Now, as a man in my late twenties, I’m still smart. I’m still studious. I still steal cars. But I do a lot of other things, too. I’ve taken people’s lives when I’ve had to. I’ve learned how to fight properly. I’ve done away with gambling. I don’t hire myself out to random criminals anymore. It’s in my interests to be smarter than that now. I contract for organizations or individuals who follow a code—a strict one that means they won’t be sloppy in their business dealings, and I will act with the same discretion.
Discretion isn’t the word that springs to mind as I climb the stairs of the tall building on Seattle’s West Ave. Building number 515. Apartment 12C. I don’t get things wrong, but I still pull out the neatly folded piece of paper from my pants pocket, just to make sure. As I approach the correct floor, the sound of loud music and laughter spills out into the hallways, unmistakably a party of some description. Parties aren’t normally something that go hand in hand with covert criminal activity, but the address on the paper is correct. Awesome. If Jamie were here right now, he’d be lifting one eyebrow at me and giving me that look of his. The one that says he thinks I should be turning the fuck around and heading back home. As I shoulder open the door that gives access to the hallway, I almost do it. Be easy enough to head back the way I came and refuse the work that’s being offered to me.
I’m a stubborn motherfucker, though. I carry on, maybe because my cousin, the blue-eyed devil, hasn’t been picking up my phone calls for the past two weeks. I’m hardly going to act according to what I think he would or wouldn’t approve of if the bastard can’t even pick up the goddamn phone.
The hallway is filled with people, all dressed up and apparently waiting to be let into the apartment at the end of the walkway. I don’t even bother checking; of course it’s the apartment I’m headed for as well. Am I the kind of guy to join the back of a queue? Fuck no. I didn’t come here to party, for starters. And secondly, I have other jobs that need to be completed. Other jobs that have to be tidied up before I can accept the role this guy is offering me, one of which is time sensitive and needs to be finished tonight. I can’t afford to be loitering in hallways with admittedly very attractive, barely dressed women and equally attractive, suited-up guys. I gotta get the fuck out of here. Also, I think I’m probably a little insulted. I haven’t had to attend what might pass for a job interview in a long fucking time. This guy, this Mr. Mayfair, wants to vet me first before he takes me on.
I felt like telling the woman who phoned to go fuck herself. But then she mentioned the compensation for my time and I held my tongue. Ten thousand just to meet and talk is a lot of money.
I shove my way past the people waiting in a disordered line, my back pressed against the wall, headed in the direction of the entrance. People give me sideways looks, not complaining. Just checking me out. Studying me. Wondering who I am. Their eyes feel hungry, like they’re tearing at my clothes. I’m expecting disgruntled comments, but instead I get salacious grins and the tall guy at the front of the queue stepping back so I can line up ahead of him.
“More than welcome to come stand in front of me,” he says, smiling. I recognize the tone of his offer immediately. He’s hitting on me. I make a point of not flirting with men or women I know nothing about, especially when they’re waiting to gain entry into what I’m beginning to suspect is a sex club.
“You’re okay, man. I’m not hanging around.”
“Shame,” the tall blond guy sighs. The woman on his arm, also tall, with raven-black hair and a slash of crimson lipstick pouts, too.
“Yeah. Real shame.”
I’m not in the habit of letting people read my reactions. Ever. On the outside I’m maintaining my blank expression, however on the inside I’m allowing myself a most evil smirk. “Maybe next time,” I tell them, sliding past until I reach a tall, burly guy in a suit at the front door.
He assesses me with cool, quick eyes, getting a read on me pretty quick. He knows I’m not here to fuck. I’m here to see if I can fuck things up on behalf of his employer. “Mr. Aubertin?” he asks. “Thank you for coming. Please… if you’ll follow me.”
Strange to hear such niceties as please and thank you coming out of the man’s mouth. He looks like he mixes cement in that massive barrel chest of his. He’s gotta be in his late fifties at least. Turning away from the gathering crowd, he ushers me inside the apartment. I can still feel the intense gaze of the tall guy and his femme fatale partner burning into my back as the guy pulls the door closed behind us.
“This way, please, Mr. Aubertin.”