Marty rang the doorbell and waited and the door opened. A big guy let him in and followed the big guy down a long hallway. At the end of the hallway was another room and the big guy opened the door and Marty walked in and there and sat Kasemeyer behind the desk. Kasemeyer said, "Sit down." Marty sat in a chair in front of the desk and the big guy closed the door and w as gone, but not very far away. Kasemeyer didn't look like much but he was everything, if anything at all was everything, not only in that city but in many cities and some countires too.
"Marty," Kasemeyer asked, "how long you been a hitman?"
"A long time, sir and I've never been nailed. I've always had a pigeon to take the rap."
"What have been some of your hits?"

"You know as well as I do, sir: both Kennedys, Martin Luther King, many, many others."
"Didn't you hit Huey Long?"
"I don't go back that far, sir, that hit was carried out by my father."
"You've got a hell of a family, Marty."
"Thank you, sir."
"Cigar?" Kasemeyer asked.
"No, thank you, sir, I don't smoke."

"Kasemeyer threw a cigar at Marty, it hit him on the chest, then fell to the floor.
"Pick that up. Unwrap it. Light it. Smoke it. I want you to smoke it."
Marty picked up the cigar, peeled off the cellophane, bit off the end, stuck it into his mouth.
"I don't have a light, sir."
Kasemeyer pressed a button on his desk. The door opened and the big guy came in.
"Percy," Kasemeyer said to the big guy, "light the man up."
"Him or his cigar, Mr. Kasemeyer?"
"Just the cigar at this moment."

Kasemeyer got up and readied a cigar of his own as Percy furfilled his duty.
"Now, fat boy, come on over here and light mine."
"Yes, Mr. Kasemeyer."
Percy came around to the desk and lit Kasemeyer's cigar.
"Thanks, fat boy, now stick around."

"Yes, Mr. Kasemeyer."
Kasemeyer leaned back and took a good draw on his cigar. He exhaled.
"Ah..."
Then he looked at Marty
"You like your cigar?"
"Yes, Mr. Kasemeyer."
"Now, I want you to take that cigar and stick the end of it into your left palm."
"What?"
"You heard me. Now, do it."
"Marty stared at Kasemeyer."
"Give me a break, Mr. Kasemeyer!"

"You've got 15 seconds. Either stick it into your palm or lose your palm, maybe your hand, maybe more..."
"Marty sat as Kasemeyer inahled, then exhaled a plume of fine smoke.
"Five seconds..."
Marty placed the cigar end into the plam of his left hand, closing his eyes.
"JESUS CHRIST, JE-
SUS CHRIST!" he
yelled.
"Shut up! Now,
press that son of a
bitch down in there!"
Marty pressed it in, biting his lower lip in
furious desperation...
"Okay, now you can lift it and continue
smoking."
Marty placed the cigar into his mouth.
The cigar trembled between his lips.
"Light his cigar again, Percy, I do believe
it's almost out..."
Percy did as bid, then went back and
stood by the door. Kasemeyer looked at
Percy.
"When's your birthday, fat boy?"
"January 9th, sir."
"Remind me to send you a diseased
chicken."
"Yes, sir."
Then Kasemeyer looked back at Marty
who was weakly puffing at his cigar and
glancing at his left hand.
"Well, asshole, you killed the WRONG
man!"
"What?"
"We wanted you to hit Henry Munoz."
"I did."
"You hit the wrong man!"
"Sir, the photos, the mannerisms, the
dress... it all fit... He was even sitting at the
same table at the same time on the usual
night when he always dined there. He even
ordered the same dinner from the menu.
"You were too anxious, asshole, you
blew the guts out of the WRONG man!" It
wasn't a proper hit! It's a wonder you didn't
scrub the maître d'!"
"I'm sorry, sir, give me another try!"
"Why are people so fucking incompetent,
Marty?"
"I don't know, sir. I'm sure I've never
killed the wrong man before!"
"You know, I go into a restaurant and I
order a steak rare and you know what I
get?"
"No, sir."
"I get a fucking medium-rare!"
"You ought to send it back, sir."
"I do better, I buy the restaurant and fire
the chef."
"I'd never shoot the maître d', sir."

