Lydia

Even still I’m not quite sure exactly what about her caught my eye. Simply given a perfunctory glance, I probably would have passed over her but for one thing. I can’t truly say that she stood out to me, for she wasn’t one that you might particularly notice. However, there was an aura, if you will, a vibe. Simply put, I felt at ease around her.

She was a petite girl, a full head or more shorter than myself, slender, but not skinny. She had an iridescent shade of hair. The kind that looks brown in some light and auburn in others. She didn’t posses that ravishing quality of beauty that some women do; but she was by no means unattractive. With a confident stance and frequent smile, she struck me as someone comfortable with themselves as well as others.

I watched her for a while as she served the other customers. Actually quite graceful as she bustled around pouring coffee and taking orders, I caught myself smiling at her when she arrived at our table to take our orders. Her nametag glinted in the sunlight shining through the window by our booth. 2 years of service it proclaimed; just beneath her name. Lydia, a good name. She finished scribbling our orders and jammed the ticket into her apron pocket, hurrying off. Fancying myself quite the amateur sleuth I made myself a mental note to come back again and watch her more. Then I remembered why I was there.

But what I really noticed about Lydia was her eyes. They were large and expressive, and I felt that if I were to gaze deep enough into them I would see a reflection of my soul. Her eyes were an indescribable color, some part brown, some part green, and some part yellow. All mixed together in a glorious sunburst of color. I now know that the correct term for her shade of eyes is ginger. But at the time all I could think was how splendid they were.

She returned with our orders now and flashed a smile. Her eyes twinkled. She turned to pour my coffee and I noticed pleasantly the way her blouse clung to her chest. Leaving us to our breakfast I peered through the blinds at the early morning streets. The last cold tendrils of winter were slowly releasing their grasp of the city. Spring was on its way. I took a bite of my eggs. Cold. Oh well, I guess that’s what you get for ordering a buck fifty breakfast. Looking out the window once again I decided that I was no longer hungry, and my mind started to wander.

My mother always said that the eyes are the windows to a person’s soul. And while I never particularly bought into that, having seen Lydia’s eyes I could see why someone would think such a thing. There was something about the way that they sparkled that made me feel as though she knew something I didn’t. That she had in her possession some grand secret and was waiting for just the right moment to share it with the world.

At this point I suppose I had resumed watching Lydia again, and was beginning to stare. That’s when my partner elbowed me. Caught off guard, I jumped. Regaining my composure I shot him a look. Chuckling, he glanced around to get his bearings. “It’s time,” he said, nodding at the clock on the wall. He placed a twenty on the table, plenty to cover the bill and an ample tip.

We stood, and exited the booth, heading for the door. Out of the warmth of the restaurant, the crisp morning air caught my breath and I paused. Looking to my right I could see the street as it disappeared into the horizon. I tilted my head up and closed my eyes, seeing Lydia’s nametag dance in front of my eyes. I took a deep breath. Glancing at my partner I nodded, smiling. Stepping into the street, we blended into the early morning rush of pedestrians on their way to work.

Speaking of work, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Tres.

I’m a hit man.

Hit men. The newspaper said there were probably four of them. I chuckled. Four. Next it’ll be six. My partner and I must be some awfully big men. I laughed at my own joke. All it really takes is one man. One man and a briefcase full of methyltrinitrobenzene. Toss in a timer to boot, and BAM, one less mom and pop diner to give my boss grief. Actually the only real reason we use two is cause of the buddy system. One man does the job. The other is there to keep him calm. Be a decoy if necessary. To do what it takes to make sure that the first gets the job done. That’s my job. I’m man number two.

My partner, Glen, he’s man number one. He does the job. I’m just along for the ride. Five years my senior, Glen has been with our boss long enough to be trusted. Me? Well, I’m working on it. We work for one of the more prominent “businessmen” in the Midwest, one mister Isaac. Isaac is his first name. Apparently very few people know his last name. The majority of those that do wish they didn’t. I decided it wasn’t worth knowing, so I didn’t bother to ask. Just so long as the money keeps coming in.

I turned and gazed out the window of my apartment. The sun was beginning to slide beneath the horizon. You could see the first few stars beginning to twinkle. It reminded me of Lydia’s eyes. I closed my eyes, letting my mind drift. Recalling images of the previous morning. In my mind I saw her with her nametag, vigilantly boasting of her two years of valued service and loyalty to her boss. She smiled, and her eyes shone. Poor Lydia. Poor sweet Lydia with her nametag and pot of coffee. I prayed she was all right. An exercise in futility, I’m sure.

But I hated to think otherwise. I attempted to imagine the explosion. I envisioned the little diner, peaceful and serene one moment, a raging inferno the next. A white-hot ball of fire engulfing everything in its reach. I saw the smoldering ashes and smelled cordite. I watched as officers on the scene removed the remains of what was once an expensive briefcase. The same briefcase that Glen “forgot” beneath our table. I glimpsed the weeping families of the victims, and I wanted to apologize. To say I was sorry, I was just doing my job. And I saw a melted gold plastic nametag. Lydia, it said, two years of service. My mind reeled. Hit man, I told myself. I’m a hit man. I was just doing my job. No different than the dozens of times I’ve done it before. That’s what I do.

