The iHit
Crace
looked around the half empty diner, pulled the yellow nylon baseball cap off
his head, then ruffled his $100-dollar haircut for the fifth time in the last
hour. He sighed, looked at the cap, frowned at the smiling Mickey that was
beaming up at him, then tossed it onto the table.
"You
want more coffee?"
He
looked up at the Filipino waitress and shook his head.
"No."
"The
boss say you gotta order food or you gotta go soon, you taking up space for
eating customer."
She
tapped her pencil tip on the pad, like she was practising her full stops, then
put all her weight onto her left leg causing her right hip to pop out.
"I'm
waiting for someone, I can't order till they get here."
"You
or Mickey gotta eat, or else you gotta go wait somewhere else." She pointed
at Micky Mouse on the cap with the pencil, and then looked back at Crace.
"Just
coffee." Crace looked away from her and out the window.
"No
coffee... food."
"Jesus
Christ, the place is half empty, what difference does it make?" Crace
held up his hands towards the empty seats around him.
"Boss
say you wanna wait, you gotta eat, that the rule,” she swapped hips, and tilted
her head the other way.
Crace
dropped his hands back to the table top, stared out the window for a second,
and then whipped out his wallet from the back pocket of the cheap jeans he was
wearing. He pulled out a fifty and tossed it on the table in the vague direction
of the waitress.
"You
tell the boss I just turned his shit-bird diner into a waiting room."
The
waitress picked up the fifty dollars and slipped it under her pad faster than a
card sharp on a riverboat. She smiled, flashing her tiny white teeth at
him for the first time since he'd been there.
"You
want coffee now?"
"Fuck
off."
Evening
was sauntering past the window and pretty much had the street to itself. The
Lower Manhattan winter hadn't quite blown in, and a few of the tooth pick trees
still had some leaves holding on for dear life. It was starting to rain and
Crace wished he'd been allowed to drive across town instead of having to get
the bus.
Whoever
had set the rules had obviously never waited at a bus stop.
Screw
them, he was going to get a cab home.
He promised himself a drink of something
strong as soon as he made it back to the apartment, unless that bitch was still
there. If she was home he'd go to a bar.
Yeah,
a bar would be good.
Maybe
he could get a girl?
He
remembered what he was wearing.
Shit.
He
looked down at the "I love New
York" tee, and ten dollar jeans he'd been given to wear. Across the
seat, up by the window, was the Planet Hollywood jacket.
He
looked like a tourist.
He
hated tourists.
He
stared at Mickey and longed for his usual designer brands and smart suits. He
checked the $10 watch he'd been made to buy. Maybe he’d have time to stop at a Hugo Boss to pick up
something to wear on his way back across town.
Crace
picked up the coffee mug and felt a chill in the palm of his hand.
"Can
I get some warm coffee here?" he shouted holding up the mug.
The
waitress glanced up from her magazine by the register.
"It
brewing Mickey, be there soon."
Crace
let the mug bang back onto the table.
Fifty
bucks for four cups of shit coffee, he felt like killing this bitch as well.
"Ten
more minutes and I'm outta here."
He whispered it softly to nobody but
himself, and then turned back to the window to look at the rain that was now
falling fast and hard.
He
saw a pigeon. It was stood in the road, wet, resigned, looking like it had
missed its bus and was waiting for a taxi. It’s oil coloured feathers dripped
with the rain, and it looked like the only thing on earth that was having a
worse day than him.
"I
know how you feel buddy."
Crace
turned back to shout at the waitress again.
He
nearly had a heart attack when he saw there was a man sitting across from him in the booth. Crace took a deep breath, then placed both his hands palm up on
the table in front of him.
Follow the rules, just like the email had said.
The
man tilted his head slightly, then looked down at the Mickey Mouse baseball cap
on the table.
"I
felt like an asshole wearing it, I had to take it off,” Crace said it quietly, like a little boy caught out by his dad.
The
man reached under the table and then produced an iPad from somewhere Crace
couldn't see. He wondered if the iPad had been taped to the bottom of the table.
There were some marks on the back of its case as the man held it towards
himself so that Crace couldn't see the screen.
Crace
wondered how the guy had known where he was going to sit. He looked around at
the other tables, maybe he hadn’t?
Maybe all the tables had pads under them?
He
looked back at the guy. He guessed he was about forty-something. White,
slim, but not too slim. He was just this side of craggy. Crace guessed the guy worked outside, by the way his skin was weathered and carrying a little tan like the bums on the street wore. He was wearing an old black
leather suit jacket that was maybe a size too big for him. It looked kind of
cool. Crace wondered if it was genuinely old, or maybe one of those
jackets that cost thousands to make them look like they cost fifty bucks.
He
decided to ask the guy after they'd ended their meeting.
The
guy finished what he was doing with the iPad and then placed it down on the
table between them. On the screen Crace could see ten, plain white squares on a
black background. The man touched one of the squares and it zoomed in to show
that there was writing on it.
Crace
leaned forward and read the caption out-loud.
"Put the cap on."
Crace
looked up from the screen at the man.
"What?
Are you speaking to me through the iPad?"
