ve been studying you.”
“No kidding,” he said.
“I know that you used to be a bouncer. And that young toughs liked to hassle you after work. And that you moved to Texas for the lenient gun laws, like getting a legitimate concealed carry permit. I know about all your jobs, including Florida,” said Charlene.
“Oh, then you know what I do isn’t murder.”
Kip had done a job in Miami two years ago for a wealthy widower to “put down” a real despicable character who’d inadvertently killed a friend of the widower from neglect in a nursing home. In fact, this “caregiver” hadn’t been doing his job for a decade, and this was perhaps the ninth resident in as many years who’d died needlessly. It wasn’t just carelessness; it was greed. The man took on too many patients with too few nurses, and when they needed time off, he threatened to fire them or replace them, causing them to be constantly drained and sleep-deprived. Medications were mismanaged, feedings were forgotten. By the time the widower found his friend, he was too emaciated to speak and had died shortly thereafter. The administrator/CEO of the live-in care facility (one of half a dozen in a chain with a name like Breezy Brooks Manor) had a villa in South Beach and was watching a servant polish his Lamborghini when Kip decided it was the perfect time to “take out the garbage”. For that’s what he was…and that didn’t really count as murder.
“Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll explain all this.” She waved her arm at the walls she’d decorated with his face. There was a twist in the corner of her mouth that resembled a frown.
Kip pulled out the office chair from the desk, turned it around to face the bed and Charlene, and sat slowly. He cautiously adjusted his gun for comfort in the back of his waistband, and Charlene took notice. She waited for his hand to return empty to his lap before she began.
“You see, after L.A. when I realized it was you after all this time, I had to know if you were still the guy I thought I knew, minus the killer part, of course,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“Of course,” said Kip without a smile. “And your verdict?”
“It’s still you in there, as far as I can tell. And I don’t think you’d protect a rapist, if you knew he were one, like your charge’s fucked up friend.”
“Thank you,” said Kip, as if vindicated.
“But you really should have known,” she said, as if to justify her past behavior.
“It happened two days before the party, or so I later learned,” said Kip defensively, “and the girl only told one person. The kid hadn’t bragged about it to anyone, certainly not the kid I was there to protect.”
“You were there to protect the guests, too,” Charlene said with a scowl on her face that made it look ugly, which it was far from ordinarily.
“I’m sorry, alright. I should have known, but I didn’t. I didn’t screen friends of friends who were not to be at the party. I did from then on out, though. You can rest assured of that.”
“I noticed,” she said. “Your operation was much tighter after that party’s fiasco.”
“Thanks to you,” he said it so stoically that she wasn’t sure if it was said with sarcasm or gratitude.
“Yes, I suppose,” said Charlene.
“So, you’re not going to,” said Kip with more of a statement than a question.
“No. I’m not here to kill you,” she replied, smoothing the front of her skirt.
“Then why are you here?”
“Oh, Kip, you always were to the point. No use for ambiguity. I love the shoes, by the way.”
“These aren’t shoes,” he said, the right corner of his mouth lifting.
“I know, Versace custom stilettos, and damn, if I were more into elegant ladies’ attire I might ask to see if they were my size.”
“They aren’t for ‘ladies’ either.”
“Kip, I’m here because I’ve missed you,” she said with a happy gasp. “You’re so…you.”
Kip smiled fully now and said, “And you’re so, you, Chazz.”
After a pause she said, “I always loved it when you called me Chazz,” said Charlene.
“I know,” Kip said. He stood up slowly, walked over to the bed and sat down next to her.
“They do suit you, though.” She looked down at his heels and wrapped her left arm around his shoulder. “They sure beat those clunky black cowboy boots. And damn did they stink,” Charlene said with a snorty laugh.
Now Kip laughed. “But really, my darling, you must tell me why you would get into my line of work, I mean, if it even came as a choice to begin with.”
“I’m coming to that,” she said. “Just give me a hug.”
They embraced, at first gently, and then like two men having a bromance over watching Gladiator in their man cave, having consumed too much grilled meat during its viewing. It was a truly magnificent hug, and both of them agreed it’d been too long.
“I think I’m ready for one,” said Kip, indicating the fifth of whiskey sitting on the nightstand nearest Charlene.
“Okay,” she said and grabbed the glass of ice she had ready for him. She poured it unmixed over the ice and handed it to him.
He waited to take a sip. Charlene walked over to the desk, where there sat a beige summer handbag, and she very slowly withdrew a couple of mini-bar-sized shots of Grey Goose vodka and poured them into a second glass of ice that had been sitting the whole time melting next to the purse.
“I would get fresh ice,” she announced, “but I’m just going to add soda.” She cracked open a sugarless mini-can of soda water and poured it over the vodka and ice that melted rapidly. Walking back to the bed with her short glass, she held it out to Kip.
They clinked glasses saying, “Cheers!”
And Charlene said, “To new beginnings,” as she sat back down.
“To new beginnings.” Kip chimed in.
They both took a swig. Kip always limited his indulgence to two 1.5 oz shot drinks per night, one cube each time. Tonight, as “Chazz” had made the drink, he would let his routine slide. She wasn’t known for being precise in many things, which is why he was all the more curious as to why she’d go into a profession so exacting as his. He was about to find out.
