MONEY TALKS
He was ushered into a white modernist Scandinavian room. No curtains framed the large windows overlooking the San Francisco Bay. There was a Kelly Ording on one wall, another occupied by a Fernando Reyes. The furniture was Finnish, an homage to the designs of Alvar Aalto. The desk was teak and devoid of personality. No papers, family photos, children's drawings, awards, plaques, or pictures, to identify the office's occupant.
He'd been summoned to the office the day after being released from San Quentin, a second stint for shooting a police officer. Like the first, this cop had lived, but the prosecutor, a woman named Sanger, brought up the reason he'd been in Q the first time. Contract murder. A cop. She felt he deserved to stay in prison because he would get another contract and shoot another cop, just like the previous contract. The jury had disagreed with her. If they had known about the other contracts he had completed, he would not enjoy freedom now.
He was a professional hitman, known for his discretion as well as his competency. He called himself the Mechanic and, for the right price, could permanently fix your problems. The proposed contract was sent to a dummy email account. A lawyer named Daggett would reply to the message. The payment was due when the contract was complete. The employer met the Mechanic only once to provide information on the subject. The only reason he'd been caught the last time was due to the person's ineptitude the contract holder demanded to accompany him. He worked alone; he told both the youngster and the employer. He wasn't listened to. The judge gave him 10-15, and he served two and a half. His attorney told him that the judge recently had found fault in the case law and wanted a retrial. He suspected that an unseen benefactor had come to his aid. Someone wanted his services very badly and had huge clout to pull that off.
The Mechanic walked out of San Quentin to be greeted by an Uber. Wordlessly he was driven to one of the small boutique hotels in the Wharf area and ushered to a small suite. Moments later, there was a knock on the door. A small intense man entered with a rack of clothing and accessories. He chose several outfits. The afternoon passed with several more visits from trusted vendors, ending with a visit to a gunsmith. He spent the afternoon on a nearby shooting range, shaking off the rust and fine-tuning his weaponry. On his return to the hotel, he checked his email. He had an appointment at 9:30 the next morning. After a room service dinner, he spent time googling the address and finding out as much as possible about his employer.
An assistant came in, proffered a chair, and asked if water, coffee, or something stronger could be brought him. He declined. The assistant offered apologies for the late arrival. He gave no reasons.
He checked his watch. 10:30. He didn't like being kept waiting. Walking toward the door, he heard movement behind him. Turning in the chair, he saw a slim man dressed expensively and entirely in black. "Mr…" he began. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."
"Adams, Sam Adams."
The employer laughed. "Touche, "Coffee? Water? A drink perhaps?"
A negative headshake was his response. The Mechanic slid his lanky body into the proffered chair. He touched nothing with his gloved hands.
"After today, you won't see me again. When the contract is complete, Lawyer Daggett will contact you with instructions as to how, when, and where to deposit payment."
"Fine. That will be advantageous for both of us. However, I hope I may rely on your services in the future. Should the need arise, of course." The voice was Latin, educated."
Though partially covered with a crisp linen shirt and jacket, the tattoos on his hands and neck told a different story. He was a member of La Eme. The mechanic had dealt with them in prison. He'd have to deal cautiously with his employer.
"You know how to contact my lawyer."
"However, should you decide not to honor your commitment."
"I honor them. You knew that already. You wouldn't have hired me otherwise."
The employer slid a large manila mailing envelope across the desk. "This is yours."
"Let's get something straight at the outset. When I ask for background, I mean everything."
"It is there. Should you require more, you only have to ask my agent in Denver."
The Mechanic took it. "You and I are finished here." He got up and, without shaking hands, walked towards the door.
He grasped the handle. "Oh, and Señor, any attempts to follow me or impede my work… well, you don't want to have happened to the last guy who tried that, happen to you. Very unhealthy." The door shut softly behind him.
"No, Mr. Welles," Pepe Alvarado said equally as softly to the retreating figure. "You will find that you don't want to cross me either."