HIT LIST

by John Kelly

Jimmy, "the Finger" was a stone killer. But, right now, Eugenia Folladori had the finger right where she wanted it. Right on that glissed spot that only Jimmy seemed to be able to find. That spot that drove her wild with desire. That spot that, as he was touching it now, was sending her into a hot, wet frenzy. She was more than ready for him, when the cell phone started ringing, and Jimmy stopped. She gasped. She was on the threshhold of something wondrous, and now it was slipping away, like a twig down a rushing stream.

 

 

She sat up, shaking with anger, disbelief, disappointment, and ebbing passion. Jimmy, breathing heavily, and obviously still shaking, too, was fumbling for the chirping interruption in the pants that lay across a chair in her bedroom. As he flipped it open, he pushed the fiery ball of his lust down into a cold, dank place inside himself, where it was immediately snuffed out. He looked at Eugenia, with a thousand mile stare, icy and dead. A stare, she new had been the very last thing many people had seen in this life, as they violently passed on into the next.

"This is business", he said to her. And into the phone, "Talk to me."

She scrambled from the bed, still shaking, only chilled now.

Jimmy grunted a few times, processing the information he was hearing. He checked his Rolex, did a quick calculation, and said, "Fifteen minutes. Don't lose 'im."

On his way out, Jimmy poked his head into the bathroom. Eugenia was bent over the sink, splashing warm water on her face. She was still trembling. "I'm goin' out for cigarettes."

It startled her, she jumped, terrified. "Oh, Jimmy, you scared the shit out of me!"

"Lucky thing you're in the bathroom. I need a raincoat."

"It's not rain...", she caught herself. Where was her common sense? Probably rushing down stream with the lost plateau of her passion. If Jimmy, "the Finger", needed a raincoat, Jimmy, "the Finger" needed a raincoat. You didn't ask questions. "Armoire, in the bedroom, right side."

"Not the dressy one," he came back, as if she should have known to anticipate his needs better. "The sporty one, the long, slick yellow one. I just want to cover the cashmere," he said, indicating his sweater, "Don't want it to get ruined."

"Hall closet."

He nodded. On his way out, he stopped in the kitchen, selected her largest carving knife, and sharpened it. At the door, he wrapped it in the yellow slicker and left.

Twelve minutes later, Jimmy was leaning into the window of a black SUV parked across the street from Max's, a greasy spoon, on 12th, just off Avenue J.

"Where is he?"

"Went in for breakfast just as we called. Same routine everyday. In about 3 minutes he should be getting up to use the john. Regular as a clock. Want us to hang around?"

Jimmy just gave the driver a look that said, Sure, I want a couple of witnesses can eyeball me going into Max's the morning "Stinky" Timmy got his throat cut. "Gimme your sunglasses, and get the hell outta here."

Jimmy waited until the SUV had gone a couple of blocks and turned off before he crossed the street.

Inside Max's, which was now owned and run by a couple of dot heads, a sunglassed Jimmy said, "Parliament's Box." He paid for the cigarettes, and as he got his change said, "You got a john here?" The oblivious Indian pointed towards the back. A man in a thrift shop, brown suit coat, and droopy black work pants was disappearing into where the Indian had pointed.

By the time Jimmy entered the bathroom, the guy was already in one of the stalls. Jimmy unfolded the raincoat, slipped it on, and zipped it up. It was a tight fit. He entered the adjoining stall, gingerly lowered the toilet seat lid, and sat down to wait. The guy in the next stall, grunted, loudly passed wind, and there was an enormous splash. Jesus Christ, what's he droppin' in there, canteloupes, thought Jimmy! The ensuing aroma was enough to make Jimmy gag. He had half a mind to punch through the stall wall and do the guy sitting on the bowl, just so he could get out of there. Sometimes guys got nicknames for strange reasons, Jimmy knew how Timmy had gotten his.

He heard a flush, and the stall door open and slam shut. He stood and pocketed the sunglasses. He liked his "contracts" to look into his eyes as he was doing them. He stepped from the stall. The guy was at the sink, washing up. The guy looked up, glancing in the pitted mirror. He was surprised to see a man in a yellow slicker behind him. Jimmy extended his long, index finger, and made a twirling motion. As if mesmerized by the motion, the guy turned around, hands dripping.

