The old man lived in a big green house on a shady green street in a nice green neighborhood. Dave was shown through the house to the backyard, Dave lugging the heavy duffle with its strap digging into his shoulder. Out back there was a pool and a small gathering of about a dozen people. The women were young and beautiful and bikini-clad. Dave knew this meant the old man’s family was away. One of the guys showed Dave into the pool house.
The old man stood behind the bar looking virile, tan and strong for his age. He didn’t slouch and his cabana wear was well fitted. He held an unlit cigar between his teeth. He took it out and grinned like a politician when Dave walked through the door.
The old man said, “Deadly Dave,” and put the cigar back in his mouth.
Dave had never actually killed anyone outside of war but rumors were easy to get started, and just as easy to stick, even back then. So it was in this fashion that Dave had found himself with a nickname. The nickname came with a reputation.
The old man said, “Margarita?”
He held up the frosty pitcher as if to explain to Dave what a margarita was.
Dave said, “Yeah. Sounds good. Thanks.”
The old man left Dave standing there holding the bag while he rimmed two glasses with lime and salt, his gameshow grin glowing with the cigar between his teeth. He walked around from behind the bar carrying the drinks and handed one to Dave. They cheersed to each other’s health and drank.
The old man said, “Cigar?”
Dave’s arm was going numb from the weight of the bag on his shoulder.
He said, “No thanks.”
The old man sat back in a wicker armchair with his drink. He took the cigar out of his mouth, plugged it and lit it. It took a very long time. There was a wicker coffee table with a glass top. Dave put his drink down so he could transfer the bag to his other shoulder.
The old man looked at the bag for the first time and said, “Is that what it better be?”
Dave nodded.
The old man considered Dave’s hands and face. He asked, “Trouble getting it?”
Dave said, “Not too much.”
The old man grinned at the words. He watched Dave through the smoke of his cigar. Then he looked beyond Dave’s right shoulder and spoke with a slightly raised voice.
He said, “Chucky.”
A big guy in black t-shirt came in. Dave hadn’t noticed the man standing out there in the shade. The old man beckoned the big guy over and whispered something in his ear. Then Chucky walked toward Dave. He took the bag off of Dave’s shoulder and carried it out of the pool house. The man called Chucky headed toward the street along a service path and disappeared around the side of the main house. Dave rolled his shoulders and felt the burn ease.
“Sit down,” said the old man. “Have your drink. You look like you could use it.”
Dave sat and had his drink while the other man talked.
“You have a certain talent. I’ll give you that. None of us thought you would ever be able to get it.”
Dave didn’t say anything.
The old man gulped down some margarita. Licked salt off the rim. Dragged heavily on the cigar and let the smoke leak out through his words when he spoke again.
“So, here’s how this is going to go. Now and then, down the road a ways, I might give you a call. Not often, but now and then. I’ll only call when I need somebody with talent like yours. You do a thing here, a thing there for me, but otherwise I leave you alone.” He held his hands out wide as if to demonstrate how the simple logic of his plan was unassailable. He said, “There’s no need for any unpleasantness or animosity between us. Everybody wins. Right?”
Dave said, “No.”
The old man looked at him for a long time. Then he said, “No?”
Dave didn’t respond.
Again, the old man said, “No?”
Dave said, “The bag squares us.”
The old man stared at him, “Oh it does, huh?”
Dave met his eyes and said, “Yes. It does.”
The old man raised his eyebrows but he didn’t speak again. He smoked and sipped his drink, holding Dave’s eyes. The old man didn’t flinch and he didn’t blink for a very long time, but an acceptance of some dark truth seemed to settle over him. Dave recognized this acceptance. He’d seen it before.
Dave left his mostly full margarita on the table. He stood and headed for the door. On his way out of the pool house, Dave caught a glimpse of himself in a full-length wicker framed mirror. Polished shoes, tailored blue suit, hair combed back sharp. Raw, scabbed knuckles across both hands. Two black eyes, butterfly bandages holding his scalp together above his left eye, a tampon up each nostril with the string ends cut off.
He glanced back at the old man one last time.
Dave thought, “Squared away,” and left.
Carl Robinette is a writer of fiction, poetry and journalism. His short fiction can be read in many publications in print and online, including here at Every Day Fiction, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mystery Weekly Magazine, Mystery Tribune and more. Carl’s poetry has appeared in Entropy Magazine and he is currently developing new fiction, poetry and other creative work.
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