8-The Way She Goes...

8

The Way She Goes

The cook leaned back in the bathtub.  It was a small bathtub basin in a hotel shower, but it was just big enough for him.  He soaked there, thinking about the day’s events thus far.  He surveyed the water in which he soaked, which had a pinkish hue to it.  This was because of the numerous cuts he received when he went through the widow and into the car hood.

He saw the woman’s face in his head.

He took a big deep breath and sighed at how wrong that situation had become and how he would have to fix it.  Fast.  For all of the Cook’s considerable talent, he was deathly afraid of cleaners.

Cleaners, for those who don’t know the term, are not maids. They are highly trained (usually ex military) types that have itchy trigger fingers and tend to kill everything that has anything to do with whatever they are sent in to clean.  They are sent in when something was gotten truly fucked and everybody has to be murdered.

The cook looked around the small bathroom.  Toilet, sink and mirror.  A spare gun lay on the top of the toilet tank within arm’s reach, if needed.  He took a deep breath and dipped his head under the water.

He would get up and out of the bath, clean himself off and get some sleep.  Then he would get after that bitch and her ogre of a bodyguard and get that thumb drive before the cleaners got involved.

The Cook surfaced and opened his eyes.

Four men in suits and dark sunglasses stood in the room.  All had mean looking Uzi-like machine guns leveled at him.  In front of the men, on the toilet, sat a woman.  She was also wearing a black suit.  Her body was the perfect athletic build with legs that went on for year.  She had long blonde hair which she kept in a tight pony tail, with the exception of a couple of loose bangs hanging around her forehead.  Her eyes were covered by a pair of Aviator sunglasses that looked too big for her face.

The Cook’s face took on a look of both frustration and fear.  They had come so fast and so quiet.  He’d been under the water for maybe thirty seconds.  He knew from their abilities and their uniforms, they were a cleaning team.

Damn that was fast.

His gut sat directly behind her, still on the toilet.  They had left it as if to bate him to make a move.  When nothing happened after a couple of seconds, she began to speak.  “In our kind of work, it’s a very tricky situation when we have to come face to face with others that practice the same profession.  That, of course, being the career killer.  Do you agree?”

Her voice was sultry and sweet, like that of an angel.

She was not an angel.

“I see we are having a problem,” she began again, “we are currently having a conversation, which means I say something and then you respond.  I have asked you a question, so you should answer.  Let’s try again…  Do you agree?”

The Cook surveyed the room again.  His gun called to him, but the Uzis that the four men held made him think twice.  Finally, he answered.  “Indeed, I do agree, Miss…?”

The Cook let the last part hang in the air like a question, and she smiled.  “You may call me Barbie.”

He raised his eyebrow, “You call yourself Barbie?”

Her grin became a full fledged smile.  “In addition to people, I also enjoy killing stereotypes.”

The Cook nodded.  “Indeed you do.”

Barbie took a deep breath, “So, as I was saying, it’s hard to know the intention when you meet another killer because, being in the business, it’s highly possible that the other killer could, in fact, be there to kill you.”

“Are you here to kill me?” The Cook asked, his eyes darting back to the gun.

 Barbie made a tsk tsk noise with her mouth, “come now, that’s a silly question isn’t it? If I were here to kill you, why would I tell you first?  Does not make sense, does it?  You have to be sneakier about finding out.  Use tricks.”

The Cook frowned.  “What kind of tricks?  Please, enlighten me.”

“Oh, there are thousands,” Barbie began as she stood up and began to move back toward her four associates.  “Body language, eye movement, perspiration.  But I find the most valuable is what they say…”   Her associates somehow made room for her and still kept their guns on The Cook, in the small bathroom.

She took off her glasses and turned.  Her eyes were a bright piercing blue.  “An example of this would be, if they know your real name.  Not your code name or alias, but your real name.  Because the only one who knows that is your handler, right?  This means you have been sold out.”

The Cook began to breathe hard, his eyes darting from the gun to the cleaners and back again.  Barbie smiled continued, “Wouldn’t you agree?  Samuel Thaddeus Franklin.”

The Cook made his play for his gun, but never made it.  The room filled with the sound of gunfire as all four Uzis emptied their thirty-round clips in a matter of a second.  The ammo shredded the plastic tub, the synthetic tile walls, and of course, the body of The Cook.  A man also known as Samuel Thaddeus Franklin.