Actually I don’t like to refer to myself as a hit man. A thug, maybe. Even a lackey. Not a hit man. Truth be told, I suppose I’m a jack-of-all-trades. Creative problem solver. That’s me. You have an issue, which can’t be resolved within your means, than I’m your man. Have a load of guns or coke you need smuggled into the country, call on me. Assassin for hire, gunrunner, drug dealer. That’s what I do. All at the request of Mr. Isaac, of course. You have a problem, you call him, and he calls me. Problem solved. For a price. The poor fellow who ran the diner found himself on the bad end of a deal with Mr. Isaac. Not being an especially tolerant man he called on Glen and myself to make an example of the diner. Problem solved. Issue dealt with.

Hearing the chime of the clock on the wall I re-focused my attention on the paper in my lap. Picking it up, the headlines jumped at me.

Diner Explosion, Twenty-Three Dead.

Arson Suspected. Police Have

Leads on Four Hit men Possibly Involved.

Hit man. That’s me. I closed my eyes and dozed. In my dreams I saw Lydia. She smiled. Her eyes tell me that she has a secret. What is your secret, dear sweet Lydia, I wonder. In one hand she holds a pot of coffee. In the other, a ticket. The light from somewhere glints off her nametag. Two years of service it shouts at me. Two years of service.

Two years of service. One less than the amount of time I’ve been with Mr. Isaac. It makes me wonder what the last three years of my life would have been like had I not become acquainted with him. Perhaps I would be the one pouring coffee in a small diner. Wearing a gold nametag with the words “Three Years of Service” inscribed on it. Smiling brightly and asking a customers seating preference. But that’s a moot point now. I’m not a waiter in some small diner. I am a well-regarded business associate of the afore mentioned Mr. Isaac. Business associate. That’s what he would call it. Nothing more. Nothing less. He’s the boss. I’m the employee. He says jump, I ask how high. That’s the way it is and has been for the past three years. You don’t like it, too bad. Deal with it.

I lean against the bar and take in my surroundings. Glen and I came here at the beckon of Mr. Isaac. To my left I can see out the windows and into the cool night. A brightly lit sign tells me that they serve Budweiser here. Budweiser, king of beers. I don’t care for it. Tastes like old piss to me. I’m more of a Coors kind of guy. Tap the Rockies, man. To my right I can see into the bar. A few hanging lamps dimly illuminate the table where Glen sits, listening to the instructions of Mr. Isaac.

I can feel the hard surface of the bar against my back. An ancient jukebox plays a lonesome tune. I can’t place it. I sigh, returning my gaze to the table where Glen and Mr. Isaac sit. I watch Glen’s lips move, and he stands, indicating that their conversation is over. Stepping towards me he buttons his jacket and gestures at the door. “The game is afoot, Watson” he quips. I smile. Indeed, the game is afoot.

Leaving the bar behind us we head for the bottoms in Glen’s blue Nova. He drives and I watch out the window as buildings speed by. The clock on the dash indicates that it is twenty past four in the morning. Doesn’t feel like it. But then, I haven’t really slept in the past three and a half days. I’m reminded of a movie that was out a few years ago. It’s about these two guys who are hit men. All the clocks in that movie were stuck on four twenty. Some obscure drug reference, I guess. But these two guys are just so cool. It’s like nothing gets to them. They talk and joke throughout the entire movie, like they were best friends on their way to some social function. They kill, and they kill, and they kill again. And they don’t even blink. Like it’s as normal as taking a piss when you get up. It’s a good movie, but I laugh every time I see it. They make it seem so easy. So simple. Personally, I can hardly bring myself to look at Glen, much less talk to him. Especially when we’re on the job. And every time we kill I feel like a little bit more of my humanity slips away, till someday I’ll have become this ruthless monster with no morals and no dreams except to destroy.

And I fear that when that day comes I wont have the will to end it all then and there. Like a man. Sometimes I think about leaving it all behind me and starting over. But I know it could never be that easy. Mr. Isaac would never let it be that easy. No one just up and leaves his little cabal like that. I’ve known one or two of the unfortunate souls who tried. Needless to say I don’t know them anymore. No, I’m better off just dealing with the cards I’ve been dealt.