"I order a license plate for DMV, 4NIC8
and they write back and say I can't have it.
Why are people so fucking incompetent?"
"I don't know. sir."
Kasemeyer looked at Percy.
"Fat boy, why are people so incompe-
tent?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Sometimes I feel like I'm all alone in the
world, other times I know it."
There was silence. Kasemeyer sucked
at his cigar, blew plumes of smoke
upward...
"Listen, Mr. Kasemeyer." Marty broke
the silence, "give me another chance at
Henry Munoz, I'll get him for sure this time!"
"Is that right?"
"Just give me another shot at this guy.
sir.
"Okay, you get the shot! Now, stand up!"
Marty stood up.
"Now, kick yourself in the ass!"
"What? How?"
"You've got 15 seconds to figure that
out."

Marty stood there and kicked up his
left leg but couldn't reach his ass. He tried the
right leg. Failed. Marty kept on trying, first
one leg, then the other. His eyes became
wild and frightened as he tried unsuccess-
fully to boot himself in the rear. Kasemeyer
began laughing. He laughed and he
laughed, finally throwing his cigar off and
beating his sides. Then, suddenly he
stopped.
"Okay, that's enough."
He looked over at Percy.
"Fat boy, you kick
him in the ass!
Kick him right
through that door
and right out the
front door!"
"Please, Mr. Kasemeyer, I'll get this
Munoz! I'll blow his brains right down
through his balls!"
Kasemeyer nodded to Percy.
The first kick landed. Percy followed
Marty through the door and booted him
again. He booted him down the hall and
into the street. Then he came back.
Kasemeyer was lighting a new cigar.
Percy stood there.
"Mr. Kasemeyer, he shouldn't have shot
the wrong man."
Kasemeyer inhaled, exhaled.
'Ah hell, fat boy, he killed the right man."
"You mean, he got Munoz?"
"He blew his guts right out through his
asshole. Great job."
"Then why..."

"Never ask me WHY anything, fat boy!"
Percy blinked sadly.
Kasemeyer took note of that fact.
"All right, all right, don't get maudlin! I'll
tell you! I'm just tired of this guy! Besides,
he knows too much. He's worked for me
long enough. Hell, how do I know,
somebody might make him talk?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's right. What ya gonna
do?"
"The hit's on the hitman. It's fixed for
tonight. This is his last night on earth."
"You got tired of him, huh, boss?"
"Yeah, you might
say that"
"Boss. you
ever going to
get tired off
me?"
"Percy, you astonish me! Do cats ever
get tired of birds?"
"No."
"Do fish ever get tired of water?"
"No, Mr. Kasemeyer."
"Then, that's it. Return to your station at
the front door."
Percy walked to the office door, opened
it and walked quietly down the hall toward
his station at the front door. Well, he walked
as quietly as 275 pounds would allow.
Kasemeyer pushed a button, lifted up
the phone.
"Bevins? Listen, erase Percy within the
next 24 hours. WHY? Never ask WHY
anything, Bevins! All right, shit, he knows
too much. That make you feel better?
Okay, and make that within the next 12
hours..."
Kasemeyer hung up.
It took an awful lot to stay on top. Nobody
ever quite understood that. The durability.
The moves. The finesse.
He picked up the phone again. Pushed
another button.
"Hello, Pia? Okay, I want you to bring
down a couple of bottles of chilled white-
wine in the bucket. I'm in the mood for
head. And I want you to wear one of those
see-through outfits that looks like it's been
ripped and torn in the dryer. And I want you
to wear your hair all fucked- up like a
German shepherd has just pissed all over
it. And, hurry up!"
Kasemeyer hung up, leaned back and
waited.
Meanwhile, he noticed a fat fly circling
about the room. He reached into his desk
drawer, took out the .45, clicked off the
safety catch, lifted the gun and aimed it at
the damned thing.

© Frank Silvanski