As the door started to fall inward into his fifth-floor hotel room, Kip flashed on his first murder-for-hire job, or “hit” as people called it in order to detach themselves from the implications. At least, that’s what Kip thought of the term…a euphemism, as if killing people could have a method of hiding its terribleness with a word. This was not the sort of story he was proud of and he was glad that Charlene had asked about his footwear rather than his first paid hit. He thought on it instantaneously because it might be the cause of his impending death.
He’d been following a guy around for two weeks. It was a murderer himself who had put two people under: a husband and a wife who had double crossed him in a land deal. The killer was no professional and he was not lucky, so there was no way he would have gotten away with it even if Kip had not been hired to do away with him. Half-decent police work was already on his trail, but he was two states away by now and a family member of the married couple wasn’t going to let him get away with his deeds for as long as it would take an interstate police investigation to catch him.
This fucker, Mr. Freely, was headed out from his hotel for a walk over a hill, Kip in pursuit, down to a street, which he started to cross, when from around the hill came a speeding bus that could not slow down in time and struck Freely dead. The bus completely ran over his body before it screeched to a stop, the driver frozen, too stunned get out and check on the person he’d ran over yet. Kip came running down the hill, tripped and tumbled to the closest sidewalk, crossed the street and said, “SHIT! Shit, shit, shit!” He looked up and down the street, unsure of what to do either, much like the bus driver. He looked left, right, then pulled out his Glock with the silencer on it from inside his coat and shot the very dead Mr. Freely in the head, concealed the gun back into his jacket and walked away. The driver and none of the passengers got a good look at him and he’d of course told his client that he’d shot Freely in the head before the bus arrived. This was not the sort of story hitmen told each other. This was not the sort of story a guy like Kip would tell anyone, but it was the truth. Killing was a messy business and “clean kills” were seldom, if ever, the case.
Kip panted heavily, then stood up, moving out of the bathroom to sit on the edge of the bed. Looking down at the guy, he was sure he’d seen him before, but not where he’d first laid eyes on him. Maybe Russia, he thought. This guy had curly brownish blonde hair, but was bald on top. It wasn’t as though he went to hitmen conventions, but he was clearly one of their league, and not just because he’d just tried to kill him. He had a neck tattoo that read RKL, or Righteous Killers for Life, a group that Kip knew to only take hits that they felt were for good causes, not merely money. Kip fancied himself to be of the same ilk, but he wasn’t much of a joiner and so hadn’t infiltrated their group or taken the oath. His question now was, Who felt he needed to be put down for an unpardonable sin, like the murder of a family? It was time to wake up Charlene.
Kip resisted his usual urge to take the stairs two at a time to get to Charlene when it occurred to him that the RKL guy could have hit her first before making the trip up to his room. He picked up his pace midstride, still in his extreme heels. By the time he reached her door, Kip was relieved that it was still intact. He knocked loudly enough to wake the dead, bringing a bleary-eyed Charlene to the door, who didn’t even bother to use the bar lock.
“Hey,” she said in a groggy tone, her eyes at half mast, making them look even more Asian.
“Sorry I woke you, but, you have to come up to my room.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Kip, I’m hardly in the mood…”
“It’s not a booty call, Chazz. There’s a dead guy in my room.”
“What?” Charlene’s eyes opened to an almost normal width.
“A guy just tried to kill me and well…didn’t, and just before you passed out you were about to tell me…”
“Tell you what?”
“That’s what I came down here to ask you. Before I tucked you in, you said…”
“You tucked me in? How fucking sweet of you,” she said as she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into her room.
“No, not here for that. Can you come up and help me with this guy?”
“You mean the dead guy? Jesus, Kip. Just a second. Meet you up there.”
-----
Charlene came through the open frame of Kip’s hotel room and Kip motioned her in, looking up and down the hall to see if anyone had noticed, but it was 2:00 a.m. and the tourists and businessmen were apparently all asleep in Toledo.
As Charlene stepped over the side of the fallen door and looked at the dead guy on the carpet, she asked “Know him?”
“Seen him before, but don’t know him. First, help me with the door. Gotta prop it up or anyone can see in.”
Charlene helped him lean the heavy door against the frame, protecting any passersby from seeing the body and their faces.
“Thanks. He’s an RKL. Ever come across them?” asked Kip.
Charlene spied the neck tattoo. “Yeah, but what would one of them be after you for?”
“I was hoping you, who so closely studied my career, would know more than I,” Kip said.
“Yeah, well, other than a couple of mistakes, you’ve been pretty flawless in the righteous kill department, so I don’t know either,” she said.
“Was one of those mistakes what you were about to tell me about down in your room?” Kip asked.
“What I was going to tell you had nothing to do with…well actually maybe it does…I’m not sure.”
“Well, tell me,” Kip said with frustration.
Sheepishly, Charlene muttered, “Sorry. Someone tried to hire me to kill you.”
“What?”
“I turned it down, of course,” she said.
“That’s a relief, but you waited to tell me this until now,” Kip said, gesturing down at the dead guy. “Did they give you a reason?”
“They didn’t, but as you know, they usually don’t. They just send the transaction to your offshore bank account and the details to...”
“They paid you?” Kip was upset.
“No, but they wanted to,” she said, trying to shake off the hangover.
“How much am I worth?” He asked, almost disinterested as he was glad to simply be alive at this point.
“Fifty-thousand.”
“That’s not really that great,” Kip said with a sigh.
“Yeah, too little for me to take it anyways. But an RKL guy took it, so it was personal.” She reminded him.
“Like that makes me feel better. That only means another one will likely be following him. If only I could figure out who I pissed off. Who did I kill or not kill?”
“We have to go through all your kills one by one and figure it out,” she said.
“We don’t have time for that. Someone is going to see this door and us and the dead guy. We’ve got to move him and get out of here.” Kip draped his leather jacket around and over his shoulders, hiding his heretofore naked holster and gun and pulled it on one sleeve at a time, having already put on latex gloves, now ready to move the body. He handed Charlene an extra pair of gloves, which she put on.
“Agreed,” said Charlene. “Dumpster?”
“Dumpster at a restaurant out of town,” replied Kip.
