THOSE HE KILLS
By Skip Senneka
Jim Wyman had walked about three blocks down 19th Street away from the dingy inner-city hotel he was staying at when he began to suspect he was being followed. It was his third day at the Eldon and he had begun to think that maybe he’d been misinformed; maybe no one really was trying to kill him. Now he wasn’t so sure of that. About a block behind him on the almost empty street, a couple was sauntering along in the same direction he was going. Heading out for dinner maybe? But it wasn’t the couple that piqued his interest as much as did the solitary figure a few yards behind them.
In the gathering dusk, it was difficult to get a good read on the couple, looks like a man and woman . . . and even more difficult with the lone person following them, but he was pretty sure it was a man. And suspicious, because just as Wyman had reached the first cross street, he’d taken the opportunity to look back up the avenue toward the Eldon as if checking for traffic. He’d been just in time to see the person come around the rear of a car parked across the street from the hotel, cross to the other side, then follow the sidewalk down 19th in the same direction Wyman was going.
Most of the store fronts that Wyman walked past were closed, only a cluttered-looking pawn shop still had its lights on. More than a few of the places were empty with “For Lease” signs plastered on the windows or doors.
Wyman was almost to where 19th Street intersected Groveland Avenue and ended at the Cruz Ravine. At that point a footbridge crossed the ravine and 19th Street continued on the other side. There were no more buildings now, only empty lots lining each side, overgrown with knee-high weeds and littered with trash.
The footbridge was old and had a derelict appearance, but it was still a safe passage. All the same, some chose to walk a block down Groveland to 18th or 20th street where more modern and well-lit vehicle and pedestrian crossings were located. Wyman continued across Groveland, again using the pretense of checking for traffic to get an extended look back over his shoulder, and began across the bridge. All three of the figures were still following down 19th, but they had a block to go yet before reaching Groveland.
Wyman walked along the footbridge without looking back again until he was midway across the five-hundred-foot span, then he stopped and, turning sideways, bent forward as if he were picking up something. He stood, miming a look at his empty hand and getting a good look behind him. The couple was on the bridge and the third figure had crossed Groveland.
Wyman had almost no information on the hitman who was allegedly stalking him—no one did, it seemed. Nobody knew what he looked like, there were only guesses at his age—late thirties—and the name, Frank Miller. Clients contacted Miller through a middleman who was almost as much of an enigma as Miller himself. Some even speculated the “middleman” was, in fact, Miller, and it was just part of a multi-layered ruse to keep the hitman and his clients well separated.
One thing that Wyman had learned about Miller was his modus operandi: he specialized in dispatching his victims in ways that did not resemble a “classic” hit. It would be an accident: a fall down a stairway or from the upper floor window of an apartment or hotel room. It might be a knifing or shooting that seemed to be the result of a robbery or drug deal gone wrong. Or a hit-and-run accomplished with a stolen car that would be discovered a few blocks away from the “accident.” The kills were also accomplished—as far as anyone knew—with never a witness in the vicinity. The good thing about that—as far as Wyman was concerned—was that Miller would have to get in close and Wyman needn’t worry about a rifle shot from 200 yards away taking him out or a bomb obliterating his Thunderbird—and him—when he turned the ignition switch one day. At least, he hoped that was the case.
The buildings and storefronts on the blocks where 19th Street started up again were much less shabby than those on the other side of the ravine. There were three bars on the first block, two on the side of the street Wyman was on and another mid-block on the opposite. The first place was called The Bunker, and with its concrete-block facade and small slit windows it did indeed resemble a bunker. Across the street, Hule’s was emblazoned with bright neon spelling out the name in sparkling green and the words “Bar” and “Grill” flashing alternately beneath. At the far end of the block was the place Wyman was headed for, the lighted, hanging sign above the entrance announcing “Grainger’s Pub”.
Wyman had scouted out all of the bars the day that he’d checked into the Eldon. The Bunker was too close-quartered inside; Hule’s too bright, crowded, and boisterous; Grainger’s was just right, its more spacious interior making surveillance much easier. As he opened the door to the Pub, Wyman gazed back down the street. The couple and the single figure had disappeared, and there was no one else in sight.
Inside, Grainger’s was a straight-up working-class hangout, its bar, with backless vinyl-topped stools, running along one wall and the remainder of the space taken up with sturdy-looking tables and chairs. At the rear of the open room, two doors, identified as “Men” and “Women” respectively, led to the restrooms.
This night there were perhaps a dozen patrons, predominantly male. Four men sat a space apart at the bar, drinking beer from tall mugs and periodically looking up at the lone television plastered on the wall behind the bar where a baseball game was playing. Three of the tables were occupied, one with two men, another with three, and the final one with two men and two women.
As he took in the scene, Wyman immediately ruled out any of the table occupants being Miller. None of the men at the bar were good candidates, either, one being grossly obese, two clearly into their sixties or seventies, and the fourth looking to be in his twenties with a delicate build and a head of hair that nearly reached to his shoulders. No one in the place gave him attention beyond a cursory glance as he entered and perched on one of the stools near the far end of the bar.
