Strictly Business

The hazy, dim streetlights burn above me, illuminating a mere fleck onto the New York City streets.  Those poor souls that have not already burned out only give but a tiny glow. Truthfully, the city has all but deteriorated.  Ever since the stock market crash a few years ago in 1929, no one had the money for maintenance.  No one had the money for anything.

I could replace the bulbs if I wanted.  I have the money to replace every last one in New York City.  But what can I say?  I wouldn't dare draw that much attention to myself.  Besides, I prefer working in the dark.

In all honesty, money isn't hard to make if you know what you are doing.  Technically, I have a man's job, but I still hold the title of the most valuable operative in the guild.  I have accomplished more assignments than any man.  My husband of course, knows nothing of what I do.  After tonight, he never will.

One thing that I have learned as an operative is that I do not always like the assignments that I am given.  There are times when my assignment involves an acquaintance, or a friend.  However, it is not my decision to make.  It is not my place to argue.  My job is strictly business.  I am given a task, I complete it, and I earn money.  That's how it works.

This job is going to be particularly stressful for me.  I wonder about the best way to carry out the task while causing as few issues as possible.  Somehow, even with my successful completion of over 40 assignments, I have not been convicted of a single offense.  The last thing I would want to do is frame myself.  However, this task is going to be a bit harder to slip out of.  I will certainly be questioned, so I must rely on another one of my few talents: lying.

I will cross that bridge after I am finished.  Right now, I need to focus on the task at hand.  As I walk down the empty street toward my apartment building, I wonder if I should take a risk and ask another member of the guild to carry out the duty.  A gust of wind brings me back to my senses.

"Of course not," I whisper only to myself.  I am valued as the most reliable member of the guild.  I never dare to turn down an assignment, and I never fail.  Now is not the time to disappoint.  Besides, my boss was generous enough to pay me double my usual salary for this task, all things considered.  Backing out now could cost me my job.   

I take a deep breath as I enter my lavish apartment building, one of the nicest in the city.  The ten flights of the stairs toward my penthouse become more and more agonizing with every step.  I force myself to keep walking, up the stairs and down the hallway.  Even unlocking the door seems unmanageable.  Nevertheless, I shove the key in and as quietly as possible, open the door.

I lay my purse on the side table in the living room, and reach for the false floorboard under the antique Victorian rug.  There, I find my box of utensils.  I will have to get rid of them.  I take out my favorite knife from the lot and place it in my skirt pocket.  The rest must be removed from the apartment.  Thinking quickly, I take the box and dump the contents out of my back kitchen window into the river below.

"Strictly business," I assure myself.  "Strictly business."

The bedroom door is tightly closed.  I open it and slip into the room without making a sound.  As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice something wrenching; it makes me freeze where I stand.  My husband, as expected, is asleep.   It is the woman next to him that makes my jaw drop open.

Any plan I have of being merciful or humane is gone.  I hastily approach the bedside, and hold the knife just above his chest.  "No," I think as I change my mind.  "I want him to be awake for this."  Putting on my most vengeful smirk, I gently shake his arm to wake him. 

"Antonia?" he asks, awaking from his deep slumber.  It only takes him a moment to realize that I have caught him in the act.  "No," he says.  "It's not- "

I am quick to interrupt him.  I simply place a finger to his lips and smile.

"Don't worry," I reply.  "You've only made my job easier."

With a swift motion, I twirl the knife around my fingers and sink it into his chest. 

He barely makes a sound, just a quiet gasp of air.  Within seconds, his body goes limp. As briskly as possible, I place the blood covered knife in the hand of the sleeping woman, and leave the room, shutting the door behind me. 

I saunter into the parlor and pick up my new telephone.  As I dial 911, I prepare myself for the best performance of my life.  Not even my acting career from before the stock market crash will be able to match up to this.  As the operator answers my call, I frantically cry and gasp that I have found my beloved husband, dead.