The
man tapped the screen again, and another white box zoomed large.
"Yes."
"Why?
Nobody can hear us."
Another
tap, another zoom.
"The restaurant
may be bugged, you may be wired, or we might be being filmed."
Crace
looked around the restaurant, and then back at the man.
"I
followed all of your instructions to the letter. Nobody knows we are here I
promise."
"Put the cap
on."
Crace
picked up the cap and pulled it on.
Another
tap.
"Hands."
Crace
placed his hands back down on the table, palms up, just the way he had been
told.
The
man stared at Crace, as if he was waiting for something. Crace was about to speak
again when the waitress suddenly leaned in and poured some coffee.
"Fresh
coffee, you order now?"
"No,
not yet, in a minute I promise,” there was a wobble in his voice that Crace
hoped the guy hadn’t noticed.
"Hey,
that an iPad? They nice things, my boy back home want one for Christmas. Too expensive
for waitress though, not make enough tip."
The
man smiled at her, and then placed his hand over the top of the cup
she had put down for him. He shook his head and gave her his best craggy eyed grin. She smiled back, glad
that this new guy wasn't as much of an asshole as the one who had been here waiting for
an hour.
"I
be back soon, take order."
Crace
looked at his coffee but didn't pick it up.
Rules
were rules, and he suddenly had no wish to break them. The email he'd received that
had set up the meeting had expressly told him to keep his hands palms up on
the table at all times. The same email had told him the locker number where he
had found the bag, with the all dumb clothes he was wearing, and that fucking
hat.
"I
feel dumb in this hat; I look like a redneck."
The
man tilted his head again, and Crace suddenly realised he might just have
insulted him. He almost lifted a hand of apology, then remembered the rules and
instead just did some grovelling.
"I'm sorry, there is anything wrong with
being a redneck, it's just it isn't my style, you know?"
The
man tapped the screen.
"I needed to be
sure it was you."
"You
followed me?"
"Yes."
"All
the way?"
"You
know where I live?"
"Yes."
"Jesus."
They
stared at each other across the table for a moment, until Crace puffed out his
cheeks and nodded to his coffee.
"Can
I take a drink?"
The
man nodded and Crace picked up the mug, careful to keep his other hand on
the table top. The coffee warmed his throat, and cooled his nerves, so much so
that when he put the mug back down he felt a little more in control.
"Have
you got the answer to every question I am going to ask programmed into that
thing?"
"No."
"Well
we've got a problem if I ask one it can't answer haven't we?"
"No."
Crace
smiled in spite of himself and took another sip of coffee. He glanced around
the diner and noticed there was now only about six or other customers in there,
most of them with heads buried in meals or conversations.
The
guy had chosen the venue well.
"Okay,
let's get down to business here; I gotta get back across town. This is what I
want you to do..."
The
man held up the palm of his right hand, and then with his left index finger tapped
at a square on the screen.
Crace
had to lean forward to read it.
"You have asked
me to kill your wife; I will do this for fifty thousand dollars. Half at the
end of this meeting and half after I have completed the task. The figure is
non-negotiable as I explained in our previous correspondence. The manner of the
task will be to my choosing. The collection of the outstanding monies will be
to my choosing. If you do not pay the outstanding amount I will kill your
parents in New Hampshire. If you speak to anyone of this matter I will kill
your sister in Georgia. Once I have killed these people I will find you, no
matter where you are, and I will kill you” Crace looked up, and the guy stared back. Crace swallowed
and then continued reading. “If you behave
in the manner I have outlined, and you follow all of my instructions, at the
completion of our business, you will never see me again. Is this
understood?"
Crace
sat back and let his mouth hang open for a moment while his brain figured out
how to close it, a moment passed until he found some words.
"How
did you know about my folks and my sister?"
The
man tapped the screen again summoning another caption.
"Answer yes or
no."
"There
won't be a problem with the money or the job I promise."
"Answer yes or
no."
"Yes."
The
man nodded, and then gestured that Crace should drink more coffee.
Back when
the emails had started, Crace had wondered if the guy was just some sort of nut
job fantasist who was pretending to be a hit man. But then, right at that
minute, looking across the table, he knew he was staring at death.
Death
stared back, then nodded, as if he was reading Crace's mind, A second passed and then the man tapped another
white box and Crace leaned forward to read it.
"If you wish to
leave now you may do so. We will never see each other or speak again, and you
will be safe to carry on with your life as if this meeting had never taken
place. You have ten seconds to get up and leave the table."
"I
don't want to leave, I need... no, I want to do this I swear," Crace ducked low, head inches from the table, the light of the iPad illuminating
his face from below.
The
man didn't reply, and it took Crace a moment to realise Death was tapping his
index finger on the table.
He
watched it.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
The
finger pressed another square on the iPad.
"You are
contracting me to execute your wife, Karen, who works as a lawyer Maybrick
Legal Inc. You want me to do this so that you can inherit Karen's estate. An
estate she herself was inherited from her father who died last year. There is
also the matter of a six-million-dollar insurance policy that is payable should
either of you die. Is this correct?"