Barbie put her sunglasses back on, “It never ceases to amaze me how complacent they are.”

She turned and walked back into the hotel room were the other four men of her team where ripping the place to shreds.

“Nothing, ma’am.” One of them said.

One of her men from the bathroom standing to her right asked, “What’s our next play?”

“Our next play?” she scoffed.  “We get out of here and wait for the idiots to make a move.  They’re not professionals, after all.”

****

Creegan put the key in the lock and turned, while pulling up on the knob and twisting.  This was the only way to get the door to his efficiency apartment open.  It was a combination which had taken patience and experimentation to finally figure out.  The door swung open to his small apartment.  It was a simple place, clean but not too much to it.

There was a bed, twin size, in one corner.  Across from it was a small T.V. resting on a couple of milk crates.  Two laundry baskets sat at another corner, one full of dirty clothes.  In the other, folded neatly, were some clean ones.  Last, but not least, a small refrigerator rounded out the room.

“We aren’t staying long so don’t get too comfortable.”  Creegan said as he moved to the fridge and grabbed some ice.

 “I don’t see why not, we already dodged bullets with Mr. Salad.”  Maggie said looking around and heading for the bathroom.

Creagan pulled out a piece of paper towel and a sandwich bag.  Cracking the ice on the door of the fridge, he fashioned himself an Ice pack.  “That guy was just the first.  He was a trained killer, Maggie, which means whatever you are into is big.”

“So where to, then?”  She yelled from the bathroom.

He placed the ice pack on his jaw and winced slightly.  His haw hurt like hell where The Cook had tagged him.  “I know of this hospital, not too far from here.  They built a new one and haven’t gotten around to demolishing the old one yet, but it will be a roof over our head and we might get lucky and find a bed.”

He said all of this as he gathered some things into a duffle bag.  She didn’t respond and Creegan began again.  “You really should tell me what’s going on.  That guy back there was a real killer, Maggie.”

She didn’t respond again as he zipped his duffle bag, “I don’t know if I can really protect you this time.”

No response again.  Jim began to get nervous.  It had been nearly five minutes now.

What the hell was she doing in there?

“Maggie?”  He asked and when no response came, he moved to the door and pushed it open.

Maggie snapped her phone shut as he entered.  “What, we don’t knock?”

Creegan’s face turned to rage.  “Who did you just call?”

She smiled, “My mom.”

“Bullshit,” he said, and grabbed her arm hard.

He dragged her out of the bathroom.  “What the fuck is going on?!”

Creegan yelled at her as he let her go, forcefully.  She stumbled backwards onto the bed.

Her grin became sultry, “What are you going to do if I don’t talk?”

His face was stone cold, “Enough of this shit.  Who was on the phone?!  Who the fuck are you working for?!”

She did this little bouncy thing on the bed and changed the subject.  “This is the same bed from high school, isn’t it?  The magic bed.”

He frowned and calmed down.  Maggie continued, “This is the bed we used in high school.  Mmm… memories.”

Creegan nodded.  “The bed I used to tell you  that I loved you in, yeah it is.  It’s also the bed I came home to alone after you deserted me.”

“We were going different directions.” She said

“I wasn’t going to get the football career and you dumped me because I wouldn’t be rich.”  His words stabbed out.

“Details.”  She responded, moving off the bed and toward him, putting herself close, her hands sliding to his hips.

Creegan could feel his resolve slipping and his mind wandering to those wonderful nights with her.  All those nights, licking the sweat off her back.  He had to wonder what it was about a woman that allowed him to make the same mistake over and over again, and to do it willingly.

“You abandoned me in high school.”  He said.

“So sorry,” she responded, insincerely, as she lightly kissed his neck.

“You dumped me during that thing on the train.”  He was saying ,to himself, more than her.

“Not on purpose.”  She lightly kissed the side of his cheek.

Creegan grabbed her shoulders suddenly.  “You're going to do it again aren’t you?  Am I really your fall guy?  You’re going to fuck me again aren’t you?”

Her smile went ear to ear.  “Well… I certainly am trying…”  She lightly broke his grip.

“You aren’t making it easy for me.”  She rose up and locked her lips to his and he kissed back.

Creegan made the same mistake one more time.  And it was felt so damn good.