He pulled up to the location. The sign hung over the building with flickering blue and red neon lights. The bar looked grimy on the outside. Red brick missing by the handful, graffiti tags sprayed by someone who may need a few art lessons; a place that you wouldn't go to unless you were already inebriated in the first place. He turned off the engine in his car, sunk back in his seat and groaned, thinking to himself about how old this was getting. Ten years in to be exact. He figured to himself that this "debt" would have been paid off and he could go on with his life as he pleased. After two years into the business and he decided to run away from his new found career. Not only did that get him beaten, he lost everything that he ever loved, or so it seemed. Whatever was left with his life, was given up for the best. Running away again was no longer an option.
He looked out of the driver's window. A frigid, still winter night in New York for the moment. A storm was supposed to roll in at any moment. Everything is coated in a thick layer of snow and not a person in sight. There wasn't even a star out in the sky. If there wasn't snow on the ground he would have assumed that he would be sucked into a dark vortex as soon as he stepped out from the car. He straightened up in his seat and reached in his coat pocket. Out came a wrinkled sheet. He unfolded the paper, revealing a picture of a man.
"Hmm."
He couldn't remember who this man was regardless of the fact that he was brought up on many occasions. Something about him being overdue on a returned favor. Staying around too long to hear why some sap has his comeuppance somehow made the job more personal. Learning a person's back story gave this person an identity. An identity that's not needed. The person in the photo doesn't stand out. Average looks, average haircut with a comb over, thick rimmed copper glasses and a double chin. He grimaced at the photo, not quite sure why or what this man did to deserve what was coming but knew damn well not to ask; questions were something in this line of work that just don't exist. His fingers folded the photo back into its imperfect square and put it back in the pocket.
He stepped out of his car. A gust of cold air whipped at his face causing him to tuck into his clothing and turn up the collar of his heather gray wool coat. This was more of a motivator to hurry into the bar.
The place was even trashier on the inside. It was nearly pitch black inside of the bar. The walls inside almost matched the building outside, minus the graffiti. Crimson lights hung at each booth on the corner of the bar. They illuminated the torn black leather seats that they hovered above. The tables looked as if they had a thin layer of film on them. The combination of cheap bar food and perhaps the average Joe's tears and drool lay firm. In their defense, it's so damn dark in here it would be a good place for a man to sob in his beer. The smells of stale cigarettes and rusted metal lingered in the air. It was a stench so prominent that he could taste it. He looked over at the bar and found a middle aged man who looked a little more than tired, standing there waiting on the next fool to order a watered down drink and go on and on about the woes of their lives. There was a waitress in one of the booths, rubbing her feet. She looked miserable. He figured it would be best if he just walked to the bar to get his own drink at this point.
The bar, like the rest of the room was dark. The only lights were the same sleazy red lights that were dangling around the booths. The liquor shelves however had their own lights that displayed a vanilla like glow, only to reveal that most of the liquors on the shelves were nearly empty. A long single dirty mirror is in the back drop; overdue for some cleaning just like the rest of the bar. He approaches the bar, grasping the ledge of the bar's table; his right thumb stroking the chipped wood edge. He gestures the bartender to come over and asks for bourbon, neat. He kneels his head down softly and stares into the dirt spotted mirror to look at the other who surround him. Between a man passed out with his face soaked in what was left over of his beer, a man on his phone having an argument with his wife about how he "needs space" and a man desperately looking at ads for massages. Maybe an understanding of why he may find this man, in this bar, at this very night became a little clearer to him.
"Well, people do come to these bars to pick up the unlikely." He thought to himself.
The man was quite average in his looks and maybe he did need a little pick-me-up. The bartender hands him his drink.
"Want to start a tab?" The bartender asked, tiredly.
The man in the wool coat shook his head, handed him a twenty dollar bill and walked away, darting towards one of the booths. He dared not to take his coat off as he remembered how filthy the booths were. Groaning to himself, he slid into the booth were he could get a good look for this man that was supposed to show at any second, or so he was told. The sound that the leather seat made as he plopped into was revolting. It was a sound similar to when you step on something sticky in a movie theater. "I Never Loved a Man" by Aretha Franklin began to play. It played as a whisper but distracting enough to drown out the noise made by the other patrons.
An hour had passed by him and there he was, still nursing his drink and checking his watch every thirty seconds. He was getting irked and restless. The informant would more than likely get an ear full after this was said and done. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand, using the thumb of his same hand one by one. Each knuckle making an unsettling sound. He leaned forward in the booth, putting his arm up on the table and propping his chin on it. He stroked the stubble on his chin. It was time for a shave.