The bartender was a mustachioed, beefy looking man, Wyman guessed to be in his late thirties, wearing a green sweatshirt that had “Grainger’s Pub” stenciled in white Old English style lettering across its front. He nodded at Wyman as if he might have recognized him from his previous visits. Wyman ordered a drink and when it came, sipped at it as he joined the rest of the bar crew in gazing up at the TV. He’d nursed his drink down to the halfway point when the front door swung open.
It was a dark-haired young woman wearing black denim slacks and a matching denim jacket over a white tee. Without pausing she made a bee-line for the long-haired young man at the bar, a smile on her face. The young man hopped up to greet her and they hugged. They remained standing while the brunette ordered a beer, and when it was delivered they walked off to claim one of the tables at the far end of the room. The couple had hardly sat down when the door swung open again.
A single man stepped in. Wyman judged him to stand a bit over six feet. His hair was dirty-blond and his face youthful—though Wyman guessed him to be well into his thirties . . . maybe even forty. He had a trim build, but his gray, loose-fitting raglan-sleeve jacket made it difficult to get a true read on his physique. The khaki slacks he wore were equally unrevealing. He strolled to the bar and casually leaned against it on his right elbow, waiting for the bartender. The position was natural, but it also enabled the man to scan the entire room—particularly to the far end of the bar where Wyman sat—without it seeming suspicious.
Wyman felt a slight prickle on the back of his neck. He lifted his glass to his mouth and downed the remainder of his drink in two swallows, then waved the empty glass at the bartender to signal he wanted a refill. The bartender acknowledged him with a nod and finished setting up the drink he was making for the new-comer. When the bartender handed the blond man a highball glass Wyman suppressed a smile, wondering if they might be drinking the same thing.
The blond man took his drink and walked to a table midway across the room. He sipped from his glass and glanced casually around the room, then seemed to focus his gaze on the television set over the bar. Given the distance, Wyman didn’t think he could be making out much of what was on the screen.
The bartender brought Wyman the new full glass he’d motioned for and Wyman took several quick swallows. He was certain now that the blond was Miller and that he was the single walker who’d been behind him on 19th Street. Wyman surmised Miller had given him time to enter the bar and order a drink so it didn’t seem he’d come into the place right on Wyman’s heels. He'd spotted Wyman coming out of the Aldon and now he was close enough to make a positive ID. Wyman had no doubt the man knew what his prey looked like.
Taking two more swift gulps of his drink, Wyman emptied the glass and thumped it down on the bar, signaling the bartender for a refill as he did. He wobbled his way off of the bar stool and moved a bit unsteadily toward the door to the Men’s restroom. The blond gave him no more than a cursory glance as he passed, and Wyman did his best to appear completely oblivious. Once inside the lavatory, Wyman positioned himself in front of the sink. Would Miller try for him here? Wyman didn’t think so, too big a chance of being seen. Wyman ran cold water into the sink and stared down at his wrist watch until the second hand had made three sweeps of the face.
The door swung open and one of the men from the bar entered and made a bee line for the single toilet stall. He didn’t even seem to notice Wyman.
When Wyman walked out into the bar proper, the blond man was gone, his drink glass still on the table he’d occupied, looking only a bit less full than when he’d received it. Wyman returned to the bar and handed the bartender a twenty dollar bill, then made his way to the door.
Out on the sidewalk, Wyman paused a few steps away from the entry and leaned against the building. The street was empty now as it had been earlier. Wyman began making his way back up 19th. Midway in the block, the buildings were separated by a narrow alleyway. It would be a reasonable place for an ambush, Wyman had determined.
As he approached it now, he angled away from the storefronts toward the curb and gazed into the dark passageway as he passed. He couldn’t make out anything beyond ten or fifteen feet into the gloom, but no one rushed out at him. He angled back in toward the wall of the building and paused a half dozen paces past the mouth of the alleyway. He waited a full minute, but no one emerged from the alleyway.
The next danger spot, Wyman decided, would be at the end of the block where someone could be waiting unseen around the corner of the building. But that area was too open, so that seemed unlikely. Across the street there, was the footbridge over the ravine. Another wide open, very visible area. But on the other side were the vacant lots, grown high with weeds. . . Possible.
Wyman continued at a measured pace, taking the opportunity to pause now and then as if looking into the darkened storefronts he was passing, but in fact using the time to scan the street behind him. The street was empty. No people, no cars. It put Wyman in mind of an old western movie with empty streets just waiting to erupt in gunfire. The emptiness here could be construed as eerie, he thought, along with the silence broken only by his own footsteps. It was just as he neared the footbridge over the ravine that he heard a sound behind him.
Two people had stumbled out of the bar called the Bunker, laughing between themselves, and started off down the street away from him. He stepped onto the bridge and had gone half a dozen steps when a man appeared on the far side. Wyman was sure it was a man, but the figure was leaning forward and walking briskly as if he was in a hurry to get somewhere; it was difficult to make out his size. He wore a light tan jacket and a dark ball cap. Not the way the fellow in Grainger’s had been dressed. . .
