The Short List

  THE SHORT LIST

  A Bricks and Cam Job

  Frank Zafiro

  Eric Beetner

  Copyright © 2016 by Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Short List

  About the Authors

  Also by the Authors

  The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles

  Preview from Screen Test by Jerry Kennealy

  Preview from Grand Trunk and Shearer by Ian Truman

  Preview from A Cougar’s Kiss by Frank De Blase

  To my Boston life: the lousy apartments, the hardcore shows

  at the Rat, long walks through history, rooftops on Beacon Hill

  and four of the best (and coldest) years of my life.

  —Eric

  For my friend, Dave Mather. Thanks for bringing me along.

  —Frank

  1

  CAMERON

  Time never moves slower than when the guy you’re supposed to kill is late to the appointment for his own death. So I sat in the corner table listening to yet another forgotten hit of the seventies and eighties and took baby sips on my beer. Couldn’t get sloppy on a job night.

  I kept my eyes on the door and on Bricks as she sat at the bar, empty stool beside her. Every time someone would come up and try to sit she’d say she was waiting for a friend or that her girlfriend was in the bathroom. If this guy didn’t show soon the people standing at the bar top elbowing in for drinks were gonna start to get pissed.

  It had been more than nine months since Bricks and I began working together, about the length of a pregnancy and our little murder-for-hire business was about to be delivered a stillborn. Yeah, business was slow.

  Since our blood-soaked exit from the family, she and I thought there would be a ton of work mopping up the turf war between the New England factions and the Florida douchebags intent on squashing them. Not so much. We seemed to have done such a good job of beheading the New York office that very little stood in the way of a Florida takeover and, brother, they invaded like a swarm of those big flying palmetto bugs they got down there.

  We took the occasional cheating spouse job, two corporate jobs—Wall Street, of course—and a whole lot of nothing. This jackass about to arrive at the bar would be maybe the last step between us hanging up our gun belts or staying locked and loaded for the next call to come in.

  We even took our show on the road for this one. Boston. A good town, if you can deal with the most obnoxious sports fans this side of Philadelphia. Or if you can get past the accent. Give me a good dose of Brooklyn or Staten Island twang any day over the dropped Rs and nasally whine.

  This guy was in international finance. A real piece of work. Swiss, I think. At least he was in town on business from Switzerland. He had a long list of fetishes and sexual deviances, so the way to set him up was through his crotch, which led to Bricks and me working as a team for the first time. Usually when we got a client we would split it up. One person would help with the legwork and setting up the how and where of a hit, but we’d let one of us alone go do the job. We’d both come from a solo career and that’s where we felt comfortable. At least, I did. I think Bricks wanted to stay out of my line of fire, to be honest. I had a history of, shall we say, jobs that required cleanup. I’d been much better since she and I went into business together. Maybe the old gal was rubbing off on me.

  So the setup was this: Bricks parks herself at this swanky Copley Square bar right next to the hotel where Mr. Swiss is staying. We got here a few days early and noticed he stops in almost every night for a few drinks before heading to bed, usually with the intent on finding a woman to bring upstairs with him. He was batting zero from what we’d witnessed. This was good for us. He’d be horny.

  Look, I’ve grown to love Bricks like a sister, but Paula Brickey is not a traditional beauty. She’d tell you the same. But for this horny Swiss bastard, all we needed her to be was available.

  At first she was definitely not excited about the plan, but she came around when we both realized it was our best bet to get him away from a crowd. She was sitting at the bar like a spider perched on the edge of a freshly made web. All we needed was for him to walk into it and get trapped. See, Mr. Swiss had a thing for dressing in women’s underpants—I’m telling you, the file on this guy read like soft core porn—so all Bricks has to do is flirt like hell with the guy, convince him she’ll come up to his room with him but only after he slips on a pair of her panties. She hands him a pair she’s already got stashed in her bag and when he goes to the john to change, I follow him in and...

  One more job down and hopefully we’ve got a repeat client.

  A waitress came by and asked me if I wanted another beer. I waved her off, showing her the two fingers of pale ale still in my bottle. She didn’t look pleased and who could blame her. Probably a college girl living off her tips, and slow drinkers are lousy tippers by nature.

  The conversation level was giving me a headache, along with the shrill synthesizer noises on the latest one hit wonder from the 1980s. This was the kind of bar I’d normally never be caught dead in, but it was good enough to make someone dead in, I supposed.

  Foursomes and sextets of twenty-something weeknight drinkers seemed to go out of their way to announce to the whole place what a great goddamn time they were having by laughing like they were drinking with George Carlin. A group of guys in the corner with matching Red Sox hats made it sound like there were in a contest with each other for who could laugh the loudest. If this Swiss guy didn’t show soon I was still gonna get my kill that night. If those overgrown fraternity assholes only knew.

