The Professional cont.

I made my way through the big old house, looking for anyone at all. Maybe my sense of the Job was off, but the place seemed empty. At last I looked in the kitchen.

A man sat there, sipping from one of those tiny espresso cups. The air was a fog of gin fumes. Every breath was intoxicating. The man looked up at me. As soon as our eyes met the revolver told me what the Job was. I reached into my pocket.

The man’s bleary eyes couldn’t focus. His head swayed a little, out of his control. I had no idea what the alcohol in the air would do, but it didn’t really matter. I was a professional.

I did the Job.

I tucked the revolver away gently; a craftsmen looks after his Tools. When it was secure, I took some food from the refrigerator and a glass of gin and went in search of a room that had clean air. There was a library, if I remembered correctly.

The man owned a lot of books, a lot I had never heard of. I read a few pages while I ate. Some of it was interesting, but much of it was boring. The gin was awful, cheap stuff that ran down my throat like broken glass. I left it, virtually untouched, on the desk when I went to look through the house.

The Job paid well for all that it was never commissioned. The man’s overcoat fit me nicely and his car was expensive. I could stay in the house at night and be nice and warm if nothing else came my way. But I could feel that pull again, already, and knew I had to answer the call.

I hit the streets in that fancy new car, wearing my new coat, and felt like a new man. My belly was full and I was toasty warm. I had another Job to do. Two in one day. It was exhilarating.