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49
Whistler
Wild Oaks Motel
Fort Lee, New Jersey
Friday
Only his mom and his sister called him Oliver, his father didn’t call him anything. He liked what everyone called him now better—Whistler. With that name, he enjoyed being both feared and admired by those in the profession. He even called himself Whistler when he finished a job and always smiled into a mirror and whispered, “Well done, Whistler.”
But he couldn’t say that this time. He sat on the side of the crappy bed, his hands clasped between his knees, an empty pizza box beside him. For the first time in his professional life, he’d failed. Not once, but twice. It burned, burned deep.
He hadn’t wanted to run down that damned woman reporter, it was too uncertain, like shoving rich Aunt Mildred down the stairs, no broken neck guaranteed. It was his agent who’d told Whistler the person he worked for wanted it done that way. He could have finished it if not for that idiot kid shouting at him, even with the reporter scooting behind those overstuffed garbage cans. How was he to know garbage was picked up the next morning in that neighborhood?
And the second job, the second failure. Two clean shots center mass that should have dumped the target right into his grave. How was he to know an FBI agent was right there on the street to call an ambulance? Obviously the principal hiring him hadn’t known that either.
His agent had told him the principal had called, screamed at him for incompetence. Well, it was true it was his fault, and Whistler had acknowledged it, what could he say? There were always circumstances, but he was fast on his feet, and he’d never failed before. Now he’d have to make it right. Not the reporter—the principal took her off the table for the moment—but Harper had to die. There was still a good possibility he would, everyone said so. If he did live, Whistler would have to find a way into the hospital and pull his plug once and for all. Without getting caught. Well, he’d managed harder jobs.
He looked over at the crappy TV sitting on top of an equally crappy dresser, the picture wavering enough to give him a headache. He saw a news report with that Harrington dude up on a dais, looking like a regular tragic hero, giving his withdrawal speech. He listened with half an ear to the garbage flowing like smooth honey out of Harrington’s mouth when he heard Harrington say the target’s name—Kent Harper—and he straightened like a shot. What was going on here? What was that all about? His agent had told him Harper had to die because he knew some things that couldn’t get out, but that was all. A reporter shouted out something about Harper and sexual improprieties. What a stupid way of saying he liked to screw around. He wouldn’t be much of a man if he didn’t, would he? And it was Harper and Harrington together? Was Harper blackmailing Harrington? Or maybe Harper had screwed the wrong man’s wife?
Whistler decided he didn’t really care what it was all about. In his experience, everyone was always screwing around on everyone else, trying to gain an advantage, no matter what it took. He’d get his one hundred thousand dollars. If it looked like Harper would live, he’d just have to kill him before the doctors let the cops question him.
He took a deep breath, upended his Coors can, swallowed the warm beer. He tossed the can into the stingy wastebasket, got up, and began to pace. He was proud of his record. No way would he allow anyone to ruin it, not some schmuck in a freaking hospital.
Whistler paced the skinny room back and forth, and each time he did, he walked by the bed with its cheap faded chenille bedspread. He wished there’d been a room at the Holiday Inn down the road. At least he’d get good breakfasts and the maids wouldn’t have cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, looking at him like he was some sort of rodent.
But he always kept to his deals, and this low-end piece of crap motel was close to I-95 and a quick exit, or an easy drive back to Bellevue Hospital.
A spear of light splashed across one of the dingy walls and he automatically started his shadow play his mother had taught him when he was a kid. Now it was a lifelong habit that eased his mind and relaxed him. He stretched his fingers, turned them this way and that until he saw Brutus, a huge mongrel from his neighborhood, a mean bugger who used to chase the kids. He wiggled Brutus’s nose, his ears, then gracefully segued into a rooster that had no name, twisting his fingers just so to form a rooster’s comb. He finished off with an alligator he’d named Lou, who always made him smile.
Whistler had nothing more to do now but wait and hope Harper died nice and easy in Bellevue. Then his agent would deposit the rest of his money, minus his own 20 percent, and he could go home.
But why was a fricking FBI agent surveilling Harper?
The door crashed inward, and a man shouted, “Down, now! On your belly, hands behind your head. Now!”
He dove for his gun on the table beside the bed, but a bullet caught him behind his left knee, and his leg gave way. They were all over him before he could crawl to the table.
He heard a woman say, “Hey. And what have we here?”
Whistler raised pain-filled eyes to a red-haired woman holding his burner cell phone.
