Benji Haling
10/10/15
Instructor Ed O' Casey
Creative Writing
La Mouture
In the downtown streets of LA people tend to be more awake at night than in the morning. During the day people slouch in their desk chairs and spend much of their time checking the clock and trying not to get coffee stains on their work tie. At night people are bustling about, going from bar to bar, club to club; trying not to get mugged in between. La Mouture has been the latest hotspot and is the club I'll be attending tonight.
It's a Sunday night and my wife has to teach preschoolers in the morning so I kiss her goodnight.
"Will you be coming back to bed soon, Henry?" she asks.
"Yes dear, I'm just going to make sure the kids are asleep, grab a late night snack, and check my email."
Not a complete lie I think to myself as I walk to the children's room; merely neglected the fact that I'd also be going to La Mouture to meet a particular woman with hair like a waterfall of pennies. I crack the door open a smidge and find my daughters, Calypso and Hazel, fast asleep. They both took after their mom with dark brown eyes versus my grey. Silently, I slip out of the house and take a cab down 51st street, taking a right on Terry Drive, and then a left onto Livewell Alley.
"Thanks for the ride. Keep the change and swing around in 25 minutes."
The cabbie driver nods and peels away. Entering the club, I slide the wedding ring off my finger and slip it into my pocket.
The club probably would have seemed quite resplendent if I took the time to soak it in. Flashing lights, colorful dresses, loud music, and people dancing. During the day these people were dutiful and loyal bankers, representatives, doctors, lawyers, and chairmen. Here at La Mouture, people were less focused on professional dedication and more on hot fornication. Even as I walk to the bar I notice a local congressman at a booth bouncing a stripper on his lap, his hand moving its way down her bodice. I fervently down a few scotches to settle my nerves and close up the tab. I see the woman and I don't plan on spending much time at the club. Her red curls reach half way down her flowing white dress, or at least the dress would seem white if it didn't give off an indigo glow from the black lights. A heavier set fellow walks up to her and taps her on the shoulder but she shoos him away. Now that she's facing my direction I can see the cute spray of freckles across her small nose. I wonder if she has any kids of her own at home. Shut up Jeremy, you can't be thinking that way. I walk up to her and ask for a dance.
"Sorry, I'm waiting for someone" she politely responds with a brilliant white smile. Her accent is easily distinguished as Russian.
"Would that someone happen chance be a Jeremy?"
"Jeremy Stakes! Sorry, I didn't recognize you. You look even more handsome in person."
I give a soft laugh and lightly put my hands around her waist. Her bum rubs against my crotch and my lips play delicately across her neck. She lets out a soft giggle as she feels a part of me get rigid. My wife looks well for her age and still turns me on but this Russian beauty has a way about her.
"Tell me about the work that you do" she asks as her body rocks back and forth against mine. I give her the same lie I give my wife, an advertisement agency that works for Times Magazine. I ask her a few questions of my own to assure myself she is in fact who I want. I don't talk too much because I don't want to get personal. The more emotional bridges I create the guiltier I feel. No more emotional bridges. I'll need to stop someday for the kids' sake if not my darling wife, whom I love even though I need to lie to her. But tonight is not the night. Perhaps this will be my last time. That's what I tell myself every time. This is the last one. I erase my mind of these thoughts and pinch Anastasia's tight ass. A nice Russian name. No more emotional bridges.
After two more songs I steel myself and step a foot away. She turns around wondering why I stopped. She looks at me with a lustful twinkle in her eyes and bites her lip. She probably thinks I plan on asking her back to my place, do some of the things I mentioned over text. Instead I take the K-Bar hidden within the inside pocket of my blazer and thrust the sharp black edge into her left lung. She gasps and her grimacing face is no longer pretty and graceful. Her lips contort to something from a Grinch movie and her eyes are glazed with pure terror, the glimpse of a monster reflecting off her pupils. Bright red blood clings to her short white dress and glints from all the flashing lights. I grab her before she can fall and pretend to dance with her convulsing body towards the bathroom.
There are already two women in the bathroom when I enter. I lunge forward and slit the throat of the woman washing her hands before she even has the chance to scream, not that it would matter with the loud music. A club is actually a strategic place to commit an assassination. Everyone is moving, loud, and there are numerous suspects the police have to sort through. With the flick of my wrist a smaller blade in my left hand shoots right into the back of the neck of the other woman running for the door, mascara smeared across her face. God fucking damnit, why couldn't she have put her makeup on at home. They weren't the target but I can't risk any eye witnesses. I wish I could say that I get used to it but I still take pills to fall asleep at night.
I walk back to the redhead and take a picture of her lifeless form with my cellphone. I text the picture to my client, then flush the burner phone down the toilet. I need the payout. Once you're in you can't get out. My blazer is covered in blood so after placing a few hairs from some unfortunate man I passed in the club on it to lure the cops away, I throw it in the trash.
Besides, cops always look for a motive, a personal connection. Funny. As much as I try to distance myself from my targets, there's something depressingly intimate about killing another human being. Fucking bridges.
Walking to the exit of the bathroom I notice an old polaroid picture that fell out of the purse of the woman that was cleaning her hands. Careful to not leave fingerprints, I flip the picture over. There's a little boy in a birthday hat sitting in front of a large pizza with candles in it. The boy couldn't have been any older than my own daughters. The woman wasn't my target. Fuck, I need another drink. I had to. She saw me. It was her family or mine. I wouldn't have had enough time if she made it to a guard. My family needs me. Make it 3 drinks and a cigar. I seal the bathroom door on my way out and head for the club's front doors.
As I step into the cab and place the wedding ring back on my finger the metal feels cold.
