The Ethical Hit Man

By Doug Walker

After a failed marriage and a feeling she must make her own way through life, Penny became a hit man. She intended to be the best, but only making the hit if the victim deserved it. Most did. Her skill brought wealth and fame among a certain select portion of the population.She tried bounty hunting, but found it distasteful. When an opportunity came to visit Africa to find and return a poor little rich boy who was rumored to have been raised by cheerful monkeys, the opportunity led to a life changing experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Walker
• Release date: Aug 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311407191

Doug Walker

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities. His first novel was “Murder on the French Broad,” published in 2010. Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

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The Ethical Hit Man

Doug Walker

Copyright 2015 by Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition

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Foreword

Penny Troy, one bad marriage at 18, entered her current profession at 24.

I grew up with guns, but I’m not a nutcase. Not about guns anyway. My Dad, rest his soul, was a middle management mobster. Some Sunday afternoons he and I would spend a couple or three hours at the range, trying out an assortment of handguns. Never long guns – Dad considered these either for amateurs or for entry level mob types sent on special jobs.

I am not now and never have been an actual mob member despite family ties. I do however have mob connections and am known to other types that some might class as the underworld which covers some characters you might want to have nothing to do with and might be better off for all of us on some distant planet. Although I wish them and anyone else who might come down the pike no ill will.

As you might guess from my stringing words together into reasonable thoughts that I tend to fancy the writing world. Matter of fact, sandwiched in the middle one might say of other creative enterprise, I have pieced together two years of two-year college, dedicate to literature and writing. Although this was not for genuine academic credit because I fell somewhat short of receiving a high school diploma although my old Dad said he could obtain one for me if that was my wish.

But this here, what you are reading now, marks my first plunge so to speak into the shallow lake of autobiography. One might think I haven’t walked the earth face sufficient for such an occasion, but truth to tell the intent is to be more in the nature of a journal – that is an ongoing tale of epic measurements.

Then again, one might think the word epic is ill used in this context. I have always meant to look it up in Webster, but have not seemed to find the time. But we, the lot of us, are dreamers and the word epic means something large with the possibility of excitement. Always in the back of my head has lurked the image of the hit man, a lonely figure on the horizon, Napoleon like, the romantic outcast, the solitary rider, quick with mercy, or quicker with a six-gun, possibly misunderstood.

You can see I had to transform this figure into my life and into my time. It’s a stone cold fact that we all must live in our time and survive the best we can. Your everyday, run of mine hit man would simply take a job, shoot someone and take the payoff. With a big score that individual might blow the cash on a vacation, fritter it away in gaming houses, or stick a share in the stock market for retirement purposes. Retirement for a mug like that might be three shots in the back in a rat infested alley. No bedside tears, no fawning family. You get my drift.

My twist to this profession, as I perceived it, is and was, should the hit be hit. Is there another way where everyone might come out on top? It might be a make love not war situation, although that is not the best example. More to the point is talk and negotiate. Using this approach might cause me to lose jobs on entering this profession. But I possessed something others did not. That is mob credentials. I was respected and it was assumed that I would complete any job I set out to do.

Here I would stress that I am not a cruel person. The sight or thought of blood is not something that would cause me to flinch or feel faint. But I’ve never understood those flesh eating animals such as lions, tigers, jackals, wolves and so forth killing and devouring another animal, possibly a vegetarian type, on the spot. Ripping through tough skin, cracking bones, unable to avoid intestines and disgusting areas, seemingly enjoying themselves after the thrill of the kill. I like a good steak as well as the next person, but for heaven’s sake! The thought of those carnivores feasting on vegetarians is unpleasant.

Now let us turn our attention to my first job which very likely might be better left unsaid, or unwritten. But this is a journal and I am going step by step. The name of the out of favor individual is Jarvis Craig who sits in a high quality office with the sign Craig Investments on the door. It is known to those employing me for this particular task that Craig resides in a substantial house, is driven to work each morning by his gardener, handyman, cook and has substantial funds tucked away possibly offshore, but also in various global stock and bond markets.

So I launch my career wearing a turban, not the type worn by those foreign ragheads, but a woman’s style that was popular some years ago. It hides my hair and part of my forehead. Not that I have anything to be ashamed of. I am a natural blond, somewhere between five six and five eight and have been careful about my weight since childhood. But I thought somewhat of a disguise might be in order. I had also smeared a little rouge on my cheeks, an adornment I had purchased for the occasion.

Craig’s office was on the eleventh floor of a midtown building. His secretary, who had the appearance of a hooker with her odd red dyed hair and peasant blouse, was doing her nails when I entered. She gave me a look and said she’s see if Mr. Craig was busy. He wasn’t.

