The Salesman

The Man in the Black Suit

The Salesman

A hit-man without a contract must play the role of a salesman, and a cardinal rule of that trade is not giving the costumer time to think.

      “Follow me,” the man named Jameson commanded.  “Now.”

      He clasped Benedict’s wrist and lead him towards the stairs.  Benedict’s daughter trailed, protesting.

      “This is ridiculous!  Why would an assassin offer to help us?”

      “I am not an assassin, I am a professional hit-man.  And termination has a relatively small role in the services I perform.  I arrange leverage.”

      Benedict was grasping for the stair rail to steady himself, but Aprill seized Jameson’s shoulder.  “Stop.  My father and I are also professionals – in our business – and this is ridiculous!  You can explain, because right now it sounds like a B-movie spy script, and I think I should call security over here.”

      He admired her composure, but it was getting in his way.  Jameson had to move quickly: not to get Benedict out of the room, as he pretended, but to draw as much attention to Benedict’s exit as possible.  He needed to force his opponent’s hand, because after the other professional made a rash move and revealed himself, Benedict would ineludibly take Jameson more seriously.  Like every good salesman, the man named Jameson knew that being taken seriously was the key to the sell.

      He brushed Aprill aside and turned to the stairs again. 

      Now, however, the big man in the gladiator mask was blocking them.

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?”

The Masquerade

The Man in the Black Suit

The Masquerade

Blake passed through the metal detectors, smiling as he approached the man checking names against a list of invitees.  Although Blake disliked using the entrance pass supplied by his “employers,” it was relatively low risk.  The chances of them having a plant within the staff at the masquerade were minimal.  If they’d had a plant, they would’ve used that person to carry out their objective.

      Blake handed his pass to the staff-member.  The man read the name on it and ran his finger down his clipboard.

      “Ah, here we are.”  He flashed Blake a smile.  “Enjoy the dancing, Dr. Henning.”

      The man named Dr. Henning grinned back.  “Thanks, buddy.  I intend to.”  He moved further into the room.

      From his jacket, Dr. Henning drew his mask and donned it.  It was a white, smiling thespian mask, the mask of comedy.

      Couples glided across the floor.  The women and men were clad to dazzle, stunning dresses and sharp suits.  Diverse masks concealed diverse expressions, fake smiles for some or blank faces for those who realized that wearing their customary masks were no longer necessary in favor of more synthetic ones.

      The man named Dr. Henning observed for a while from the side.  Then he drifted among the dancers.  The masks increased the difficulty of identifying those he’d flagged on his mental list, but working methodically around the room, he began spotting them.

      Eventually he took a partner.  She wore a ruffled purple dress and black veil.  Dr. Henning, who frequented high-society gatherings, was the perfect companion, cracking jokes in an easygoing drawl as he led her through the dances.  She never had a notion that she was being strategically maneuvered.

      Eventually, Henning’s partner requested a rest and he led her to the side, where they chatted with an imitation fairytale queen and a man in a gladiator mask.  Dr. Henning, ever the perfect gentleman, procured drinks and hors d’oeuvres for the four of them.  He left his own untouched.

      Taking his leave, the man named Henning moved upstairs to the series of balconies overlooking the ballroom.  There was no longer a bulge in his breast pocket.

      At the top of the stairway was an ebony chest for donations, into which Henning slipped a blank, untraceable check.  Appearances are three fourths of approach. 

      A man was leaning against the balustrade, slurping from his drink as he watched the dancers.  Dr. Henning joined him at his side.

      “Benedict?  Anthony Benedict?”

      The fellow turned to him with sleepy, inebriated eyes.  “Yes?”

      Dr. Henning grinned widely and extended a hand.  Then, when Benedict enquiringly took it, Henning’s expression and persona dropped drastically.  He became colorless and professional.

      “My name is Jameson.  A man is about to kill you.”

The City

The Man in the Black Suit

The City

The man named Blake donned a jacket over his black suit.  Hand on the doorknob, he paused to ensure that his mask and entrance pass were tucked in its inner pockets.  There was another, smaller bulge in his breast pocket.  It was the tool currently most accessible to him.

      He left the hotel and pulled his rented 2012 Fortwo Passion Cabriolet into traffic.  He hated Smart cars, but driving the most “expensive” one he could find – and expensive for a Smart car meant only €12,900 – was a good way of selling his façade as a wealthy environmentalist.

      Dresden is a city both new and old.  New habitations built on the ruins of one of World War II’s most destructive bombings.  Before the firestorm it had been a Jewel Box, a center of culture and beauty.  After, it had been nothing.  A landscape of rubble.

      The man named Blake drove through the inner city, past restored towers and churches.  Mentally, he was reviewing a list of names.  He’d spent the trip to Germany researching the other guests slated to attend this masquerade.  If the people who’d attempted to hire him were professional, then they wouldn’t touch the entrance pass they’d sent, which meant they would need to provide another identity for whoever they substituted in his place.  So he’d been researching the names on the guest list, looking for a person with either too little information available about their history, or too much, too readily.  The result of his research was a handful of attendees, but no one who especially red-flagged.

      

The venue of the masquerade was an elegantly modern hotel, a sharp contrast with the imposing, East-German architecture further down the street. 

      The man named Blake parked and surrendered his keys to a valet.  Then he made his way to the hotel entrance.

The Setup

The Man in the Black Suit

The Setup

Black suit’s apartment was small, but expensive and well kept.  When he arrived back it was three a.m.  The first thing he did was check the answering machine.  A woman's voice, slightly pouty, emanated from the speakers.

