Envoy

A

Short Story

He waited in anticipation. He checked the time on his watch. It was nearing eight o' clock and getting late. This place was empty and abandoned, just the way he'd needed it to be. The idea of even fathoming such a task brought out nervous ticks: lighting and blowing cigarette smoke in the cool, night breeze, checking his cellular phone every ten minutes to see if his wife would message him concerning his whereabouts.

He stood in a large, abandoned alleyway with his car parked in between two broken down factory buildings, with broken down windows, or wooden boards replaced the windows that were missing. What was once an old factory that brought in more work for the paupers, was now a rundown building where kids used its brick surface as a graffiti canvas.

8:15? Damn felt like an hour went by, he thought to himself.

He walked around, kicking rocks, debris, whatever. Something to keep him occupied. Opening his jacket, he checked the shiny, chrome object inside his coat pocket. One with six chambers and one cylinder. He used one hand for the grip, and the other to check if loaded. It was.

8:35.

The anticipation sent shivers down his spine. He knew once 9:30 hit, he would deliver a message, and that message would be permanent. He fixed his black, leather jacket. His breath became visible in puffs of air. He displayed his ambidexterity, checking a message on his phone with one hand while smoking with the other. The one sentence he spotted, and caught his eye, was: "once you see him, you know what to do."

Snitches get stitches.

8:45.

And going too far'll wound 'em up in ditches, he thought.

It would be nine o clock soon, and his patience became a strand of yarn hovering over open scissors. He then started to wonder, was the guy he waited for punctual? Maybe he'd be here early. There were many adjectives to select for his arrival man: punctual, reliable, gullible, unsuspecting. Just making the typical guesses, he thought to himself. Personally, I never met this fucking guy.

Nine o' clock is sure taking its sweet, damn time, he thought.

He leaned against his new Buick, puffing on another cigarette, emitting puffs of smoke from his mouth and nostrils. He stood there, thinking and wondering what was going to happen once 9:30 came. He'd play it out in his mind. He'd do "the job" his employers sent him to do, then he'd get into his car, head home, and kiss his adoring, ignorant wife.

But, truthfully, he needed money is why he'd taken the job. If anything, it was faster than two weeks of grueling labor, in which he became whimsical, only to come across a $500 check, which lead to a stifling effort to make it to the next staggering check. Struggling to make ends meet was the primary factor (as cliché as it sounded) and it was only time before "this guy" showed up. He didn't have a name, just a description: short, blonde hair, like one of those pretty boy pop singers, always thinks he's styling in some fancy schmancy coat. You know, he's some Justin Bieber look-alike.

9:10.

He moved to the trunk of his Buick, keeping his guard down for the time being, yet, utilizing his peripheral vision to watch the alley opening out of the corner of his eye. He withdrew his jingling set of keys from his coat pocket and turned them in the appropriate keyhole of the car trunk. The trunk made a loud pop as he lifted it open. Inside, he spotted the reason why they wanted this young man dead, and why they sent him to do "the job." And, yes, he had taken "the job"—although what they were after was in his trunk—all $250 large. Once "the job" was over, he'd vacate along with his wife back home. He wasn't sure where to, or what they'd do there, but the ideas floated in his head like a fortune-telling 8-ball: The Bahamas? That wasn't too cliché was it? Maybe another country like Sicily? He'd get to understand the roots of his family tree for once. Even his wife would benefit from it, seeing as they both shared nationalities. He shrugged with the cigarette dangling from his lips as he shut the trunk again. His gain would equal some unlucky guy's misfortune.

Fourteen minutes remained.

Man, I gotta piss, he thought. He felt like it could come out at any given moment. A few cars passed periodically, but not that magic car. Instead, he extinguished the red tip of his cigarette, not wanting to waste an entire cigarette, but to save it for later. He'd need it after someone was willing to get shot in his place—and not realize they were taking a bullet in his place. His celebratory cigarette. He walked to the back of the abandoned alley, searching for any alley rats, stray dogs, or anything amongst the bundle of garbage cans. He felt a vibration in his jacket pocket, followed by a little buzzing. He unzipped.

Hopefully, nothing jumps out from the shadows and bites my dick off.

He felt the flow of liquid pour out onto the brick wall in front of him. That relaxed him. He felt somewhat refreshed. Once he zipped back up, he turned back to the trunk of his car and made sure it was secure. He checked his gun once again, and the time.

Five minutes.

Now time seemed to be picking up speed. He straightened out his jacket, sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled, creating a stream of his breath through the cold air. He thought about this town, this ghetto, this whatever-you-call-it. Back when this factory was up and moving, when he was just a kid, it meant something to be alive. People had jobs, children could be children, people would come and go, and he didn't have a care in the world. He felt as if he belonged in that era, not this one. As if the old era were a taxi, riding him along until it dropped him off in this new day and age, only to leave him behind and never return, never to look back at him.

I'm just an outta touch, outta place ol' man, that's all. I deserve this money. I hate it'd have to come down to this, but—oh well.

9:32.

He'd lost track of time. He slipped his gun back into his jacket pocket as he spotted headlights. It'd be best if he stepped out into the open, so that way the guy would see the meeting place for "the job." His footsteps meeting with the surface of the pavement, he stepped out into the opening of the road, realizing the car in passing wasn't who he'd expected. The car sped by, its sound contrasting from loud to shrinking. Once it left, he checked his watch.

9:38.

This guy ain't punctual, he thought. He walked back to his car and sat inside. He turned on the radio to some old, soft, rock music. He reclined for a moment back in his seat, staring ahead at the open alley before him. Waiting and watching.

9:55.

Now, this guy was every name in his mind but "late." He whipped out his cellular phone and went to text his employer, typing: your guy didn't make it. Heading home to the wife. Once he sent the message, he waited for a response. Nothing came back right away, but what he received next made him look up in a shock.

Look up. The text read.

He did just that. Once it told him so, he spotted a figure in the dark. He could only hear the pounding of his heart: babum, babum, babum, babum, babum. He realized what was happening. A stone look covered his face. He was a freeze frame of a man holding his cellular phone. What am I to do? He wondered. His mind began to race even when he saw that the silhouette was holding a gun in his hand. His hand was too far from his jacket, so he knew he couldn't try to reach for his revolver. He tried to duck down and fumble for his keys. Two shots rang out as they pierced the windshield. He felt pieces of glass rain on him. He felt around in his pockets until he found the keys. He quickly placed them into the ignition and fired up the engine. The person moved in closer to his car. Bam! Bam! Bam! The last sounds of gunshots that he heard. Two hot, wet rounds burned into his chest, and the final one went into his skull.

Everything faded to black.

***

As the young man walked to his car, he picked up the cellular phone and typed in: I finished the job. I'll prove to you that I didn't take the money. It was Grant. Meet me in the alleyway soon if you don't believe me. He tossed the phone at the corpse. He used the dead, old man's keys, popping open the trunk to his Buick, spotting a crisp wad of bills hanging from a duffel bag.