"What in the hell did this man do?" He pondered to himself.
This was starting to irritate him. The idea of what seemed to be a nobody had to lose his life tonight because maybe he was at the wrong place at the wrong time at one point. The usual targets were normally the big wigs who owed money to the cause or the occasional person with power who happened to make too many threats to the wrong people that you didn't want to piss off. Everything about what was going on was off. He was shaken out of his trance at the loud blow that was made in the entrance.
A man stumbled into bar. He almost missed the ledge that you step up to. The intoxicated man's face almost kissed the floor, causing the man in the booth the chuckle. Sadly, he was pulled back by an arm. The sudden upward jerk caused his comb over to spill onto his drenched face. He was straightened up and escorted to the bar by a companion; a woman. The woman helped him in his seat. He spun around once and forced a sudden stop by placing his hands on the bar's wet table. He slapped it with a force that caused the liquids to splash back into his face. He let out a belly laugh and obnoxiously ordered himself a drink.
He watched the man go on and on about how he was finally going to be someone: A man that people would worship and fear. The liquor that ran though him was getting the best of him. Whatever he was going on about made no sense nor did it help that his speech was more than a bit slurred. He continued to repeat himself. "I've got them now!" The woman that was sitting on the barstool next to him didn't seem to be paying much attention. She was digging in her clutch and pulled out a cigarette and twirled it in front of his face, suggesting that she needed a light. He patted down his blazer, found a lighter and helped her out all while assuring her that she would be taken care of if she were to stick around.
"The last thing I need is some broad in my way." He said, shaking his head as he sipped from his drink. The bourbon was warm in his throat. His focus turned to the woman.
This woman was out of his league from what he could see in the dark. She was wearing a black dress that barely came down to her thighs. The fact that her legs were crossed and she was rocking back in forth didn't help her case. Her dress began to dance up her leg even higher. He couldn't make out much of her other features, the red lights weren't helping. Her dark hair lightly brushed against her shoulders and her eyes matched her hair. Her eyes were dark and uninviting yet there was something more impish about them; provocative. She was beginning to look restless at the drunkard's crappy jokes and inappropriate come-ons but she continued to solider on and let out irritated chuckles at the man. She was rimming her glass with her ring finger and holding the lit cigarette between her index and middle. She would occasionally take a drag and flick the ashes into the man's drink when he would turn away. He didn't want to kill this woman but he had no other option. He would make sure she would go quickly; no reason to drag her through the mud. He bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck. When he looked up, she was helping the lush out of the door.
"Shit!" He mumbled out as he unstuck himself the booth and hurried out of the bar in hopes to not have lost the two.
He opened the door and was greeted to the wind once again punishing his face. There was no time to bundle up against the coming storm. He squinted around looking for the couple. The snow whipping around his vision didn't make the search any easier. He managed to make out a car in the distance on the side of the road with its lights on. When he got here, there were no cars in sight, therefore, he could only assume that the car belonged to the unlikely. He hastened to the car down the street, gripping at his gun, more than ready to get this over with. He was planning out what would happen in his head. A bullet in the head for the woman and one more the man. The idea was making his stomach turn in knots. He could never get used to the idea of killing a woman though he's done it a number of times. He was approaching the car and slowed his movement to a crawl as to not disturb the two and cause more of a scene than what was about to happen.
The car door was open, this car is as beat up and worn just like the bar. A 1996 white Oldsmobile. The open door looked as if it were about to fall off its hinges as it creaked against the wind. He ducked down and slowly edged to the driver's seat. He turned his gun to an empty seat. No one was in the car. He stood up to look around for a sign of their whereabouts. They couldn't have gone too far. A drunk man being escorted by a woman who was missing most of her dress couldn't have gotten too far in this weather. He noticed an alley way further up the street just several feet away from the car. Footprints that lead to an alley lay in the snow; one set seemed to drag in the snow and the other more daintily placed. He followed them with caution because no couple would go off to have a moment in this weather. He walked down the alley way.
When he reached to the end, there was a slump of a man covered in his own vomit was leaning next to the alley dumpster. He walked over to check on the man. He nudged him with his shoe but to no avail. He squatted down to the man and lifted his head. There was a bullet hole lodged between his eyes. It was his target. He stood up and exhaled. His nameless target was dead and a woman was missing.