Louis and I had, for the most part, a respectful relationship prior to the time he'd visited my old Mark Snow apartment. Part of it was that I gave Louis the right amount of respect, which mainly meant I never lowered my guard around him. For his part, Louis recognized that I knew he was dangerous, and I was a touch faster and perhaps more skilled than he was.
So I guess that Louis living in a cheap hotel room made perfect sense, in his own way. The hotel, one of those down on your luck places that catered to illegal aliens that would cram a family of eight into a two person room, desperate to make a new future for themselves in a new country. I had to respect them, considering the guts it took. Or just down on your luck losers who usually checked out via gunshot or hanging rather than by credit card,. The hotel took payment in cash only, paid a week in advance.
Louis had what I guess you could call the penthouse, if a flop house like that could have anything that could be considered a penthouse. The top floor, due to the manager's apartment being next door, had fewer rooms which were just a little bit larger than the normal spots. Still, the bed was sagging, and the walls rattled with the scratching and clawing of rodents as I stepped through the window. I was quite sure that below me, in the rooms below, there were more than a few mothers who were engaged in their nightly battles with the rats and the cockroaches to keep them from feasting on their babies.
To be honest, I was tempted to burn the whole damn place down after pulling the fire alarm. The only thing stopping me was I knew that for many of the other residents of the hotel, the only other option was living on the streets, or in the netherworld of the homeless that congregated in the storm drains and sewers. I'd been down there on missions for Sal, and I never wanted to go there again. It was the sort of place you carried a gun for protection from the wildlife, or at the minimum a machete.
If Louis the Frog had one indulgence, it was scotch whiskey. He was practically a connoisseur, and had in fact gathered bottles from every medal winning producer, from Scotland to North America to the more recent Japanese winners. Still, he had a favorite, forty year old Glenfarclas Scotch at over four hundred dollars a bottle. A single malt, he had once told me in an unexpected moment of introspection that he never went to bed without having a glass.
I found his bottle, which was only had a few shots left in it. Perfect, I didn't want somebody killing themselves by accident after Louis.
Taking the vial from my small pack, I emptied the contents into the scotch. I had crafted it from some of the nastier little tricks that I had been taught during my so-called education as a hitman, and knew that the flavor of the Glenfarclas would cover the chemicals I had used. The poison itself was totally colorless and odorless. I had, in fact, learned the basic recipe from a Japanese teacher of mine, whose family had developed it for mixing into Japanese shochu rice wine during the feudal period. With a few tweaks, I'd made it more powerful, and knew that as soon as Louis took even a small drink, he'd be counting the minutes to his death. There was no cure.
Still, I wanted to make sure, so I took up a position on the roof across the street. Using a periscope, I was able to see Louis' room while still staying behind the low brick wall that ringed the roof. I stayed there for hours, making sure to move around enough to keep myself from getting stiff, as the night wore on. Louis was a night owl for sure, and it was nearly three before he came home.
He was dressed in his trademark coat and fedora, which kind of made him look something like a comic book character or something. He just needed to wear crimson lensed glasses and be bald to really cross the line from frightening to nightmare inducing, in my opinion.
Taking off his coat, he hung it up on the hook behind his door along with his hat, rolling his shoulders. Without taking off his jacket, he immediately went to his scotch, pouring himself half a tumbler, no ice. I watched, a grim smile on my face as he tossed it back in two swallows, sealing his fate. Finding his bottle empty, he went to his cabinet and pulled another out. He cracked the seal and was pouring himself another tumbler before the first tremors hit his hand, and the rim of the bottle chattered against the glass.
Louis set the bottle down and looked at his hand, before looking down at his feet, which I was sure were also tingling and losing sensation. Staggering back, Louis tried to go to the door of his place, but his legs lost all feeling before he could reach the knob, and he collapsed on the floor. I turned away, not needing to see anything else. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my old cell phone, the one that Mark Snow had used, and dialed a number I hadn't used in a very, very long time.