A "Titanic" Conspiracy

3 Face of Evil

Kyle Lebeau had returned to Southampton after a week in Belfast Ireland. It hadn't been a vacation, in fact it took a considerable amount of time to wash the blood off his hands. That was usually the reason for his travels. He would say it was for business, and it was; his business was killing people. Someone ticked someone off, or someone didn't pay up, or someone screwed the wrong man's wife. His job was to make them answer.

He wasn't made privy to the reason someone had to be offed. It wasn't any of his business anyways. Who gives a shit? They shouldn't have fucked up. Hence, he couldn't possibly know that the man he killed in Belfast was one of the laborers who spent three years building the largest and highly luxurious passenger ships of its time. He didn't know that said victim could place his employer to a huge cover up, that would wind up keeping Kyle busy for the next few days.

He was now approaching a bench at an almost empty park. Two benches were back to back, one of which was presently occupied by a person with a thick mustache and glasses, topped off with a ridiculous hat like a fisherman would wear.(like Gilligan's hat on Gilligan's island if your wondering.)

He sat at the bench behind the person looking nonchalant. After a short pause he cleared his throat.

"I'm back from Belfast."

The person behind him nodded, unbeknownst to Kyle. "Um um."

Kyle continued. "Some poor schmuck shot himself in the head."

The person behind him praised him. "Good, now there is another matter that needs looking into."

There's always someone. it seemed to Kyle that someone typically had to die so the wealthy could be happy. Maybe they just liked knowing somebody died at their whim. Some deranged power trip or something. Maybe they got their jollies knowing they had that affluence. But was he himself really any different? They payed him well. They payed him damn well. But to make that kind of fiscal earning, someone ultimately had to die. Who gives a shit?

The person behind him continued. "My sources say that agents are looking into something I'd rather they didn't know about. They got an investigator from here in Southampton. I don't know his name yet, but I'll get it for you soon enough.

"Shit you still ain't paid me for services rendered."

He liked talking like that. Sounded professional. Sounded damn professional.

The person reached across the bench toward him, handing him a nearly open envelope with no small amount of funds. It was humorous to Kyle that all of this secrecy, and his employer would pay him for all the world to see. He didn't hide his laughter, and the person behind him almost shuttered at the sound he/she evidently didn't know what the hell they were doing.

"Just look into it for Christ sake. (Forgive me Lord for my French.) "I'll keep in touch, then get rid of the problem."

The person walked off toward the rising sun. They never turned, or stopped for any reason. Just another rich guy with a vendetta.

Kyle lit a cigarette and puffed on it a few times. Someone was gonna die. Someone always had to die for the rich assholes. Who gives a shit?