This Isn't How The Story Ends--Issue #10

By Karl Bickerstaff

A dark gray Mercedes pulled into the parking garage. It swept through the mostly deserted structure before coming to a halt next to a large concrete pillar. Two men stepped out, one tall and thin, the other shorter and thicker.

“And remember, you’ll only have about 10 seconds alone with him in the elevator.”

The short man nodded. “That’s plenty of time. Just a quick hit and–” he made a slashing motion at his throat.

“Just keep it clean. You know how I am about messes.”

The tall man extracted a pipe from a pocket of his trench coat and lit it. A thin stream of smoke curled up toward the roof.

“You’re sure he’ll be here?” queried the short man.

“Confident. He’ll be here. Nothing could keep him away from an Antonio Vivaldi concert.”

The short man shrugged. “You’d better be right. I don’t want to have to do this again.”

“There won’t be an again.” The tall man turned to face the short one. “If he doesn’t die today, you’re out. Or rather, in. You know I have the evidence to get you the chair. The only reason I’m not turning you in is because I like you.”

“What?”

The tall man sighed. “Not like that. I like your… shall we say, professional talents.”

“Oh. Right.” The short man glanced away briefly.

“You’d better get ready. If I’m not mistaken–and remember, I never am–he should be at the elevator in about,” he checked his watch, “fourteen minutes.”

The short man nodded. “I’m already ready.” He touched a hand to his pocket. “Quick and quiet.”

“See you round, Joseph.”

Joseph grinned maliciously. “Not a chance, Inspector. After he’s dead, I doubt you’ll be seeing me again.”

He started off across the empty lot toward the exit. The Inspector watched him thoughtfully.

“Not a bad man. Pity he’ll fail.”