My mind turns to Lydia again. It saddens me. The bittersweet irony is that had we been in different circumstances she was just about exactly the kind of girl that I would date. How I wish I could change the past. How I wish that I had never heard of the man Mr. Isaac and his need for an associate with my particular skills. Someone quick on their feet with a good head on their shoulders. I think of my mother, six years in her grave, god bless her soul. She would have hated who I’ve become. It goes against everything she taught me. She wanted me to do something with myself. To be somebody. Like dad. Maybe be a marine, like dad. But mother, I think, I am somebody. Look at everything I have. An apartment in the nicest part of the city. The best clothes money can buy. And a car that gets all the chicks attention. I’m a successful man, just like you wanted. But inside I feel it. Something gnawing at my innermost being, and I know. I’m a fraud. A clever hoax created only to fool myself. God I hate being insightful. I tear those thoughts from my mind. Hit man, I tell myself. I’m a hit man. A successful business associate of Mr. Isaac. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Rounding a corner I see that we’re there. Pulling in behind the building, Glen kills the engine. Closing the car door behind me, I see that we’ve parked behind a large warehouse near the river. Nice, I think to myself, it’s like a scene out of a lousy mobster movie. According to Glen we’re here to receive a shipment of Phenylethylbarbituric acid, or Phenobarbital, from Mr. Isaac’s supplier. Pretty routine I suppose, except we don’t usually rendezvous at the storage location. Less chance of problems that way. Oh well, I don’t question his decisions. I like having both my kidneys. I’m just starting to get nervous when the loading dock door opens.

A small man walks out. He looks Mexican. I don’t recognize him. But then, I don’t know a lot of Mr. Isaac’s suppliers. He says nothing, but simply stares at us. I suppose having satisfied him that we’re friends he returns to the door, returning a minute later with three large trash bags. Each one is completely full with Phenobarbital. He looks at us again, and his eye twitches. Something’s not right here, I think to myself. Suddenly the man’s face explodes outwards as a shot rings out of the empty doorway. Bits of bone and brain matter spray my chest. Three more shots exit the doorway as the man collapses and leaves a sickening mess on the concrete dock. I’m paralyzed. I can’t think. My mind whirls. Shots. Phenobarbital. Glen.

My world explodes as something fast and loud notches my ear. It’s an ambush, I think. A ruse. Someone who has a reason to want us not to complete our transaction. A rival dealer. My mind skips to Glen. Glen. Where is he? I’m running, and calling his name. Wait. I hear someone. It sounds like Glen.

“GLEN!” I call. “Let’s go!”

I’m startled by a voice from behind me. I whirl around to face the barrel of Glen’s nine millimeter. He’s standing behind it, leering at me.

“Oh Tres”, he says, “Why couldn’t you have stayed home tonight? It should never have come down to this.” I was stunned. What was going on? My mind searched for an answer.

“You know”, he continued, “I loved you like a brother. Always protected you. But I could never manage to sway your loyalty, could I? We could’ve been rich together. Lived like kings. Anything you wanted, it could have been yours. But, no, you wouldn’t believe that Mr. Isaac would let anyone live after leaving him. Maybe it’s time you saw the truth. That Mr. Isaac isn’t the be-all and end-all in this world.”

What was he talking about? Then it hit me. Glen was doing it. He was defecting. Leaving Mr. Isaac for someone who could offer him more. Grasping at the bigger better deal. A second man stepped out of the shadows. A lit cigarette drooped from his lips. He held a sub-automatic handgun. Pretty standard. But powerful. He pointed it at me.

With a hoarse voice he spoke. “Hello, Tres. I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances. But I’m sure you understand. Your friend here has made the wise decision of leaving your Mr. Isaac for someone who truly has power. Isn’t that right, friend?” And he turned to Glen. Glen smiled. It scared me somehow. Returning his eyes to me he chuckled. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have business to attend to.”

Leveling the barrel of his gun at my forehead I braced myself for death.

Wheeling around he pulled the trigger. I heard a voice. A scream. Glen’s scream. The back of his head opens up and sprays blood and gore into the early morning air. Firing again, Glen’s jaw disappears in a mess of bone and flesh. Falling to the ground, his body makes an ugly thump. I can hardly believe my eyes. He’s dead. The man who was the biggest part of the last three years of my life has just been brutally murdered right before my eyes. Turning to me the man with the cigarette smiles.

“I’m sorry, my friend. Hate to burst your bubble, but there isn’t anyone with more power than Mr. Isaac. And he does not tolerate disloyalty. In any form. I’m sure you’d do the same if you were in his position. So you’ll have to pardon the means with which he display’s his displeasure, because when you’re that powerful you pretty much have license to do as you please. Pleasant dreams, friend.”

And he points that gun at my head. A thousand things go through my mind. Glen. Glen is dead. All because he had the balls to do what I could never bring myself to do. And I’m next. Phenylethylbarbituric acid. Phenobarbital. Four twenty.

Lydia. Oh Lydia. I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?

A loud noise shakes my skull. And it feels like my head is exploding. Darkness is pulling my thoughts. Pulling them down to a dark place. A place of no return. Thoughts collide. Mother. She’s dead. Shot? No. Glen’s been shot. Spring is coming. Coming to get me. She’s coming. Lydia. Lydia and her secret eyes. The stars are like her eyes. And her coffee. Lydia and her nametag. Gold plastic. Lydia. Gold plastic. Melted. Melted gold plastic. Two years of service. Two years of service. Two? Three? Three years of service.