Cheaters Never Prosper

By TesubCalle

On an overcast Thursday morning in June, my business associate informed me that I had two appointments on the schedule. One of the two was willing to meet me at a non-descript but well-patronized diner at 12:30 p.m. The time was convenient for her, and it suited me because it coincided with the lunch rush. We’d be less conspicuous then, and not many patrons or staff would be idle enough to eavesdrop at that time of day. We’d easily blend into the mix of harried businessmen and women on their so-called ‘power lunches’ – whatever that meant.

The second appointment seemed to be the more cautious of the two. This particular individual, my associate informed me, wished to meet with me privately at a remote location – late – like around 11:30 p.m. Also okay with me. Once again, there’d be neither prying eyes nor ears at that hour, especially not at the location he wished to meet me.

I always try to accommodate potential clients to the best of my ability. Start off on the right foot, you know. I always seek to protect their privacy as well as my own, so security is at the top of my list of priorities.

In case you haven’t guessed by now, my line of work is…not your average line of work. The more astute among you might have figured by now that I am a killer for hire. I will not bore you with the vagaries of my profession. I get hired for a job; I do my job. That is all there is to know. Except maybe for the particular case I am about to relate. 

Arriving early at the previously agreed-upon diner for the scheduled meeting, I slid into a corner booth as directed by a cheery but otherwise distracted hostess. Her token greeting was administered hastily with a wide grin that disappeared the moment I turned away from her. Couldn’t blame her. The lunch hour was indeed in full swing.

I took a quick but careful glance around the establishment. It was nearly full, and the customers were all deeply involved in their own private worlds and conversations. I sat with my back to the wall, and a row of occupied booths stretched in front of  me; to my left, another set of occupied booths. In the middle of the floor area were about ten tables; four chairs each, all mostly full.  Nobody had glanced up at me when I sat. Good. No curiosity-seekers this afternoon.

Allow me to digress at this point. Some individuals are people-watchers. It is in their nature to watch others. They are not voyeurs or peeping Toms per se, they’re just plain Curious Georges. People, in general, fascinate these individuals. And sometimes these individuals see things they shouldn’t see. Things like a discreet meeting between two private citizens, or at least what should be a discreet meeting. People-watchers are a hired killer’s constant worry.

But I wouldn’t have to worry about that today. No one appeared to be interested in me at the moment. And when my appointment showed up, chances would be that the lack of interest on the part of those around me would remain unchanged.

At precisely 12:30, a woman that looked to be in her mid-to-late thirties with well-styled collar-length blonde tresses, entered the diner. Her very manner suggested caution. She was garbed in a black raincoat that looked like a Burberry; costly and quite fashionable. A tailored, dark navy suit that must have cost the moon was underneath.  A tiny, blue silk scarf was tied at the nape of her neck  Her brown eyes stood in contrast to her wan complexion, and they darted from side to side.

This was my appointment, of course. She was dressed exactly as she told my associate she would be, but I would have probably recognized her anyway. I took note that she had a leather shoulder bag swaying at her side, her right hand clutched tightly around both straps. Her shifting eyes finally settled on me in the corner. I, too, was wearing clothing she was supposed to be able to recognize so that we would not miss each other.

With hurried steps she whisked past the hostess without a word, and plopped down with an exaggerated sigh in the seat opposite me; the shoulder bag protectively on her lap.

“Cynthia Whitworth?” I asked quietly.

The pale-faced woman pursed her lips, nodded, then whispered, “Yes.”

“Good.” I replied. Before she could say anything further, I said, “Now that we have introductions aside, let’s order!”

She turned a sickly, pale green for a moment, as if the mere mention of ordering food was enough to make her vomit. She was truly a bundle of nerves.

I knew better than to worsen the situation by suggesting to her that eating would make her feel better and that she ought to ‘get a grip’. Could mean the loss of good business if I offended her at this early stage in the meeting. Instead I offered her a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t worry,” I cooed benevolently, “I understand perfectly that this isn’t easy for you. Just have a cup of coffee or tea if you think it will help.”

Cynthia’s throat tightened in an attempt to swallow, and she nodded again.

A skinny, youthful-looking waitress, probably a college student, approached with menus which she placed in front of the both of us. Her nametag said “Charlotte”. (Somehow that name always makes me think about spiders and pigs.)

“Can I get you anything to drink to start off?” Charlotte asked brightly, a wide smile on her face.

Cynthia was not meeting Charlotte’s gaze, so I said, “Yes. We’ll have coffee, for now.”

Charlotte was gone and back in a minute with two cups and saucers, a pot of coffee, several packets of sugar, and a handful of single-serve containers of cream.

She hurried off to attend to another customer after I assured her the coffee would suffice, and that we were unlikely to order anything more substantial for quite a while.

I poured coffee for myself and an immobile Cynthia. She stared at the steaming cup and seemed not to want to make eye contact with me in much the same way that she refused to make eye contact with Charlotte.

Cynthia then rummaged in her raincoat pocket and came up with a cigarette carton and a lighter.