"When
you say it like that it sounds like I am one evil son of a bitch, but let me
tell you buddy, she is looking to nail my ass to the wall if the divorce she is
threatening me with goes though. I'm in a hole here, I gotta girlfriend who is
pushing me to move in with her, my job is up and down, it ain't easy being a
broker these days I gotta tell you. There;s no way I can't afford to split from
that bitch and get a divorce."
"Answer yes or
no."
"Yes.
Jesus…it's correct. Yes."
"If you wish to
leave now you may do. We will never see each other or speak again and you will
be safe to carry on with your life as if this meeting had never taken place.
You have ten seconds to get up and leave the table."
This
time Crace counted along with the tapping finger.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Crace
didn't leave; he just sat with his hands on the table like the email had told
him too.
He
was doing this thing.
"You are about
to contract me to kill your wife Karen. You must place twenty five thousand dollars,
as instructed, in a brown paper parcel, in used one hundred dollar bills onto
the table. Once I pick up the money the deal is final with no provision for
alteration or cancellation. Do you understand? Yes or No?"
Crace
licked his lips and then chewed the bottom one.
This
was it, at last he was out from under it.
This
was the start.
The
new life.
He
almost smiled.
"Yes."
Crace nodded his head towards the Planet Hollywood jacket. The man gestured it was okay to lift his hands, so Crace turned, dug under the jacket, and then took out the money placed it on
the table next to the iPad.
The man stared back at him for a moment and then
tapped the screen again.
"If you wish to
leave now you may do. We will never see each other or speak again and you will
be safe to carry on with your life as if this meeting had never taken place.
You have ten seconds to get up and leave the table."
Crace
shook his head at the guy to let him know he was in, committed, certain. It felt
like he'd just done a deal on the stock exchange. That crazy feeling he got when he
knew he'd made the right decision and struck a home run.
"Keep
counting buddy, I ain't going anywhere."
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
The
man nodded, then slid the package of money off the table and dropped it into
a bag Crace hadn’t noticed before.
“Jesus,
you are like some sort of Penn and Teller dude, you keep bringing out stuff I
never noticed.”
The
man smiled.
Crace
wondered if twenty-five grand bought him the chance to ask about the jacket
before the guy got up to leave.
He
watched as the man put the iPad to sleep. The man then wiped his right hand across
the screen, and then held it up.
Crace
looked at it, and then at the guy.
That
was when he noticed the 9mm silenced Glock in the man's left hand. It was sliding out from inside that cool leather jacket
like a mamba from under a rock.
It suddenly struck Crace that the jacket had been big so as to hide the gun.
Clever.
The
pistol sneezed.
Crace
never heard it.
His head made more
noise than the gun as it landed face first onto the hands that had been there to catch it. Had he been able to take a look, he would
have seen that Mickey had been gut shot and was leaking brains through his fingers and then all over the table.
The
man stood up, picked up his bag, then headed for the door with the pistol back
under his jacket. He smiled at the waitress, as she strained to see where that
awkward bastard with the dumb cap had gone over the high back of the booth.
"You
come again soon now," she said without looking at him.
The
man nodded, left the diner, and then walked two blocks in the rain before he
heard the sirens.
He
climbed into the rental car, smiled at Karen, and then fired up the iPad.
"Did
he want me dead? Did he?"
"Yes."
"That
son of a bitch... did you... did you do it?"
"Yes."
"Oh
my god, I can't believe it."
Karen
sat for a moment with her hand over her mouth, the shock hitting home almost as
hard as the bullet that had been meant for her. They sat in silence watching
the blue and red flashing lights down the street. They were bouncing off the rain and the
tall buildings that were crowding in to take a look at what
was going on at their feet.
The
windows of the hire car were starting to steam almost as much Karen's eyes. She
remembered their deal, and reached for her handbag.
"I'm
sorry; I almost forgot. Here, it's your money."
She
held up a brown package.
He shook his head and held up the iPad.
"He paid for
it."
Karen
watched as the man got out of the car and walked to the nearby subway.
He
dropped off the street, just like he’d dropped off the earth, and she never saw
him again.
Just
like the iPad had said.
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I wrote this story a few years ago when I was scratching around for ideas for a novel. I liked he idea of a lead character who didn't have a voice, and who lived by a binary code that consisted of a set series of answers based around "yes" and "no."
Even though I'm still working on my John Rossett thrillers, I think there is a chance I might one day return to the "yes no man", as I've a feeling he has a few stories to tell.
If you've any questions about the piece, or if you feel there is anything you'd like to know about the writing of it, just leave me a comment and I promise I'll get back to you.
Tony Schumacher is the author of the John Rossett series of thrillers published worldwide
by Harper Collins. He has written for the The Guardian newspaper, the
Huffington Post and regularly contributes to the BBC, and blogs
worldwide.
Wall
Street Journal: "Schumacher assured and atmospheric writing makes this a
memorable novel..."
Lancashire Evening Post: "The British Lion is an extraordinary
and exciting tour-de-force, a pulsating portrayal of a broken nation that is
breathtakingly imagined and terrifying in the sheer power of its
possibilities."
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