The Hitman: Dirty Rotters by Sean McKenzie



  T H E H I T M A N:

  DIRTY ROTTERS

  SEAN MCKENZIE

  Copyright 2014 Sean McKenzie

  Cover design and illustration by Steven James Catizone

  The Hitman: Dirty Rotters is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Views and opinions expressed are not necessarily that of the author.

  For:

  Those damn kids on the hill

  Chapter 1

  Saturday afternoon.

  It is darker than I remembered. Maybe it’s because there are only three candles burning this time as opposed to seven the last. Was it seven? Eight? I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. And there were several anyhow. The smell is the same. It isn’t awful by any means, but a bit stuffy. Old and stale, like basement carpet. I’m sure the candles have something to do with it. The feel is the same, too. Always is. A lot of guilt. A little uncertainty. Like coming home to find that your dog chewed up the armrests on your couch and he’s walking towards you with that look like he’s not sure if you are going to beat him with the stick.

  I kneel on the narrow beam of wood covered by a thin pad. Not too comfortable on my knees. I can picture a group of kids in some Third World country stuffing the padding and sewing it up, then other kids stapling it onto the beam. Small hands working fast. Cut and bandaged fingers moving faster than they should ever have to. Maybe if the hand whipping them with a stick was stuffing the pads instead they would feel better to my knees. A bigger hand might mean a better wad of stuffing.

  I clear my throat quietly to let him know I’m here and to suggest that I am ready to begin. It’s either that or knock against the window frame like a moron. Besides, I am not comfortable intruding on someone else’s quiet time. I enjoy my own, so I respect it. I’m ready when he is. No hurry.

  Almost instantly the sound of two pieces of aged wood sliding against one another, in almost a whispering groan, draws my attention and I watch the window pane slide away to the right, disappearing into the wall. I catch a glimpse of the purple robe easing back as he settles in out of my sight. Always happens that way. There’s never a smiling face, never a hand extending in greeting. Secrecy. It’s all about secrecy. Almost like we both have done something wrong.

  I wait. Not because I don’t know what to do, but because in my head the first few seconds of silence makes them almost as uncomfortable as I am. Or that I should be, rather. I should be wracked with fear and trembling uncontrollably. But my hands are steady. My breathing calm. I’ll wait it out. They usually catch on around five seconds.

  One…two…three…four…

  He says, “Go ahead, child of God. Confess your sins.”

  Right on cue.

  His voice is thin and frail. Old. Very old. Might be the oldest I’ve ever heard. I wonder for a second what he looks like. Wrinkles no doubt. Loose, drooping skin. Is he pushing ninety? He’s probably bald on top with short white hair from one ear wrapping around to the other. He’s probably wearing a wool shawl under the robe. Knee high socks, definitely. It’s cooling down outside now and it’s not exactly room temperature in here either. There’s probably a cup of hot tea next to him.

  He clears his throat now. I catch on.

  “Forgive me father, I have sinned.”

  I stop there. It starts to bother me now. Is he bald or not?

  “God is listening.”

  I don’t know how he managed the strength to say that. I feel obligated to whisper back. I think anything else and the old man might simply be swept apart. Poof! A cloud of dust slowly falling. I’ll whisper. I didn’t come here to commit another murder.

  “My last confession was several months ago.” Very casual. Hands still steady. I doubt he has a stick in there. Cane, maybe.

  “Go on.”

  I pause for reflection. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I just spit it all out without much discretion. Sometimes I’ve practiced what to say for minutes before so the five words come out smooth and even and gentle.

  “I killed a man, father.”

  Quiet.

  I imagine his eyes are now wide open, filled with disbelief. Probably a little startled. I probably just woke him up.

  I can hear him breathing. Maybe a foot away. Just beyond the thin, poorly framed wall. He’s gathering his thoughts. They never expect it. Not the kill word. Swearing, adultery, stealing, and immoral thoughts all come every week by dozens. But no one ever just walks in and drops I killed a man, what about it?

  But I do it. Have to. In fifteen minutes I’ll be in Wendy’s enjoying a Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger and I can’t have all this on my conscious. I might even get fries and a chocolate Frosty.

  “When?” He says with genuine concern.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On which time.”

  “There’s been more than one occurrence?”

  “Several, in fact.”

  Quiet again. Long deep breaths. This isn’t his ordinary five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marries session. I can hear his body adjusting in the chair. He must be sitting forward now. His breathing is closer, a little raspy.

  “How do you feel about this?”

  “Which part?”

  “The killing.”

  “Well, it had to be done.”

  “You don’t sound remorseful.”

  I say nothing. The old man’s right.

  “You don’t have remorse but you want forgiveness?”

  “Maybe not forgiveness. Maybe an understanding.”

  “Understanding?”

  “It had to be done.”

  A slight pause. He’s interested now. “You were being attacked? Your life was threatened and you fought to survive?”

  “No. The other kind.”

  “Other?”

  “Yeah. You know, premeditated. Planned. Sought out. I mean, I had to wait. I had to choose the right time.”

  “You chose to.”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  I pause now. I count them in my head, take my time and think back, remember each of their faces. I don’t want to leave anyone out. They earned it. But then my stomach grumbles and I lose focus, drifting ahead twenty minutes or so. Does Wendy’s have curly fries? No, that’s Arby’s. Arby’s is on the other side of town though. I’m not going that way. Wendy’s will-

  “How often?” He interrupts. Annoyance in his voice.

  “Plenty.”

  He moved in closer. His breath is nearly reaching my own. Hot tea for sure. With lemon. I can see just the tip of his nose. “If you are not sorry, then why are you here? God cannot forgive you if you cannot see how terrible your choices were. You want Him to understand your choices to kill, but do you understand he cannot accept that without first knowing your remorse? And you’re not remorseful, right?”