With amused eyes, I watched her fumble to light up. She blew smoke into the air, and was about to take another drag when Charlotte suddenly re-appeared.

“I’m afraid this is a non-smoking establishment,” she said snappishly.

Cynthia pouted and ground out the cigarette on her saucer, and Charlotte left once again, placated. I was desperately trying hard not to laugh. Her method of coping gone, Cynthia must have really been on edge.

I was taking my first sip of coffee when her first real sentence slipped out.

“How do I know you’re not a cop?”

“How do I know you’re not a cop?” I countered. A startled look crossed her impassive face. That one always gets them.

She dumped three containers of cream and three packets of sugar into her cup, stirred, then took a long swallow. Some colour appeared in her cheeks to liven up her sallow complexion. She was beginning to get comfortable, finally. She curled her hands around the cup, perhaps in an attempt to warm them and get rid of a chill she might have been feeling.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” I asked, sensing my opportunity to move things along had come.

“Okay,” Cynthia said softly. She began digging around inside her shoulder bag and produced a folder. She placed it on the table and flipped it open. “Take a look at this,” she said, sliding it closer to me.

The folder contained black-and-white photographs of a man and a woman, obviously enjoying each other’s company. They were smiling and laughing. Playful.

“That man you see is my husband.”

Indeed I did see, and the woman he was with was not Cynthia.

I scanned the pictures again. There was nothing really very wrong with them. Mr. Whitworth had been secretly caught by someone’s camera lens and appeared to be in a position of pure enjoyment, but not necessarily a compromising position, if you get my drift. These pictures simply revealed two people having a good time.

“My husband is cheating on me.” Cynthia said matter-of-factly. “I hired a private investigator to follow him around. He came back to me with these and some other incriminating evidence.”

“I see.”

“Do you know why I want to hire you?” Cynthia asked in a barely discernable whisper.

“Me, personally, or a professional killer in general?”

“No, a female professional killer.”

“I can’t imagine what difference gender could possibly make to you, Mrs. Whitworth.”

“The difference is, you will probably understand better why I want to hire you.”

Well, this was different. Normally, my clients never bother to tell me the whys. In fact, I’d rather not know. And I do realise that most people get upset when you ask them why, anyway. But since Mrs. Whitworth seemed to want to get it off her chest, I didn’t stop her.

“Are you married, Ms…?” Cynthia queried, an eyebrow raised.

“Don’t worry about what to call me. You don’t need to know my name. And no, I’m not attached to anyone at the present.”

“You’re lucky. But I think as a woman, you’re in a position to understand just what it can mean when the man you thought you knew intimately decides to throw it all away on some cheap young thing.”

At last there was some passion in her voice.

“I think I can put myself in your shoes,” I said.

“I’ll show him,” she said venomously. “Men who cheat are worse than scum.”

“So you want me to kill your husband?” I asked carefully.

“No,” Mrs. Whitworth said derisively, rolling her eyes and then looking at me as if I were crazy, “I want you to kill her!”

Well, now. Silly me. I might have guessed. I suddenly recalled a line of dialogue from some movie, something like: ‘The way to a woman’s heart is through the elimination of her rivals.’

Mrs. Whitworth was obviously under the impression that if Mr. Whitworth’s new plaything was out of the picture, he’d come running back to her.

“The private investigator I hired gave me loads of information about her,” Cynthia said, pulling out another folder from her shoulder bag. “Everything you need to know about who she is and where to find her is in there.”

“You’ve certainly done your homework,” I said.

“Just thought I’d save you the trouble, since the P.I. got so much on her. No sense in you doing the same work over again.”

I quickly scanned the contents of the file. “This is some fine work. Do you mind me asking the name of this investigator? A person with skills like these is useful to me sometimes.”

“Of course,” Cynthia said. “His name’s Lamont Arnaud.”

I took the folder and placed it in my own carrying case.

“So…what happens now?” Cynthia asked tentatively. “Will you do it?”

“Yes. And we don’t meet again. I’m sure my associate told you about my fee structure…”

Mrs. Whitworth nodded.

“Good. You’ll be contacted later today about where to wire the initial amount. Once I get confirmation that it’s in the account, I go to work. I keep going until it’s done. After the job is completed, you will then wire the second amount, as I’m sure my associate mentioned. Understood?”

She nodded again.

“Excellent.” I reached across the table with my hand extended. She shook it firmly. I always like sealing a deal with a handshake.

“Now, I want you to finish drinking your coffee, look at your watch, and get up and leave. Make sure you take all your belongings with you. Don’t look back at me and don’t talk to anyone on your way out. Pretend you’re in a rush.”

After Mrs. Whitworth had completed her charade as instructed, I ran my hand under the table. I grimaced in disgust when my fingers met with old chewing gum before finding the object I was looking for. Finally coming up with a voice-activated recorder I had taped to the underside of the table when I first arrived, I surreptitiously slipped it into my carrying case. This, of course, was insurance in case Mrs. Whitworth was somehow unable to pay what she owed for services rendered...

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