Clamping one of his hands over the guy's mouth and bending him back over the sink, Jimmy looked into his eyes and said, ""Stinky" Timmy, Henry, "the Bathrobe", says hello, and good fuckin' bye." Alarm registered on the man's face, but Jimmy, "the Finger" was already slicing through his solar plexus with the wedge of carving steel. The man raised his hands to struggle, and Jimmy stabbed him forcefully several more times. The light went out in his eyes, and Jimmy cut his throat. Sometimes people were hard to kill. It paid to be sure.

Jimmy emerged from the bathroom, anxious, now, to get back to Genie, and where they'd left off. There was no one in the greasy spoon to notice as he walked its’ length. Thick, dark blood covered the bright raincoat, and dripped from the carving knife. As he passed the cash register, the oblivious Indian looked up. Jimmy said, "You oughtta do something about that bathroom, there's a terrible mess back there." The Indian ignored him and went back to reading his paper.

Outside, it had started to storm. Rain washed the raincoat and the knife clean as Jimmy walked to his car.

Back at Genie's, Jimmy shook out the raincoat and hung it in the hall closet. In the kitchen, he replaced the knife in its wooden holder. He started to yell out, "Babe, I'm back!", when the familiar phut! phut! of a silencer echoed from the bedroom. He took the knife back out of its holder.

Whoever was in the bedroom would have to pass the kitchen on the way out. He waited.

Jimmy heard the bedroom door close silently. He could hear whoever it was unscrewing the silencer from his pistol as he came down the hall. A man in a rust colored suede jacket, Jimmy knew he'd seen before, passed the kitchen entranceway. Jimmy pounced.

The guy was good. He had the gun up under Jimmy's chin, even as Jimmy slammed him into the wall, and pressed the point of the knife against his jugular. He should be good. Jimmy had taught him everything he knew. It was his brother, Frankie "Milk Hands".

"Frankie, what the fuck..."

"Jimmy, what the fuck..."

Together, "What are you doin' here?"

"You first," said Jimmy.

"Business. Ronald, "the Whoremaster", "Lunch Box" Tony Gallante's number one, skims Tony for almost 4 mill, and drops off the face of the earth. Tony wants to send a message, he better stay off the face of the earth. He orders a whack on Ronald's daughter, "Hairy Legs" Genie."

"What!" Jimmy raced to the bedroom. Genie lay sprawled face down on the bed, in a flowered silk bed jacket, her brains splattered across the far wall. "Oh, shit! Oh, Fuck!"

Louder, heading back down the hall, "Frankie, what the fuck did you do?"

Frankie had screwed the silencer back on his pistol, when he heard Jimmy yell. After all, next to their mother, "Gnocchi" Nickie Spotto, "the Widow", Jimmy, "the Finger" was the most dangerous one in the family. Frankie knew. He'd been sitting next to their little brother, Joey, "No Nose" when Jimmy had put a bullet in his ear for getting the wrong address, and consequently causing the wrong hit on a 200G contract.

"It was business, Jimmy," Frankie said matter of factly, his milk white finger on the trigger.

"Did you know the slut?"

Jimmy's grip on the knife tightened and a vein in his temple throbbed visibly. "Know the slut!

Know the slut! She was my fuckin' girl friend. I was going to bring her home to meet Ma today. I was gonna marry her!"

"Geez, Jimmy, I'm sorry. How was I supposed to know. You keep everything so secret. Ma took the contract, and sent me right over. She wanted it done quick. She didn't want anything spoilin' dinner. You know it's a special event. Her god daughter, Millie, "the Pillow"

just graduated from Yale. It's a big celebration."

Jimmy, "the Finger", let out a long breath. He was crestfallen, but business was business, and the Spotto family had been in the business for centuries. Their mother, Nicholetta, "Gnocchi" Nickie, "the Widow" traced her line directly back to the Borgias and Medicis.

Jimmy wiped the knife clean of fingerprints, and replaced it in the kitchen. "C'mon, Frankie, help me clean up." Between them they wiped the place down for prints, then packed up the odd belongings and toiletries that Jimmy kept there.

As they were leaving, Jimmy said, "I don't know, Frankie, where am I gonna find another girl like "Hairy Legs" Genie?"

"Jimmy," said Frankie, his ghostly pale hand around his older brother's shoulder, "I know you're grievin'. But maybe there'll be a nice, stray piece at Millie, "the Pillow's" celebration dinner. This could all just be a bad memory by morning."

Jimmy smiled. Frankie always knew how to cheer him up. "C'mon, Ma'll kill us if we're late for dinner."

They both laughed. "Ain't that the truth."