I had told the secretary I was looking for an investment and Craig was all smiles at the prospect, standing and ushering me to a comfortable chair. After introducing myself as Rita, the two of us sat facing one another and he said cheerfully, Well, Rita, what can I do for you?

Quite a bit, I replied, explaining briefly who my employers were and my mission. His smile vanished.

I’m a businessman, Rita. And business is business, he said.

Just to set matters straight, Mr. Craig, I began, one of my employers gave you three hundred thousand dollars, the other shelled out a hundred thousand. They would like their money back with interest.

Of course they would, Rita. But we’ve been all through that. It was an investment. The money was to guarantee access to certain high value properties in the heart of the city prior to a building project which would have produced millions. Unfortunately, the city disapproved of the project. The option money was unrefundable. It’s as simple as that.

A deal gone bad?

You’ve got it. Your people have a right to be disappointed. But when you gamble on big bucks, you might lose. Life itself can be a crapshoot. They’ve asked for a refund more than once, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m a bit surprised that they’re still not satisfied.

Do you know who you’ve been dealing with, Mr. Craig?

He shrugged and glanced out the window, a single white cloud in the sky. Businessmen, investors, gamblers, folks like me. Everyone chases the buck.

But not everyone passes the buck if you know what I mean. I’m here with a message that this is your final notice to pay back the money with interest. My clients would like half a million in cash.

Craig smiled again. That is quite absurd. Where would I get the money? That’s water over the dam.

They think you have money. They know four hundred thousand went somewhere. It’s this disappearing cash that interests them. Who got it, where did it go?

I really don’t have time to discuss the details of high finance, Rita. You understand that.

My understanding, Jarvis, you don’t mind if I call you Jarvis do you, is you don’t have time to do much else but give my clients what they are asking. I consider myself a negotiator. Maybe we could reach some compromise. If you would come clean, admit your mistake, offer a considerable sum, maybe I could get my clients to agree. How about it?

Preposterous, Craig smiled broadly, almost broke into a laugh.

Jarvis, you don’t grasp the seriousness of the situation. I had a small pistol in my purse, a large caliber two-shot. I was tempted to flash it, but then, a person like Jarvis, he didn’t know my background, might think I was playacting.

Money is money and business is business, he replied, using a stern voice.

Who’s playacting now, I wondered. Jarvis, I may be the best friend you ever had, or I may be your last friend. I’m willing to negotiate your case. My clients are fed up. Something has to give.

Your friends lost their money and that’s that, he said rising and with a final tone.

I too stood. You know who they are and how they can be reached. If you have a change of heart, please call one of them. You can negotiate directly, or I’ll return. The ball’s in your court, Jarvis. Try to have a good day.

For the next two days, I huddled in a doorway across from his building and watched him be possibly the first to arrive. He stepped from the car, slammed the door and the car pulled away before he reached the building. He was an early riser. But would knock off early from his office, often meeting clients for drinks. I was told by my clients, who had place him under scrutiny, that many of his dealing were legitimate, some were borderline legit and they felt they had been scammed. He definitely picked the wrong cowboys to scam.

The afternoon of that second day I was tempted to call and ask if he might still change his mind. But I asked myself, what would he say and came up with, business is business. So why make a possibly fatal mistake.

The next morning I was in his doorway when his car arrived. He stepped out, slammed the door, the car pulled away, no one else in sight. As he approached the door, he saw me and smiled. Rita, we meet again…

Famous last words. As he spoke I lifted a .38 revolver from my purse, put a pair of shots in the vicinity of his heart, was around the corner in a flash before he was fully on the pavement, in my car and moving, careful not to violate the law. Early morning, a great time to be out and about, plenty of parking, no need to feed the meter.

Back to my building within minutes, car in the garage, a few steps to my favorite breakfast spot. You’re up early, Penny. What’ll it be?

Bagel and marmalade, keep the coffee coming. A troubling question in the back portion of my brain, what had gone wrong, what hadn’t I said to Craig? There must be room for improvement. As a hit it had come off without a hitch, but I wanted more than that. Then it came to me. I was just starting out, baby steps. A person must crawl before they can walk. I grabbed a newspaper and buried myself in the comics. Bagels, marmalade, coffee, a clean hit, Dad would be proud.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

Always, I am philosophic. My Dad used to say I had my head in the clouds, that is when he wasn’t saying reach up and pull your head out of your ass. That’s why little things creep under my skin. Like this crime family garbage. Like I’m a member of a crime family, like I’m not embedded in the upper crust,