The Professional cont.

I followed the pull all the way across town, to the part that was so new it tried to look old. I lived in one of the shiny new buildings back when business was good. I could afford to live anywhere, back then, but I liked this part of town because of all the college students. It was fun to watch them go on about their lives.

Everyone used to know that if you wanted a Job done right you came and saw me. It made my clients more uncomfortable to come to collegetown. They thought they were being watched; I thought they were being silly. If anyone found out, a client could ask me to do a second Job and I wouldn’t charge for it. That was my customer satisfaction policy.

No one ever found out it was me doing all the Jobs, of course. I was a professional, I had years of practice.

The pull took me to what looked like an empty storefront. Plain brown paper covered all the windows but peeks of light shone through the cracks. I wondered what kind of person I would meet here. I doubted any college students could afford my rates.

The door was unlocked, so I let myself in. The interior was bright, its walls plastered with propaganda posters. The room reeked of black coffee and rebellion. A young woman of indeterminate ethnicity was folding up steel chairs, cleaning up after some kind of meeting.

She looked up at me, confused. Her mouth opened to tell me they were closed, to give me some speech about the party line, to say hello. I never heard what she said.

The revolver whispered in my ear. It told me the Job was ready. I reached into my pocket.

I never argued with a client. They told me what Job they wanted done and I told them what the going rate was. I didn’t haggle and I didn’t accept advice or ideas. I did the Job the best way possible, every time. I had more than enough practice. I knew how to work quickly and cleanly. No fuss, no muss. I was a professional.