I don’t know what’s worse, the smell of spilt beer or cold cigarette smoke. This bar always was my least favorite place to go, but my job seemed to pull me back here time and again. Well, money is money, so no use complaining now. If it was that big a deal, I wouldn’t come. Anyway, I hate smoking and drinking, but I pretty much have to deal with it considering my clientele so here’s as good a place as any. I can’t help but feel nervous though. I always do before a job, even after having done it for so long.

Through the thickening smoke cloud, I see a man in a black jacket. He’s the one I’m here for. I sip my soda water and tug my skirt down a little more. I prefer less revealing clothing but I find I’m more successful in this outfit. Attracts the men faster. This guy is no exception, his eyes passing over me, then coming back, a double-take of the real world persuasion, far to subtle to be noticed by anyone else. The eyes rest on my face, which I’m told is beautiful, only briefly. He’s interested in other southern locales which stopped surprising me when I turned fifteen.

I pretend not to notice him, uncrossing my legs and then crossing them again. I’m sitting at an angle that just barely hides anything he was hoping to catch a glimpse of. This part is almost more unsettling than the actual job. I pull out my lipstick and put some on for show rather than necessity. I notice the guy calling one of the cocktail waitresses over and saying something then pointing to me. A moment later, gin and tonic arrives at my table with a little umbrella keeping the light out of its ice. Too bad I can’t return the gin.

I stand, leaving the drink alone, and slowly walk to the exit of the bar. I know this guy’s type, and he’ll be following me out shortly, so I don’t quicken my pace too much.

Outside, the air is cold for August, and it is still and dry. The man is following me out sure enough. He catches up to me and asks if I don’t like gin. I tell him I don’t like guys who order girls’ drinks for them. He apologizes and asks my name. I give him a name that I like, and he tells me he is Tom. Tom asks if I want to accompany him someplace a little more upscale, and before I can answer, he’s holding the door of a cab open for me.

I force a seductive smile as I step into the cab. The turban behind the wheel says something unintelligible, and Tom gives him an address. As we drive, the soft hum of a pop radio station accents Tom’s voice. He speaks in a tone I know he only uses when he’s smooth-talking. He asks me questions that I have pre-made answers for. I try to be open and charming, but I feel like I’m being a little standoffish. He seems not to notice. He asks me about my family, friends, home while his eyes are lifting my skirt in his mind.

The cab moves down the street, around a corner and down an alley. I’ve been here before a few times actually. Tom is babbling on now, and I’m only half paying attention. We don’t have to go far before get to the address. It was almost close enough to walk. Tom gives the turban the fare and an underwhelming tip. Nothing’s changed really, but somehow I feel colder. Tom’s upscale location is his apartment, as I suspected.

We climb the stairs to the top as the banal conversation continues. I try to take the initiative and ask a few questions, while hiking my skirt up slightly to draw away from the fact that my mind is elsewhere. This part is actually the worst, just before I do it. Once I’ve actually started, it comes smoothly. Tom opens the door to his place.

If ever there was a bachelor pad to aspire to, this is it. Take the quintessential ladies’ man’s place, whether you saw it on TV, in the movies, or elsewhere, and double it. Something tells me Tom isn’t a long-term relationship sort of guy. And the fact that I’m here means maybe he’s run short of one night stands. Of course, the pad shows that money for him is not a problem and that’s partly why I’m here.

Tom sits on the couch and looks at me. He says I have beautiful eyes. I smile and reach into my purse. Not yet, he says. He reaches down to his pants and begins to unzip them. And then I start. Everything becomes fluid and simple. No more nerves or anxiety. The job will be done. I almost enjoy it.

I put my hand on the pistol, wrapping my hand around the handle and detached suppressor which is adjacent to it, and allow my bag to slide off of it onto the floor with a light thump. Tom is confused, and I don’t aim to help him with that. I raise the gun to eye level and calmly point it at his forehead. Tom, I say, you should know better. A government employee is well paid, but this is a bit ridiculous. I tell him he is stupid to think we wouldn’t find out. The confusion fades. So, he says, you’ve come to arrest me. I don’t respond.

Then something happens. As I go to put my suppressor on the end of my gun, Tom shifts. Something clicks and his gun is up fast. He looks at me, smiles, and says he wishes I was just a whore. Then he fires, the gun exhaling a spark. Everything happens so slowly. I fall sideways, never blinking, never changing my expression. I allow my weapon to answer his, and red splatters across his tope walls. His bullet hit a shelf unit behind me. The gun shots were so close together that they sounded like a single bang. Sirens fill the night.

I conceal my weapon and collect myself before adjusting Tom and his gun and leaving the apartment. I walk calmly down the stairs, stopping long enough to respond to one of the tenants on the second floor that I in fact did not hear what sounded like a gunshot. Meanwhile, cops are rushing by behind me. I begin walking down to the exit.

I’ve almost got a cab hailed when one of the cops down from the apartment and taps me on the shoulder. I turn and he’s young. Fresh out of the academy. He asks if I live here. I say no, just visiting a friend. He asks who and I ask why.

Do I know anything about a shooting? No. Does my friend live on the top floor? None of your business. Can I see inside your bag miss? Show me a warrant. You don’t need a warrant with probable cause. What cause? How about the blood on your shoe?

I swear in my head and glance down. The cop begins to reach for my bag. I step back, and suddenly the cop is grabbed by one of his superiors. He tells the cop to let me go, this was suicide. We have one body, one gun, and one gunshot. Case closed. The cop hesitates and then backs off. I tell him goodnight and he apologizes for the trouble. I accept it with a nod, turn and walk down the block around the corner.