Enter Apathy

Deal (5.)

Seven o'clock, in front of Filly's Sandwich Shop, Lilliana waits for her hitman. The night air is chilly. People and vehicles bustle about the city, weaving in and out of shops and roads. Neon lights shine bright and cast off hints of reminiscence, making Lilliana's bones tingle. The bright lights in the nighttime and people scurrying remind her of her first few years on her own in this city. She used to be so timid, afraid of any person that rounded the corner or that bumped into her. These days, she knows how to handle the overwhelming crowds. She searches through the faces around her; she sees couples, mothers with their children, families out for dinner, and the occasional loner passing by to get to their destination. Not a single person she sees yet fits the profile of a hired killer. Everyone is walking or rushing to be someplace, her man would be standing still. Finally, she spots him. He stands on the opposite side of the door to the shop, smoking a cigarette. He doesn't look like all the other city dwellers here; there's a rural hint to him. She assumes he lives in the countryside. Moments pass as she stares at him, mentally urging him to look her way. Someone trained to find people and kill them have to be aware of their surroundings, so she figures he'll look this way any minute now. And then, he does. The man makes long eye contact with her, then walks over to her, puffing on his cigarette.

Lilliana leans her head sideways at him, prompting him to be the first to speak.

He exhales smoke and asks, "Amber?" His eyes roam her body, assessing if she is the person he's supposed to meet or not.

She nods, wondering if she should tell him her real name. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating that they should walk and talk.

Lilliana looks up at him while they move past people, saying, "I didn't know if you'd get my email in time to meet me here."

Nodding, he replies, "I honestly almost missed it. I caught it two hours before seven. I had to take a lot of trains to get here." His voice is gruff, and his accent isn't quite American.

Clearing her throat, Lilliana starts, "There's something I need to admit to you. I don't have the kind of money it takes to pay for this service."

Still walking, he looks at her face and frowns, "Why contact me if you can't pay?"

"I was thinking maybe there's another way I could pay you," Lilliana fidgets with the rim of her coat pocket.

     He laughs out loud, "I don't trade sex for murder."

"I wasn't talking about sex. I don't have much to offer but I was hoping you'd be willing to compromise."

The man stares ahead silently, his attention caught by a green and red blinking sign in a store window that reads, Open.

"Can you do it?" Lilliana's right eyebrow raises, prompting reassurance. The man beside her, Kalaraja, chuckles under his breath. Condensation fogs around his face before he brings a lit cigarette to his smiling lips and inhales.

"Can you provide payment?" His heavy accent bleeds though his voice; if she had to guess his dialect, she would assume Scandinavian. He tilts his head back to blow out smoke and more condensation. His eyes roam the wet, dark street they walk down, along with the buildings and street lights reflecting against surfaces and puddles, which causes nostalgia to flood his brain. It's on nights like these he feels he can really breathe.

Lilliana pulls her hood close to her neck, and shoves her hands deep into her coat pockets.

Clearing her throat, she mumbles, "I already told you I don't have that kind of money." Keeping up with the pace of his steps proves to be quite a challenge, considering he stands a full foot and eight inches taller than her. After hearing her reply, he only seems to walk faster. He's enjoying the fact that I have to practically run to keep up with him, she thinks to herself.