CHAPTER TWO

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by UmbertoTosi

by UmbertoTosi

I am Felix Cutter. You'll never know my real name. This will do. What would it matter if you're dead? I would see to that if you ever found me out.

Count your blessings. I'll never know you either. But by this, at least, know something of me. A man's got to leave his testament – some trace of himself as he leaves, at the top of his game.

My function is to erase. I am one well suited for that necessary societal function – a talent finely honed. Only here do I turn a pencil to its intended task. I won't tell all, only enough to give you some sense of me, and perhaps of your own complicity, unwittingly or not, in my necessary evils.

I offer Las Vegas – where I now find myself – as a prime example, this mirage of bad taste, excess and illusions, a theater for suckers and pretenders. Don't ask what's behind the scenery, what's in the drinks, what deeds keep the fountains splashing, lights flashing, jackpots dinging, dice clicking, buffets groaning, tits flying, profits pouring in twenty-four-seven? You think boy scouts replaced the old mobsters?

See me? I'm the one in the baggy Bermudas, the Viva Las Vegas tee shirt, cheap sunglasses and flip flops – another suburban slob on his dream vacation. I'm so lucky, with my handful of free chips, and watery bourbon in hand. The disguise will do. This is me doing my Elvis fan impersonation, doing my job, just like the stoic dealers at the blackjack tables so politely taking your money. I don't particularly like this town, but here I pick up the trail.

Like you, none of my clients – nor their flunkies and intermediaries – ever set eyes on me. I take pains that they know nothing of me personally – whether I'm tall or short, thin or fat, older, young, color of eyes, hair, skin, my gait, whether I am gay, straight, male or female.

All contact is at arms length, with military style security protocols. I can hack anything, use technology in ways you can't imagine. But I am strictly off-grid when it comes to making arrangements. I insist on couriers only. My clients know the drill. Send a nobody to a designated clandestine rendezvous, cell phone batteries removed – with sealed, coded instructions, verifiable evidence of funds transferred offshore. I will make the hapless and expendable courier disappear. Sorry about that.

I'm almost insulted by the triviality of this assignment. A tribute act? Will they want me to a series – next, a Tom Jones, then a Sting, then a Neil Diamond, Frank Sinatra? Should I over a group rate for offing a rat pack act? But I must maintain my professionalism. What difference does it make?

They complicated matters by botching a first attempt badly. Amateur stagy stuff – faking a sleeping pill suicide, trying to play on some celebrity look-alike nonsense. Any first class investigator would have seen through it if it had succeeded. Predictably, the target survived the attempt and slipped out of their grasp.

This pathetic faux Marilyn – he or she – won't get far. I have a lead.

You may ask: Who would pay my astronomical fee just to rub out another lounge act lizard? His show can't be that bad. Can't be for gambling debts, gang war, snitching or light-fingered bookkeeping. Marilyn-boy must have shaken those fake tits where they don't belong.

I never question the fairness or wisdom of my clients. And I neither pity nor despise my targets. I simply perform my task with swift, seamless precision, take the money and disappear. Those are the aesthetics of my profession. For the sport of it, however – and as insurance – I make it my business to know more about my clients than they ever reveal to me. After all, I could become a target myself one day.

Beyond precaution, knowledge is power and it is my passion. I'm the curious kind. Unbeknown to them, I follow the chain of hiring fools right to the top – including, always, the plausibly deniable principal to whom benefit always accrues – the deep pocket of power and wealth, the pearl-gated, gilt-edged, entitled pasha basking in respectability. He may never care to know whom his factotums have hired for the dirty work. But I know him and where he lives, just in case.

I hate this being my last job. I had visualized something grander – an assassination, some magic, a breathtaking, memorable Jimmy Hoffa-style disappearance. But then, this second-rate caper demonstrates a reason for my exit, stage left, before the inevitable decline faced by all artists who don't know when to quit.

(Next: Chapter 3)

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