When tying up loose ends,
make sure the knot is nice and tight.
make sure the knot is nice and tight.
By The Hour by Bill Morgan
The elevator
smelled like stale piss but the old valet holding his bag didn’t seem to notice.
Ellis took in baby sips of air and waited as the ancient cab crept to the third
floor. He nudged past the man into the hallway and took a deep, quiet breath. It
didn’t smell any better.
“Room 306, this
way,” the old man said and turned to the right, down the hall. Ellis
followed.
At the third door,
the valet used the key and pushed the door open before stepping aside to let
Ellis in first. The wallpaper was a floral pattern way past its expiration date
and everything had a jaundiced yellow hue from so many cigarettes smoked or
left forgotten, burning to the butt.
The valet gave him
a smile and reached out his hand. Ellis slipped him a five and followed him to
the door. “Have a pleasant stay, sir,”
the valet said.
It was a by the
hour place, where the only thing to be had was pleasure in one form or another.
Ellis looked out the window and counted the hookers, more volume than quality. He
watched the train across the street make its slow loop into the city. In an
hour, it would come back; his plan was to be on it. He opened the leather
duffle bag and pulled out a pair of thick rubber boots, made to slip over
regular shoes. Below the boots were coveralls and gloves. At the bottom of the
bag was the wrapped M&P .22 compact, with the suppressor beside it. He took
these out and set them aside, sure not to touch either with ungloved hands.
The phone in his
pocket dinged with a text: Five minutes. Will
notify what room after check in.
He set the phone
on the soiled duvet and pulled the gloves on. From the front pocket of the bag,
he took out a small passport case, part of the same parcel as the gun and
suppressor. Inside were the details and a grainy black and white picture; each
already committed to memory. He thought she looked like a nice older woman, the
type who might look out of place here if anyone cared to take a second glance,
but once the money was across the counter everybody became faceless.
The phone went off
again and he reached over to get it. Fourth
floor, room 412.
He dressed in the
coveralls and slipped the boots over his shoes. Once he had tucked the gun away,
he took the gloves off and stowed them in the coverall pockets. At the door, he
waited as two people passed by. They were probably too drunk to remember, but
he was cautious and waited another minute before opening the door.
He took the emergency
stairs up two flights and entered the fourth floor. He counted down the room
numbers until he was standing at 412. Beyond the door, he heard the faint music
of Chopin. He tested the knob. When it turned completely, he let himself in.
She was sitting on
the bed, smiling, when she saw him. He shut the door and turned the lock. The
radio switched to Samuel Barber Adagio for Strings. She raised a glass and
drank the contents down.
“Drink?” she asked.
He declined with a
nod.
She took the
bottle and tipped another drink into the glass. “I really do hate drinking
alone, but I admire a man who doesn’t drink on the job.” The curtains were
drawn but she’d left the window open enough to let a slight breeze in.
Ellis stepped away
from the window.
She sipped her
drink and watched him. When he reached into his pocket, she flinched then
relaxed when she saw the gloves.
“So how does this
work? Do we have a struggle or. . .”
“You get what you
paid for,” Ellis interrupted.
“Of course. Do you
want to know why?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Mister, I’m
paying you to kill me, the least you could do is entertain me.”
Ellis relinquished
and crossed his hand behind him.
“I’m already dying,
caught a bit of the cancer last year and damned if it hasn’t worked its way
into the untreatable spots.” She finished her drink, gave him a weak smile, and
filled the glass again. After another sip, she rested it on her knees.
“Are you married?”
she asked
Ellis shook his
head.
“Good man. Worse
thing I ever did. Thirty years and you know what he’s doing right now? Screwing
an intern at his office. I have the pictures. When I confronted him, the
arrogant shit laughed. ‘Oh, you’re going to be dead in six months anyway, I’m
just getting a head start.’ He’s going to move her into my house, spend my
family’s money on her. No!”
Ellis watched her
finish the rest of the drink in one swallow.
She grimaced, shook
away the alcohol burn, and looked up. “I’m not a murderer, and as much as I
hate him, I can’t imagine him dead. But, sitting in a prison cell wondering how
his gun got into this hotel room, how it was used to. . .Well, that I can live
with.”
Ellis took the cue
and pulled the pistol from inside his coveralls. She let out a little laugh.
“And this. . .” She
waved her hand around the room “. . . is a bit of poetic justice. We used to come
here when we wanted to feel dangerous. He’ll never understand. . .” Ellis
pulled the trigger and the bullet stopped the thought before she finished it.
Per her instructions,
he fired two more shots and exited the room, wiping the knob. When he got back
to his room and undressed, he dumped the coveralls. The gun would find its way
back into the victim’s house.
He looked at his
watch. The train would be along in ten minutes, plenty of time for him to make
it.