  I checked the door and checked Bricks. She gave me a subtle over-the-shoulder look and made her eyes go wide in frustration. If he didn’t show in the next ten minutes I’d call it and we could come back tomorrow night. Maybe he’d already found a willing slut to take back to his room so she could spank him and call him Shirley or whatever sick bastard shit he was into.

  But another night meant another hotel for me and Bricks. The payday on this job was good, but not knowing when the next gig was coming made us both a little tightfisted when it came to the bank accounts.

  I decided fuck it and downed the last swallow of my beer and looked around for the college girl to get me another. Mr. Swiss walked in the door. One of the frat boys told another whopper and the laughter nearly drowned out Rick Springfield’s lament for Jessie’s girl.

  I wiped my palms on my pants when I realized they’d suddenly gone sweaty. Game on. I was ready for my part. Now it was Bricks’ turn to snag him in that web of hers.

  2

  BRICKS

  A honey trap. That is the last con I ever imagined I’d play a part in. Those kind of gigs usually involve some slutty siren who drips sex appeal. About the only thing I ever drip is sweat from a hard aikido workout.

  But I am a woman, and damnit, every woman can be sexy, right?

  Right?

&nbs
p; We’d see.

  The Swiss answer to sexual deviancy stood near the door, scanning the room. I glanced at Cam to make sure he’d seen our mark, then turned away, managing to flip my hair in the process. I’d been letting it grow and now that my curls reached shoulder length, they actually did something when I flipped my hair.

  Which was never.

  At least I didn’t have to giggle at the same time, or croon the blonde mating call, “Oh my God, I’m sooooo drunk!”

  The stool next to me was the only one along the entire bar that was still open, so it wasn’t like Swiss Boy Robinson had much of a choice. True to form, he appeared at my shoulder less than a minute later.

  “Is someone sitting here?” he asked me. His accent was thick and haughty, though I’m sure he thought it was slick and hottie. I gave him a bored look over my shoulder, then hesitated just long enough to let a little interest seep into my expression. When I was pretty sure he’d noticed, I dropped the disinterested mask back into place.

  “If he is, he’s invisible,” I said.

  A touch of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, a touch of New York, here in Boston. How cosmopolitan.” He sat down on the chair next to me and signaled the bartender.

  I’d already decided that the hard ass, hard to get mistress was the card to play with this guy, but his comment gave me an excuse to continue the conversation while staying in character. Besides, I was a little curious how he’d pegged my accent. “How’d you know I was New York?”

  “Your accent, of course.”

  “I don’t have an accent.”

  “But you do. And it is very definitely a New York accent.”

  The bartender appeared in front of us, looking at him expectantly.

  “I will have an old fashioned, bitte.”

  The bartender scrunched his brow. “You want it bitter?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Just a standard old fashioned. And please bring the lady another of whatever she is having.”

  I held up my half-full glass of red wine. “Vino. House.”

  The bartender nodded and was gone.

  I gave our man a sardonic look. “You get on my accent, but at least I came in here speaking English, pal.”

  “Is that what they speak here in Boston?” He shook his head. “Well, if it qualifies as English, it is only as a regional dialect.”

  “You sure you’re not British? That sounds like something a Brit would say, all pissed off at what we Americans have done to his mother tongue.”

  “And where do you suppose they stole most of that mother tongue? From Deutsch.”

  “From the Dutch?”

  He smiled indulgently, then leaned in towards me conspiratorially. “Let’s not pretend that you are a stupid woman, or that I would be interested in any such thing. I believe we will get along much better if we do so.”

  “Who says I’m pretending? Maybe I’m just breaking your balls.”

  His smile widened. “A curious expression. Very American. I rather like it, though I wish it had a different meaning.”

  “Like?”

  “Something not quite so painful.”

  I took a slow sip of my wine, thinking. I’d hoped to charm him with the gritty, hard to get angle. Being the femme fatale wasn’t in my wheelhouse. But my pops always told me to follow my gut, and that not to was a big mistake. Where he came from, and where I grew up, there are some mistakes you don’t come back from.

  So I shifted into unfamiliar territory. I eyed him up and down and took another sip. That gave the bartender time to return with our drinks. My new friend ignored his while I polished off the rest of my glass of wine and placed it next to the full one he’d bought for me. I made sure to leave some lipstick on the rim for good measure, as I tapped my fingernail on the glass.

  “You’re very forward,” I said from low in my throat. I was hoping for a husky growl, something along the lines of Mae West, but it came out sounding more like Kathleen Turner with a cold.

  “Yes. But I’m afraid I must be. You see, I am only here for this final evening before I return home.”

  “Where’s home, exactly?”

  “Dusseldorf.”

  “Is that in Switzerland?”

  His eyes narrowed. “No, of course not. It is in Germany.”

