“So what’s the deal? Why do you require my services? Someone owe you money?”
Stan had perfected this routine a long time ago, pretending to assume his customers needed debts collecting but it was never that simple.
“No. What we talked about on the phone… Don’t play games with me, you know what we discussed, what we had arranged…”
“Keep your hair on!” he interrupted, “I was just checking it was you and not some fake. Where’s the money?”
“Here.” Joe handed him the brown envelope he had been hiding for weeks, “It’s all there, count it if you don’t believe me.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Satisfied that he had received the agreed amount from Joe, Stan went back to his car to think about his next move. Bearing in mind the amount of money he had just received, he contemplated actually carrying out his end of the deal. However, the thought struck him that he had never, in reality, done that. The temptation of keeping this amount of money to himself instead of having to share it with someone else darted in and out of his mind constantly for the next couple of days. He’d have to make a decision soon.
Joe got home and immediately began to regret his decision to employ Stan. He had jokingly talked to his pub friends about sorting his wife out; she was annoying, didn’t lift a finger around the house, shouted at him constantly and, in his ever increasingly sick and twisted mind, was clearly having an affair with the milkman. They had, in their drunken state, referred him to Stan, a man with a reputation for extermination. Word got round and soon enough, Stan got in contact with Joe to arrange a meeting place and a price for the completion of the task in hand, after all, time is money and money is time. Now he was having second thoughts about the whole thing. He’d been rushed into it, hadn’t he? She wasn’t so bad after all. She had his tea on the table when he got home, ironed his shirts for work and even listened occasionally when she wasn’t bending his ear about something or other. Although Joe was having doubts about the whole thing, he reassured himself of his choice once more. His wife certainly was annoying, lazy and bossy but the clincher was that she was using his money to entertain that retarded little milkman. He’d be a mug if he let this carry on.
Stan came to his decision whilst sitting in the seedy laundrette under his pokey flat. Although his pastime paid well, he had to keep up with the reputation he had acquired by splashing all his hard earned money on nights out with his gangster pals and buying dances from strippers for them. With this in mind, Stan concluded that he would have to complete this particular job. There was just too much money at stake for him not to. He wasn’t worried about being caught by the police. He had gained his reputation by using half the money he was paid by his clients to send the victims out of the country with the warning that if they ever came back, they would be killed. Of course, everyone else believed he had just disposed of them, including the police who seemed to be increasingly afraid of his capabilities and left well alone. If he killed this person, it would make no difference except to the good man who had purchased his package deal of death. He decided he’d do the dirty deed tonight, sooner rather than later.
Joe was standing in the kitchen, astonished as he read the milkman’s bill. How had he not paid the man for six months? A sudden feeling of dread crept in to the pit of Joe’s stomach. Jane was so loyal. How could he have thought that she would betray him? He had to get hold of Stan, apologise for his change of heart and beg him not to tell anybody. Frantically, he dialled the number again and again.
As he set off to earn his money, Stan failed to notice his answer phone messages flashing urgently at him as he walked out the door. Feeling guilty for suspecting his wife of infidelity, Joe’s conscience gripped him. He couldn’t have her killed just because she got on his nerves sometimes.
By the time Stan received the critical messages it was too late. He listened to them whilst washing the blood off his hands, a sign of good work, or so he thought.
Word count 972
