I published this story 9 months ago on Steemit, and it has since been lost and buried on my page. I wanted to repost it (with some minor changes) as the audience here has grown considerably since that time. My apologies to those who read it previously.

BANG BANG YOU'RE DEAD

Death has a way of following me. I guess it's the line of work that I'm in. Sometimes I think that Death and I are playing on the same team. I guess it's safer than playing for the opposition. Today was the day I finally learnt just how true that was.

I was in the Arnold's Lane Club, where the old style Jazz was about as mellow as the liquor they tried to pass off as alcohol. But that's how I liked my music, and my clubs. As for the alcohol, let's just say that wasn't what I was there for, and leave it as that.

I had arrived an hour earlier, following a tip off that Jack the Mack would be in the club later. My informant had never let me down before. I trusted the information, and Jack had been avoiding me for too long now. He had something that belonged to me. It was time to collect.

The Arnold's Lane Club is what some might call a small dingy smoked filled dive. And that's why I loved it. The dimmed lighting, the lingering smoke due to the poor ventilation system, the smooth Jazz tunes that just always seemed to suit the mood. No matter what my mood. And of course, the place was notorious for attracting various lowlife scum. Besides myself, that is.

I saw him as he entered the club. I had positioned myself on a table in the far corner. Back to the wall, facing the entrance. Even in that smokey dark room, I would recognise that face anywhere. But he wasn't expecting me, so I stayed low and kept my hat brim down low to obscure my face. I had tipped the barman to send him my way when he arrived. He was meant to be meeting someone here, that much I did know. He wouldn't realise the error until he had sat down and noticed who he was facing. And I had a way to keep he seated.

Jack sat opposite me, as I lifted the edge of my hat and met his gaze. I had a six shooter in my right hand under the table. He heard the click as I readied it. Jack decided against leaving just yet.

"Jack the Mack," I said, calmly observing his movements. "Place your hands on the table." He may have been carrying a piece himself. It's an insurance policy for guys like us.

He looked at me for what seemed an eternity. His expression gave nothing away, but his eyes; it seemed there was little they could hide. He was confused, and frightened, all at the same time. Why would he be confused? I could understand fear, I had the means and desire to kill him. Preferably not here though. Did he actually know who he was to meet here? My source told me he would be here, but not why. I assume it was to meet someone. Does he think he was to meet me? Does he think this meeting is why he was called here?

"You're a hard man to track down, Jack." I had been searching for three months. Dead ends everywhere. Sometimes people just don't want to be found, and that's that. If they're good enough they will disappear. Even with the contacts I've managed to generate over the years, if a person plays their cards right, all I seem to generate are loose ends. And loose ends in my line of business are a job killer. Clients pay me to collect, and there is nothing that upsets me more than having to explain the reasons for my failure to the client. The sort of people I work for are not the type who accept such behaviour lightly.

So someone hiding away from me for three months becomes personal. This is my livelihood, and even my survival at stake too.

"I've been around. I'm not sure where you were looking."

"You do know why I have been searching for you, right?"

"No idea, maybe you could enlighten me."

"You have an outstanding debt to someone that I work for. A considerable amount of money. The amount you go into hiding over."

"That issue was resolved. That is my understanding."

"How was that resolved? You entered into a business arrangement with my client, and it failed. That cost my client money."

"That cost me money too. Like you said, it failed. We all lose. So tell me again how I owe your client money." Jack wasn't accepting this readily, but who would? The terms of his contract were probably skewed against him. But he entered the agreement, and that's not something you do lightly with these sorts of people.

"Yes, it appears there were few winners, if any, out of this. But I've read your contract. And I seriously doubt you took the time to do just that before you signed it. A business failure was always going to be your responsibility. It's there in black and white."

Jack looked at me more intensely than before. He knew I was right. I knew I was right. We could talk this matter around in circles until closing time, but what was the point. This matter needed resolving.

"I don't have that level of money on me, not here in a club like this."

"I'm not here to collect any money. I'm here to get paid."

"You can't get paid if I don't have any money on me. What am I missing here?" Jack finally started to show some signs of life. Quite ironic really, given the circumstances. He hadn't been this animated since he sat down.

"My client has given me strict instructions. I do not intend to let him down like you have."

Jack moved his right hand under the table. Was he going for his gun, if he had one? I wasn't in the mood to find out. I fired a shot at Jack from under the table. It hit him in the abdomen. I was in the process of standing up to move over to where he lay and finish him, but I was beaten to the chase. Standing beside Jack, dressed in a black pin stripe suit, black tie, and hat, and holding his smoking gun still pointed at Jack was a man I knew quite well. The man I worked for. I tried to contain my sense of shock at his presence, as a cool exterior was the look I was trying to maintain.

I was so focused on events unfolding directly in front of me that I failed to notice that the club had emptied very quickly. There was an eerie sense of quite that was new to this place.

I had never exchanged names with my client. We both seemed to prefer it that way. When you're dealing with this type of work, you really don't want your name being bandied about. He motioned to me to follow him out of the club.

It was late in the evening as we exited. A cold mist was lingering in the lane way outside. I knew cops would be all over this place soon enough. No point hanging around any longer than necessary.

"It took you a while to find Jack McPherson." He looked at me in such a way that left me unsure what he was getting at.

"Yes, I'm sorry about that."

"No don't be. He had good reason to hide. I'm not the sort of person you want to be found by."

He stopped and looked me directly in the eyes. "You've done well tonight. If you want it there's plenty more work I can send your way." And like a magician conjuring up matter out of nowhere, he clicked his fingers as his outfit changed in front of me. Appearing now in a long black cloak, with his head hidden under a black hood; all I could see were his eyes, somewhat red in colour, looking back at me. He handed me a white card, and turned and walked away vanishing into the mist.

I looked at the card he had handed me. In black letters it said: "Death Enterprises".

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Image sourced from unspalsh.com

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