  Shit.

  I reached for my wine glass. “Oh, I though you sounded Swiss. They speak German, too, right?”

  He contemplated me for a long uncomfortable moment. I drank some vino and gave him a look with just a hint of smolder in it. At least, that was what I was shooting for. If I had the same luck as my Mae West voice, I probably just looked like I was constipated.

  His expression softened, though, and he picked up his drink, took a gentlemanly swallow, and smiled. “The Swiss cannot choose a side in war, politics, or business. Nor can they choose a language. They speak German, true, but also French and Italian. Really, all they are good for is making watches and banking. Especially banking.”

  “And chocolate.”

  “German chocolate is far superior.”

  I made a pouty smile. “I’ll bet.”

  “One might argue we are better at banking, too. The bank I work for is a particular example.” He took another drink, this one much longer. When he set the glass down, it was almost empty. “Tell me, what is your name?”

  “Bella,” I told him.

  “Bella,” he mused. “How appropriate.”

  I smiled at him, but all I could think was spare me.

  “Bella, I am Konrad.”

  I held out my left hand like a debutante. “Charmed.”

  He took it lightly, and then the bratwurst brain actually kissed my knuckle. I knew Cam was watching this, and that I’d never hear then end of this bullshit. But I smiled and acted impressed.

  We sat there for another twenty minutes, though if you’d asked me at the time, I’d have said it was two hours. Or two years. As urbane and European as Konrad purported to be—and truth be told, his manners fit the bill—in the end, he was just another horny guy looking to get his rocks off. Just another man who thinks the most interesting conversation is one in which he talks about himself, or what he thinks, or what he plans to accomplish.

  Only this one happened to piss off the wrong people. With some cash to spend. And the right number to call.

  It took him most of that twenty minutes to make himself believe he’d wowed me with his sophistication. I’m sure he thought he had me so primed I was about ready to slide right off of my chair. Of course, I had something to do with that perception. I played up the sexy almost-vamp, throwing in the occasional innuendo to lead him down the garden path.

  By the time we’d worked ourselves into talking about fantasies, I was really glad that Cam was going to handle this one. He had a penchant for the messy, and Konrad the douchebag Deutscher deserved it based on self-image alone.

  “I find traveling is a great opportunity to explore one’s boundaries,” he told me right after we broke the ice on fantasies.

  “I’ve found it is the very best opportunity,” I added.

  “And what boundaries do you wish to explore, mein Bella?”

  “Why? Are you looking to be my Marco Polo?”

  “I am.”

  I glanced around surreptitiously. “And are you willing to do whatever I say?”

  “Oh, almost certainly.”

  “Because I don’t figure you European guys are as hung up on some things as most Americans. You can probably do what I want you to do without feeling like it’s weird.”

  He smiled perhaps his first genuine smile of the night. “I believe I am able to guarantee that.”

  I gave him a look that was meant to be half seductive, half conspiratorial. Then I reached for my purse, popped it open and showed him the lace edge of a pair of black panties. “I want you to put these on and meet me in my room,” I whispered, staring directly into his eyes. “Will you do that for me, Konrad?”

  He didn’t answer, but the lust
brewing in his bright blue windows to the soul told me I’d hit it out of the park. He’d climb a razor blade pole to get to me now.

  I balled the panties up into my palm, then pressed them against his stomach. For all his outward appearances of calm but lustful, touching him told me a different story. Heat radiated off of his body, and I could feel his heartbeat tripping along.

  He covered my hand with his own, then took the panties and placed them in his jacket pocket. His eyes never left mine. I gave him my best intense “fuck me” look, striving for an Oscar. Meanwhile, my stomach turned at what he must be thinking.

  “Allow me to finish my drink?” he said softly.

  I shook my head. “We’ll order room service.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Very well.” He removed his billfold and laid a fifty dollar bill on the bar. “Will you wait here?”

  “No. I’ll be in my room. Waiting.”

  “Which room?”

  “Nine Oh Four. Knock just once.”

  He nodded, all business now that he’d landed me. He left his chair and strode confidently away without a backwards glance.

  I caught Cam’s eye from across the room and nodded after Konrad, who was all but goose-stepping his way to the men’s room. The panty routine was more than just to get him hot and bothered, it was to keep him in that bathroom stall for a while and make Cam’s job easier.

  Me, I stood up and walked out of that bar as Konrad hit the bathroom door.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t staying at the hotel. I picked the room number because it was Mike Richter’s career save percentage. I wasn’t huge into hockey but my pops was still around in ‘94 when the Rangers won the Cup, and he’d been pretty excited. He told me that everyone said it was Messier, the team captain, who was the reason for the win, but Pops always said it was the goalie the whole way. He never quit on a play, Pops said. Plus he was an American-born player in a league full of Canadians, so he had that going for him, too.