Jonesy sat feet on desk, leaning back in his chair, hands on the back of
his head, fingers laced, mystified at how wrongly things could go. The
girl, supposed to be touring the factory with her parents slipped out
before the explosion. Knowing his boss was not a reasonable man, Jonesy
thought the accident through in his mind. Things were perfectly planned,
steam pressure had been turned high and the pipe clamped shut from
overhead. John and Anna Lewis paused briefly during this part of the tour
never to resume. Sammy, a young man slow of wit, was sent to clean up a
spill for safety reasons; safety for his boss and the future of the
factory, but not Sammy or the Lewis'.
With the Lewis family out of the way before John could consult with his lawyer regarding factory-working conditions for the children, Mr. Blackburn and his company could continue. Investments to the board halted only if someone from the family contacted the attorney with such information.
Yes, there were children working in the factory doing some very unpleasant work for low wages and people such as John and Anna would never understand. Some jobs were just too tight for a full-grown adult; this fact escaped the comprehension of this man, his wife and his daughter. The men working in the factory supported families and needed higher earnings than the children who could work for pennies a day.
The daughter. She was the one to blame, that nosey girl. Why could she not keep her mouth shut? Telling her father about the little boy's badly burnt body sparked their investigation. What difference could losing a few homeless brats make? Most of them lived on the streets, eyesores of the city.
Jonesy smiled thinking about the girl. He still planned to take care of her, oh yes. He would do it now for his own pleasure instead of the money. She made him look a fool and no one did such a thing to Jonesy especially not a rich little brat.
Without the warning of a knock, the office door flew open and Mr. Blackburn stepped inside. A man of considerable stature, he needed to duck to walk under the doorframe. Jonesy took note of the man's clothing, a pair of well-worn pants, faded blue shirt, a hat pulled low on his face. When visiting the office of a man known for his career as a professional assassin it was better to do so in disguise. He walked into the office, closed the door behind him, and removed his hat. Taking a seat across the desk from the hired killer, Blackburn cleared his throat in preparation to speak.
"The girl is a problem, a problem which needs to be taken care of quickly."
"I know sir; I am already working on the plans to remove the problem."
"Well, stop working on it and see that it is done. I will not have that nosey girl ruin everything I have worked so hard to achieve."
Jonesy rolled his eyes, hoping the man did not notice, but nodded his head in agreement. 'Everything he worked for indeed.' He knew who the real workers were, the men and children who made the fortune for this man. They toiled all day and all night so he could sleep in satin pajamas under silk sheets, yes, he knew. Looking down his nose at all those lower than himself, this man never worked a day in his life.
"It's going to take more money to finish the job." Even though he would do it, principle negated the need for money; he felt the man should pay for another hit.
"I have already paid you; I have no intention of giving you more money."
"You paid me to take care of things at the factory, the girl wasn't at the factory, therefore, this is a separate contract."
Mr. Blackburn sighed inwardly, he felt dirty in these clothes, wanting nothing more than to finish negotiation with the disgusting man who sat across from him so he could go home and bathe. Giving in was not in his nature, but the filth in which he sat relented to his generous side. Feeling the grime and dirt leave the walls and seep onto his skin through the threadbare clothing, he was willing to agree to almost anything the man asked, but not without a little fight. Revolting little man, his greasy hair, what hair he had left anyway, combed over the shiny bald spot in the middle, shirt dirty, covered in food stains not fully tucked into his pants revealing a hairy full stomach. The sooner he left the sight of this vomit- inducing man, the better.
"Okay, what do you want?"
"That's better; it's going to take another thousand."
"Another thousand, are you mad?"
"Take it or leave it, but your time is short, why I'm sure she'll be seeing that lawyer as soon as the funerals are over."
"Fine, you will have your money, just be sure not to mess things up this time."
With the Lewis family out of the way before John could consult with his lawyer regarding factory-working conditions for the children, Mr. Blackburn and his company could continue. Investments to the board halted only if someone from the family contacted the attorney with such information.
Yes, there were children working in the factory doing some very unpleasant work for low wages and people such as John and Anna would never understand. Some jobs were just too tight for a full-grown adult; this fact escaped the comprehension of this man, his wife and his daughter. The men working in the factory supported families and needed higher earnings than the children who could work for pennies a day.
The daughter. She was the one to blame, that nosey girl. Why could she not keep her mouth shut? Telling her father about the little boy's badly burnt body sparked their investigation. What difference could losing a few homeless brats make? Most of them lived on the streets, eyesores of the city.
Jonesy smiled thinking about the girl. He still planned to take care of her, oh yes. He would do it now for his own pleasure instead of the money. She made him look a fool and no one did such a thing to Jonesy especially not a rich little brat.
Without the warning of a knock, the office door flew open and Mr. Blackburn stepped inside. A man of considerable stature, he needed to duck to walk under the doorframe. Jonesy took note of the man's clothing, a pair of well-worn pants, faded blue shirt, a hat pulled low on his face. When visiting the office of a man known for his career as a professional assassin it was better to do so in disguise. He walked into the office, closed the door behind him, and removed his hat. Taking a seat across the desk from the hired killer, Blackburn cleared his throat in preparation to speak.
"The girl is a problem, a problem which needs to be taken care of quickly."
"I know sir; I am already working on the plans to remove the problem."
"Well, stop working on it and see that it is done. I will not have that nosey girl ruin everything I have worked so hard to achieve."
Jonesy rolled his eyes, hoping the man did not notice, but nodded his head in agreement. 'Everything he worked for indeed.' He knew who the real workers were, the men and children who made the fortune for this man. They toiled all day and all night so he could sleep in satin pajamas under silk sheets, yes, he knew. Looking down his nose at all those lower than himself, this man never worked a day in his life.
"It's going to take more money to finish the job." Even though he would do it, principle negated the need for money; he felt the man should pay for another hit.
"I have already paid you; I have no intention of giving you more money."
"You paid me to take care of things at the factory, the girl wasn't at the factory, therefore, this is a separate contract."
Mr. Blackburn sighed inwardly, he felt dirty in these clothes, wanting nothing more than to finish negotiation with the disgusting man who sat across from him so he could go home and bathe. Giving in was not in his nature, but the filth in which he sat relented to his generous side. Feeling the grime and dirt leave the walls and seep onto his skin through the threadbare clothing, he was willing to agree to almost anything the man asked, but not without a little fight. Revolting little man, his greasy hair, what hair he had left anyway, combed over the shiny bald spot in the middle, shirt dirty, covered in food stains not fully tucked into his pants revealing a hairy full stomach. The sooner he left the sight of this vomit- inducing man, the better.
"Okay, what do you want?"
"That's better; it's going to take another thousand."
"Another thousand, are you mad?"
"Take it or leave it, but your time is short, why I'm sure she'll be seeing that lawyer as soon as the funerals are over."
"Fine, you will have your money, just be sure not to mess things up this time."