The open window let in the cool night air. Bryden Shaw looked out across the lawn to the boat shed and the lake beyond. The moon reflected on the still water. Only minutes earlier he’d watched the rain dance on the shed roof, the trees whip about in the wind.
On his watch, the hands met at twelve. By now it was surely done.
Every penny of fifty grand well spent to be rid of Jerry Wilde—cost of mixing with gutter rats.
#
Bryden sat behind his desk. Jerry Wilde stood gazing through the window at the Manhattan skyline like he’d never before seen it from above. “Heck of a view.” Wilde nodded. “But I imagine a man would get used to it after a while.” He lifted his eyebrows and smiled.
Bryden, fists clenched, stared at the tall skinny man in the faded blue jeans and the shiny shoes. The stink of cigarettes hovered around him like a threat.
“I’m the kind of man you want on your side, Shaw. Think about it,” Wilde said. He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket. The crinkling plastic irritated Bryden. Wilde extracted a cigarette and flicked it to his lip. With a cheeky salute, he opened the door and left.
Bryden forced himself to relax. He drummed the desk and considered his move.
#
No one was using the payphones in Grand Central. Bryden wondered why they still existed now that everyone aged ten and above had a cell. Maybe the only people who found them useful anymore were those with something to hide.
The one he stood closest to rang. He picked it up. “Cancer,” a male voice said.
Heart slamming in his chest, Bryden said, “Capricorn.”
“Holiday Inn on East Broadway.” The voice continued in a neutral accent. “Tomorrow night. Pay with cash. Leave client’s details in a plain white envelope in the safe. The fee also goes in the safe, in a separate envelope. Use 1982 to lock the safe. Check out no later than 7 AM the following morning. Contract will be fulfilled no more than two weeks later.” The line went dead.
#
The glass of brandy halfway to his mouth, Bryden heard the engine before he saw the lights appear from behind the ancient oak. He wasn’t expecting visitors.
He went to the front door just as the car pulled up: a cheap Honda or Toyota or some such. The engine died, lights too, and the door opened. Jerry Wilde unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. As he turned to face Bryden, he took a drag from his cigarette. The tip glowed orange-red like the devil’s furnace.
Wilde sauntered up the steps. “One heck of a storm, there. Thought I wouldn’t make it.” He flicked the cigarette onto the lawn and stepped into the large hall. “Now isn’t that something,” he said, admiring the expanse, the polished wood stretching into the distance. “Could fit a bowling alley in here.”
Bryden turned to him, still holding the door handle with his left hand, the forgotten brandy in his right. “I’ll have the same,” Wilde said, pointing at the snifter as he walked into the softly lit drawing-room. Bryden closed the door and followed. Wilde lowered himself into an armchair, knees pointed at the ceiling. Bryden poured a second brandy, handed the glass to his visitor, then sat on the edge of the couch opposite.
“Cheers,” Wilde said. He took a sip, raised his eyebrows. “Excellent. Wouldn’t expect anything else, of course. Nothing but the best for Mr. Shaw.”
Speechless, Bryden tried to figure out what had gone wrong.
“Bit of a shock for you, I imagine,” Wilde continued, “seeing me here.” He tipped the glass towards Bryden. “We’re quite the surprise to each other.”
Bryden tried to speak. Words wouldn’t form.
“You expected them to get the job done. And why not? They know what they’re doing. Plain white envelope, target details within. Passed through trusted fingers until it reaches the trigger man.” Wilde rested his head on the high back of the chair while balancing the brandy on the armrest. “Apart from the secret few who approve the hit, only the trigger man sees what’s inside that envelope. It’s his responsibility from then on. Freelancers mostly. Reliable. Two weeks is more than enough for men like that to plan, and execute.”
Bryden tried to catch up. How did Wilde know all this?
“It was a bit rude of you, Shaw. And unexpected. You never know the type you’re dealing with.” Wilde shook his head. “Anyway, here we are, the two weeks are up and I should be dead.” He stared into the brandy. A shadow flickered across his eyes. “Roll of the die,” he said, twirling the glass. “Had it been passed to one of the others, I would be dead.” He brightened. “But it wasn’t.” He threw Bryden a wink. “I played it out ’till the end, just for a laugh. I knew you’d be waiting.” He gulped down the rest of the brandy and fired the glass at the floor.
Bryden jumped as it smashed into a thousand pieces.
Jerry Wilde stood up.
Bryden shuffled back on the couch, his mouth slightly open as he looked up at the tall figure in the light blue jeans and the leather jacket.
“You should’ve taken me in, Shaw, like I asked you to.” Jerry pulled out his pack of cigarettes, flicked one to his lip. “Then I wouldn’t have been freelancing.”
Bryden Shaw never got a word in.
END
by 
Latest posts by James Rogers (see all)
- In the Loop - October 22, 2019
I thought I recognized that first line! I also competed in that episode of TFL. Fantastic revenge story!
Great story. Excellent build-up and oh, so deliciously tense.
Thank you, Cindy and Holly.
Well spotted, Holly. I like TFL, as a reader and a writer.