The Atlantic City boardwalk doesn’t get much foot traffic in the dead of winter, especially around dusk. Oh sure, there are the casinos, but anyone gambling during this season could give a rats ass about anything except the next card, roulette spin, or arm pull on the bandit they have already spent hours at dumping their welfare or social security check into. Some may pop out on the boardwalk just long enough to try their luck at any other casino, but it’s rare.
The boards are a lonely place in winter, but the locals don’t mind. It gives them some peace, for a while. You get the occasional jogger with their routine, there are some who enjoy the quiet and space of the boardwalk, even though the shops are closed and the wind off the ocean cuts to the bone.
Ryan O’Shea faces a closed up store front. He rests against a railing that separates the beach from the boards. Ryan’s thirty-five year old rosy cheeks contrast his Irish complexion, as do the black circles under his eyes. The well maintained black hair on his head is no match for the wind that whips off the ocean churning and throwing sand. The black lamb skin gloves O’Shea wears pulls up the collar of his beige cashmere coat to protect the back of his neck.
Since the war, Ryan has become a quiet man. His boisterous character no longer the life of the parties and friendly soirées, because he has no more friends. No matter what the news or the government says, finding honest work was, and still is, hard for many. So, Ryan put the skills the military gave him to profitable use. You see, Ryan O’Shea is a killer, and he’s damned good at it. The thing that has made Ryan a go to guy is his callousness. He will kill anyone the way you want, even take trophies. This is what his clients pay for. It’s not what he thought his life would be, but he has been okay with it for the most part. For a brief moment he stares off into space, the boy wasn’t supposed to be there.
Ryan shakes the thought from his head and watches a fat Italian man in a black overcoat. The man approaches a bench and plops down on it. The fat man is Nicky Scalletti. His round fifty-ish face boasts a mustache and goatee parsed with gray.
Ryan is nonchalant while he recons the boardwalk. An old couple cuddles into each other to protect themselves from the stiff breeze as they walk by Nicky on the bench. Ryan braces himself against the winds onslaught; he places his gloved hands in his coat pockets and saunters to Nicky. Ryan sits. Nicky takes a side glance at Ryan, and with genuine concern breaks the silence.
“You need to control your demons, son. You look like shit.”
Ryan’s keen dark circled eyes still surveys his surroundings.
“You’re fat.”
Nicky snorts, he tries to warm up by nuzzling into his coat.
“Christ its cold out here, supposed get below zero tonight. You couldn’t have picked a place with a nice risotto?”
“You got something for me?”
Nicky hesitates. Ryan studies the concern on Nicky’s face.
“He’s not happy. You had to do the boy?”
“That’s on Silvio.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.”
Ryan’s expressionless face unnerves Nicky, he looks away.
“Just saying, now the others think he’s lost his shit. It’s not how we do things, Ryan. He was the best doing what you do when he was younger. He believes it could have gone down different.”
Nicky feels Ryan’s hollow eyes peer into him.
“Where is it?”
Nicky’s nerves give him away, he swallows hard, then reaches into his coat pocket. Ryan is a leopard ready to pounce. Nicky removes a thick rolled up manila envelope. Ryan eases a bit. He takes the envelope and Nicky moves to stand.
“Easy big man, we’re not done.”
Nicky eases back against the bench. He is a bit skittish, his eyes dart around the boards. They are empty. Ryan opens the envelope and peers in. He takes one glove off and counts the bundles. Ryan puts the glove back on; he rolls the envelope and places it inside his breast coat pocket. Ryan crosses his legs and extends his arm across the bench behind Nicky. Nicky meets Ryan’s creepy soft smile.
“Call Silvio.”
“Listen–”
The click of Ryan’s stiletto and the cold steel point against the back of Nicky’s neck silences him. Ryan’s grin is polite.
“Call him.”
Nicky pulls out his phone and obeys. The thick tension is just as cold as the ocean wind that rushes by. Nicky speaks into his phone.
“He wants to talk to you.” Nicky hands the phone to Ryan.
“Don’t speak. You’ve sent your message, my turn. I’ll be by in two hours.” Ryan hangs up and gives Nicky his phone back. Nicky relaxes, thank god that’s over.
“He knows you always count it, I told him not to–. “
The soft squish of the stiletto blade piercing Nicky’s neck and easing up into his brain is barely audible. A soft gurgle and gentle spasms are his last moments of fight.
“I liked you, big man.”
One last spasm and Nicky’s face turns peaceful. He stares forward. A couple hurrying by smiles at Ryan, he smiles wide and nods.
Ryan removes the stiletto and wipes the blade on the back shoulder of the large man. He retracts the blade and places the weapon into the same pocket with his money. Ryan stands; he wobbles just as a fury of ocean air slams into him, JESUS! He braces against it until it passes. Ryan leaves Nicky on the bench, a tiny sliver of blood trickles from the stiletto hole on his neck. Ryan is the only figure alive on the boards as the last hint of sun disappears.
Ryan’s profession allows him to enjoy the finer things. Several years ago he bought two condos next to each other and made them into one. His large spacious condo in the Margate Towers is one to be envied. Paintings, crystal vases, a white mohair living room set and black Italian marble tables, and the view. My god, the view, Ryan often watches the majestic sunrise over the ocean through his extra-large patio glass doors, weather permitting of course, it is dark now.