The approaching man kept up his brisk pace, footsteps rapping out a staccato beat on the bridge deck, and moved slightly to his right, putting more space between them, and Wyman mimicked the move. They passed each other, the rhythm of the footsteps changed, and Wyman heard the scrape of shoe leather on the rough deck of the footbridge.
Instinctively, Wyman dodged left, swinging about as he did, and Frank Miller’s fist flew by his face, knuckles lightly grazing his forehead. Wyman launched himself at the man and they grappled. Miller swung his body with Wyman’s attack, using the momentum to bring them up against the bridge’s guardrail, and for a moment Wyman was staring down into the gorge. Wyman twisted, going with the momentum, brought his hands up under Miller’s arms and pushed up with his legs as if he were going for a basketball layup shot. Miller’s torso was atop the railing, and his hands scrabbled at Wyman’s jacket, his feet kicking wildly in midair. Wyman put all of his strength into one more twist and lift, and Miller went over the guardrail.
Like that, Miller was gone, falling silently down into the ravine. Wyman stood there against the railing, gasping to get his breath back. Not a sound, Wyman thought with grudging admiration. Professional to the end.
Wyman didn’t bother returning to the Eldon. There was nothing of value to him in the room he’d inhabited for the past three days, and at this moment he was much more interested in talking to the man who’d hired Miller to kill him.
——————
It was approaching 10:30 PM when Wyman guided his Thunderbird under the archway entrance to the private park that surrounded the glittering condo tower named Riverwood Plazza. Ovals of light shone out from windows on all twenty-two levels of the building and ground lighting scattered throughout the landscaped park and around the entrance to the tower added to the vibrant affect. Wyman drove past the spacious entry to the building’s lobby and turned off of the curling drive onto a smaller roadway that led to the gated entry to the Riverwood’s underground parking garage. He used the pirated access card he carried to raise the portcullis-like gate and drove down to the guest level. From there, the card gave him access to the bank of elevators, and he ascended to the 21st floor.
Brendon Malone opened the door to his condo unit and looked at Wyman for a moment, searching his face it seemed, before saying, “Good evening, Jim.”
“Bren,” Jim replied, and Malone nodded him in.
The great room of the unit stretched from the doorway to the outer wall, which was largely glass looking out over a balcony toward the river and the sparkling lights of the city beyond. A smooth, jazz instrumental piece drifting out from hidden speakers suffused the room and, to Wyman’s senses, seemed somehow to perfectly match the elegant, strategically placed furnishings.
Malone stood an inch or so shorter than Wyman’s six-foot-two and carried only a few pounds more of flesh than his frame was built for. He wore a red, long-sleeve button-down silk shirt over light tan slacks and in all regards looked as though he belonged in the stylish condo.
“Drink?” he asked Wyman, who had crossed the room to gaze out over the river.
“Absolutely,” Wyman replied, then turned and added, “I bet you never get tired of this view.”
Malone had already moved to the wet bar and was pouring from a bottle of Macallan Scotch into a crystal rocks glass. He carried the tumbler to where Wyman stood and handed it to him.
“I take it you succeeded?”
Wyman nodded. “He’s gone.”
“How’d you do it.”
“He followed me from the Eldon tonight and into a bar down there called Grainger’s. I let him see me down a drink and then walk into the Men’s room looking a bit unsteady. When I came out, he was gone. There’s a foot-bridge there over Cruz Ravine between the Eldon and the bar. He’d gone out and crossed to the other side, then came back at me from that way. He’d reversed his jacket and put on a baseball cap. Made it harder to make him until we met in the middle and he tried to pitch me over the railing—but it went the other way.”
“Wow.” Malone shook his head.
“What did he do?” Wyman asked. Malone didn’t answer, but set his drink down on the high top table that Wyman stood beside and walked across the room and through a doorway there. He returned in a moment with a large Manilla envelope that he handed to Wyman. Wyman set his drink down, opened the envelope, and slid out the single 8 by 10 inch photograph that was inside. He looked at it for close to half a minute without speaking, then slid it back into the envelope.
“She was eighteen and that wasn’t a hit,” Malone said. “She wasn’t the only one. That’s what he did for fun. . . He had to go.”
Wyman sighed and took a sip of the Macallan. “Why didn’t you show me this before?”
Malone looked down for a moment, then back up into Wyman’s eyes. “I thought it might bring on some rage—maybe be distracting.”
Wyman nodded. “Probably right about that.” He sipped some more Macallan. “Well, seeing that, I’ll sleep a lot easier tonight. It was an intriguing exercise, though; how do you hit the invisible hit man?”
Malone snorted a laugh. “And a pretty gutsy solution you came up with! Having me take out a hit on you. . .”
Wyman grinned. “Usually a bit of a surprise for the predator when the prey turns out to be a predator too. But it was you gave me that idea when you said nobody ever gets close to him, except for those he kills.”
Skip Senneka writes poetry and fiction as an avocation and has been published in commercial and literary magazines. He lives in Minnesota but considers himself a citizen of planet Earth and identifies as a carbon-based lifeform, both of which inform his work.