  I pause. Give him time to catch his breath. Sounds like he ran a marathon.

  “Have you ever believed in something so intensively, with all your being, knowing that it was going to happen, and were completely wrong? Something that left you wondering if God is even with you?”

  “God is always with us. We have to listen-”

  “Can you say that to someone locked away, hidden from the world, left to suffer and die at the hands of a killer? Someone who prayed for help every day? Someone who knew God was going to save them?”

  He says, “Is this why you killed people? You think that God has left you or hurt you or abandoned you so you have taken actions into your own hands?”

  “There’s an awful lot wrong with this world. I’m just a simple man out there working to make things right, father.”
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  “Are you a cop?”

  “No.” Why does everyone keep asking me that?

  We’re quiet for a moment.

  “How do you know when God has stopped listening, father?”

  “God does not stop listening. It is we that stop listening to Him. You must understand that. And if you ask for forgiveness now-”

  “They had to die. That was the choice. The right one. And I think you’re wrong. I think he does understand. That is all, father. I have a cab waiting. I have to go now.”

  I stood. My knees hurt. I see his frail hand in the window and his body moving. He’s going to look in here. He wants to see my face. But I turn. I’m out of there before he gets the chance.

  I step back into the church. To exit I would turn right, but I turn left instead, moving purposefully. It’s about a quarter to five in the afternoon and folks are slowly coming in for Saturday mass. No suits or formal dresses. They’re Catholic. I fit in nicely with my jeans and leather jacket, hair slightly brushed.

  I walk up a few pews and huddle in close to a woman knelt in deep prayer. I do the same. We could easily be mistaken for a couple. She is about my age, blond, with a long leather jacket. She smells good, too. Vanilla. Probably a lotion. Good choice. It was one of Pamela’s favorites.

  Instantly, right here, right now, not even a second to consider it, I feel the air in my lungs being sucked out and the weight of the world crushing down onto my heart, leaving me paralyzed to do anything but face it. A second was all it took. Just a whiff in the air. A memory opening the door I have worked so hard to lock shut. The pain was still so dominant even after five years. My hands curled into tight fists, squeezing the pain right out through my white knuckles. I looked up to the cross, gathered my composure, took a few deep breaths and buried it. Suffocated its life so I could live on. It took time to learn how to manage, how to cope, not only with the sudden attacks like I just had, but with the everyday ache of her being gone.

  My God I miss her so much.

  Another deep breath. Then another. I can do this.

  I focus on the present. I stare straight ahead and wait. I admire the craftsmanship all around. The pillars, the small angels carved from stone, the ceiling paintings of angels in clouds. Beautiful. Nothing like this outside of a Catholic church. It feels like home, as strange as that sounds.

  Click.

  I heard it. The confessional door just shut closed behind me. Always the same. For some reason the priests always walk out into the church and try to catch me. At least catch a glimpse of me. Something for the cop sketch artist to draw. Something to trace me.

  I hear the scrape as the massive engraved doors open behind me and feel the rush of the cool air fill the church. He’s not going to find me out there. He’ll look into the busy traffic anyway. He’ll see a cab or two driving and think one of them was me. He’ll know he was too late. He’ll shut the door and come back inside in defeat. He’ll wonder if he should have said something else. Something to get me to stay. Something to help me turn a new leaf. Then he’ll realize that he can only do so much and he’ll get back to it with someone else. I often wonder if the next person gets a stronger dose because of me. Hope they do.

  Two altar boys come out in the front. I watch them. They walk around lighting large candles. They’re awkward. Young kids, probably ten or twelve years old. Nervous, too. They separate and begin preparations. I remember being that age. A part of me wants to walk up to those kids and tell them to stay young for as long as they can. But they’re altar boys, I tell myself. Maybe their innocence was already compromised. It’s not a world for the innocent. People aren’t always who they appear to be.

  I hear a woman whisper a few feet behind me, then the priest responds. He tells her that he has time for a few more confessions. I picture him smiling to her, reassuring her. She sounds worried. Must’ve done something bad. Probably took her kid’s cat to the cleaners, permanently. Something harmless, do doubt. No killings. Not like me.

  Not at all like me.

  I turn my head slightly to look over my left shoulder back at the priest. Bald on top. Thin white hair around the sides and back, cut short of course. I smile and turn forward.

  Time to go.

  I wait until I hear him get back into his part of the booth. The door opened and shut softly. I picture him in my head gently easing into his chair, grabbing his warm cup of tea right away, catching his breath, praying for me silently. I wait for the second door to open and shut with someone else’s problems to occupy his mind. Then I rise. I take a long look at the cross fixed high on the wall straight ahead of me. I say a prayer for Pamela, for Little B, and for my mom, take a long deep whiff of the vanilla in the air next to me, rise and walk for the door.

  I believe God understands. He has to. I refuse to believe that He doesn’t hear us, even if He refuses to answer. He has to accept. He has to understand.

  I made peace.

  Time to go.

  I grab the polished brass handle and yank the heavy door back swiftly, greeting the city air with a sigh. I already miss the quietness of the church. It reminds me of being a kid again, living in the country. No traffic, no smog. A lot of fields and trees, and nothing but fresh air. It feels like such a long time ago. Another lifetime, that’s for sure. I continue on towards the black El Camino SS waiting, thoughts drifting back to when everything began, head lowering towards the ground, eyes watering from the cool November wind. One foot after the other. Sign of the cross, as always.

  As always, I tell myself that I’m never coming back.

  As always, I hear Little B telling me it’s the only way.

  I hear her often.

  I miss her.

  That Dirty Rotter.

  Chapter 2