Ryan is on his sofa. He counts his money wetting his thumb every so often to rifle off the bills from one hand to the other, at this point in life, money is his lover. There are several thick neat stacks of one hundred dollar bills. To the side on the table sits a silver plated .357 Sig Sauer, behind it is a bottle of Johnny Walker Excelsior, aged fifty years, partnered with a dash in a glass. Ryan places the last count on a stack, and makes it neat. He grabs his glass and lets the sofa engulf him. He stares at the stacks of money.
“Bastard,” he says to the empty condo.
Ryan looks at his wrist watch, the inner workings clearly visible and encrusted with diamonds accent the black leather strap; it reads 7:30, still got time. Ryan gets up and goes to his patio doors. He savors a sip of whisky while the stars on the horizon wink at him. A violent wind gust slams into the doors, he can feel the coldness seep through the glass.
Ryan turns on the light to the balcony patio; he inspects a section of the metal and glass railing with caution tape where a glass panel should be. The salt air is not kind to most things, even those supposedly designed for it.
A disdain crosses Ryan’s face, why pay fees when all they do is dick around. He shuts off the patio light. Ryan hears the faint click of his front door unlatching, Silvio!
Ryan is stealthy quick to place the drink on the table and pick up his gun. He inches forward weapon ready, he takes cover behind the wall separating the kitchen from the hallway. Ryan listens, nothing. He silently slides up to the end of the wall. Ryan whirls into view and points his gun at his would be attacker. No one is there. He checks the door locks, solid.
“What the hell,” he says out loud. Ryan eases the hammer forward on his weapon. He walks down the short hallway into the spacious living area; a shadow moving down the darkened hallway toward the bedrooms catches his eye, it looks familiar. Adrenaline pumps Ryan to action; he clicks the hammer back and with military guile goes after his intruder. He thoroughly searches one bedroom. As he moves into the hallway and toward the second Ryan hears the patio door slide open. Ryan runs into the living room.
The patio door is wide open. The freezing cold air fills the room. Ryan steps onto the patio and quickly clears it, again no one. Confused, Ryan checks his watch; screw this, time to get my money. He walks into the room with his weapon at his side, and before he can turn to close to the door.
“Supposed get below zero tonight,” says Nicky behind the sofa.
Ryan’s muscle memory pulls off three rounds dead center in Nicky’s chest before what he sees even registers. Nicky’s blue lips part in a sinister smile. Ryan’s disbelief echoes in his voice.
“No. No, you’re dead.”
Nicky says nothing while he walks around the sofa, his milky dead eyes on Ryan. Ryan fires off three more rounds, Nicky never misses a step.
“You need to control your demons, son.”
Ryan is unable to contain his horror. He is desperate for escape. He hurries away around the other end of the sofa; he slams into Nicky’s rotund belly.
“This isn’t happening!”
Nicky smiles, he moves forward, Ryan backs up toward the balcony patio. Ryan is oblivious to the freezing cold wind that whips in and blows the stacks of money off the table. Nicky displays his dead smile while he forces Ryan onto the balcony.
“I liked you too.”
Ryan backs up to the caution tape, with nowhere to go he crouches down. A terrified Ryan never takes his eyes off Nicky. Ryan whimpers.
Nicky no longer smiles, his dead bluishness now in angry horror appears inches from Ryan’s face.
“You had to do the boy!”
Ryan’s absolute fear takes him backward through the caution tape. His girlish screams float on the wind as he tumbles through the air. Ryan’s body hits the pool cover; his eyes pop out as his head splits open watermelon style when it strikes the pool edge.
Day light shines in the open balcony patio door. Two detectives wearing surgical gloves, one in a brown coat, the other wearing a black one come from the hallway; they stop and survey the room. Although the sun is warm, it does little against the chill in the room.
A cleaning lady in uniform and winter coat cries as a police woman comforts her; other police admire a hole in the wall. On further inspection it’s three bullet holes so close together they appear as one hole.
A CSI with gloves picks up a hundred dollar bill off the coffee table with a tweezers and places it in an evidence bag with other hundreds. She looks toward the detectives.
“We’ll know for sure after some tests.”
A uniformed officer is in a chair, he reaches gently in the air trying to catch something unseen.
“Beautiful,” the officer says.
A burly female EMT eases him up and leads him out.
“Not everyone’s trip is as pleasant,” says the CSI.
“Unlike officer Melon’s here,” black coat says with a smile.
The detectives walk to the open patio door and stop, brown coat motions to the patio corner.
“That’s different,” says brown coat.
As brown coat blows into his hands to warm them, black coat checks his notes.
“Maintenance said they replaced the glass yesterday morning.”
Both detectives turn from the door and walk back into the room, they leave a frozen Ryan in the fetal position, his mouth agape in a scream and dead eyes wide with fear.
[bctt tweet=”OCTOBER TERROR 2018 Short Story Award – Entry #17 ‘THE ART OF KILLING’ by Marc Johnson @WoordMan – Enjoy all this terrific, disturbing material you have in your hands, lots of horror stories at your disposal for your dark delight and vote!” username=”theboldmom”]
On October 23rd we’ll close submissions and open a poll for the readers to choose their favourite one! You’ll have a week to make your choice and on October 31st we’ll announce the winner!!!