    "Blake, you missed our coffee date.  Is everything alright?  You're never home when I call, you don't return my messages . . . I'm starting to think you've left the area on one of your business trips.  You could've at least told me you were leaving.  Well . . ." her voice trailed reluctantly.  "If you get this, call me back.  At least I deserve an explanation!  I thought we were getting close, after all I shared with you about my boss.  By the way, I'm sure you realize this, but please don't tell anyone what I said, you know, about his habits.  He's an idiot, but if word got out, then . . . it could end very badly.  Like, for the company.  Well -- "

     The man named Blake deleted the message.

     The front room's windows revealed a breathtaking view of the skyline, lit with glowing lights and sleepless energy.  Blake changed from his damp suit, poured himself a drink, and lounged on the couch before the window, perusing the vanilla folder's contents.  There wasn't much there.  A plane ticket, an entrance pass to a formal event, a picture of a smiling man.  Residing in the envelope was a substantial amount of money: $10,000.
     Blake burned everything but the picture and entrance pass.  The money was marked -- very poor professional courtesy -- and whoever the man and woman had been working with, they would certainly have ways of knowing whether their ticket was used.  He also burned the wallets, which contained no identification.  On his laptop, he looked up the event that the pass was for.  It was a fundraiser -- a masquerade in Dresden.  He located a guest list on the website, and, after a brief search, found a name belonging to the face of the man whose picture resided in the folder.  Anthony Benedict.
    Mr. Benedict was involved in oil.  He was grotesquely wealthy and worked with several environmental causes.  That was an obvious link between Benedict and the masquerade: it was a charity fundraiser for a sustainable-energy project.  

    Obviously, the man and woman had been approaching Blake with an offer of a job on Benedict.  Judging from the money in the envelope, they'd been prepared to pay him half up front.  Targets of this high-profile were worth a great deal.

     An hour of further digging didn't reveal any overt motivations for the removal of Benedict.  True, he was a major power player in international oil, but the leading company he was involved with had reached a “maintenance phase,” essentially meaning that it was at its peak and would now recede into the woodwork as other corporations became more prominent.  So Benedict had only a few more years at the top.  Why go to the trouble of killing or neutralizing him?

     The masquerade was in four days.  Ample time, but with little to spare.  The man named Blake sat in thought for a while, sipping his drink while considering his options.  He made himself a small snack of olives and cheese.  Finally, he reached a decision.  Picking up the phone, he called his travel agent -- who believed him to be a businessman -- and reserved a ticket to Dresden.

The Job

The Man in the Black Suit

The Job

Without bothering to ensure that they were watching, he entered the gas station, progressing down an isle and waiting at the end of it.  This late at night the store was not busy, but there were too many people for any physical confrontation to be likely.  Every now and again, an employee or a tired trucker wandered past.  Black suit analyzed them, not dismissing any out of hand.  Finally, an older, grey haired man walked by.  His eyes touched black suit's for a moment, then leapt away.  The leap was more telling than the look.  He made to move past, but black suit cleared his throat, and the man stopped.  The two faced each other.
    "There was something you wanted to ask me." Black suit waited patiently.
    "Hmm . . . I suppose so."  But the man hesitated, and black suit's instincts screamed at him.
    In two steps his back was against the glass of the refrigerated goods.  Visibly he remained perfectly relaxed, but his mind was a scalpel, dissecting his surroundings as his body prepared to follow whatever pattern was necessary.  That was when he noticed the woman who'd been coming up the isle behind him.  Her eyes did not bounce away when they met his, but neither did they slide past.  She took her position next to the older man.
    "He certainly isn't slow," the older man remarked.
    "Yes, but is he fast enough?"
    Black suit tilted an eyebrow.  "Yes," he said, and he shot them both dead.  The silenced S&W he'd drawn from his jacket barely made a spitting noise.
    Obviously, they'd been approaching him with a job.  But he hadn't liked their way of asking.  Obviously these people were more professional than most of those he worked with, yet they'd broken every rule with a disgusting lack of etiquette.  The rules were there for a purpose, because in this craft, common courtesy was common sense.  When you approached someone for a job, you let them see you coming, and you certainly didn't bully them or pretend to be a threat.
    Stooping quickly beside the two corpses, he removed their wallets and relieved the woman of the vanilla folder she'd been carrying.  His fingers slid deftly in and out of pockets, avoiding the growing stains of blood.  In the man's breast pocket, there was a substantially thick envelope.  Black suit transferred it to his own jacket.  Then he left.
    The isle he'd chosen had been in the blind spot between two security cameras.  Now, as he walked freely from the gas station, he averted his face from the cameras perched around the exit.  Avoiding sight-lines was a trick you learned quickly.  There was science to it.
    Black suit got in his car and drove away.

Overdue Apologies

A plethora of apologies for the delay between posts!  Don't you like that word, "plethora?"  I think it's wonderful.  Anyhow, the next several installments of The Man in the Black Suit are completely written out and ready to go, but my laptop is temporarily inaccessible.  :(  Plus next week's finals are looming above my head, so even taking the time to write this quick note is a sacrifice.  On a happier track, however, Christmas break should provide ample writing opportunities, and I almost have the next installment of Gods and Chaos polished off.  And who doesn't like Christmas?!  Well, got to hit the books again.  Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays or Happy Hanukkah or Season's Greetings or whatever-the-heck-else your religious and political leanings are for!  I don't really care what you call it, just have a darn joyful time, draw close to those you love, and may the God of the lost bless you and lead you in His truth.