The Daughter

The Man in the Black Suit

The Daughter

Different manners of expression can derive vastly different responses.  Benedict was obviously intoxicated.  Not many words were going to filter through his soggy head, so the words chosen had to be strong ones that would shock him into focusing.  The man named Jameson could’ve said, “An attempt is about to be made on your life.”  Or, perhaps, “A man is going to try to kill you.”  He could’ve said any number of things.  But those alternatives implied an attempt.  They did not communicate the reasonable possibility of success.  And the man named Jameson needed Benedict to consider that possibility.

      Anthony Benedict blinked several times.  “You’re . . . holding a smiling white mask.  And wearing a black suit.  All black.  You were dancing with my Aprill . . . my daughter . . . down there.”  He gestured drunkenly at the ballroom.

      Jameson quelled his impatience.  Impatience was unprofessional.  “The woman in the purple dress.  Yes.  I acquaint myself with an individual’s associates before I approach him for business.”

      Benedict squinted at him.  “You’re speaking to me as if I’m . . . like I’m a child.”

      “In your current state, you have the faculties of a child.  I don’t say that insultingly.  It is fact.”

      “I’m . . . who’s going to kill me?”

      “Four days ago, I was approached with the offer of a job on you.  I am a professional hit-man.  I turned my employers down.”  Jameson removed the glass from Benedict’s unsteady hand.  “I need you to pay attention, Mr. Benedict.  My employers will use someone else.  You may hire my services and live.  Or you may refuse my services and be terminated.”

      Without the support of the balustrade, Benedict swayed uncertainly.  “You, how could you know . . . shush, here’s my daughter!”

      The woman in the rumpled purple dress approached.  Her veil was swept back to reveal delicate but unhappy features.  “Father, this is embarrassing!  You just forget yourself whenever there are drinks around . . .  oh, hello again!”

      She smiled a greeting for the man named Jameson.

      Jameson ignored her.  “Mr. Benedict, for you to survive, we will need to move now.”

      Benedict ceased his futile attempts at nudging Jameson into silence.

      “Wait . . . what is this?”  The daughter’s face was struck with alarm.

      Benedict turned to her, irked at the disruption.  “Your father is in danger.  I was hired to kill him, but when I refused the job, someone was hired to replace me.”

      “Wha– is this a joke?”