Charlie looked down at his shoes. They were scuffed with curves of light-brown roughened leather where the door panel he kicked in earlier that morning scraped across the shiny toecap. He tutted and reached into the glove compartment for his shoe-shine kit. He always kept one in there, along with a tub of hair gel and a clothes brush.
Charlie liked to look smart. He thought it gave him an air of authority, a kind of lawyerly feel, judicial even. He chuckled at that: Charlie was no judge. In fact, he never made judgements. Things were simple in Charlie-World, there were just three states of being: a problem, not a problem, and no longer a problem. Simplicity was his byword, which was just as well because having too many thoughts about his line of work could lead to problems.
His mentor, Tony Torandi, had become a problem. He thought too much and started to make judgements.
“The old lady isn’t a problem, Charlie,” he said in his thick Staten Island accent, “she’s scared outta her wits. She ain’t going to say nothing.”
Charlie said nothing. He reported back, then went out again to take care of the old lady. Then he took care of Tony.
“You can’t let sentiment get in the way of business, Tony,” he said. Tony failed to reply, largely because the garotte in Charlie’s hands had already sliced his vocal cords.
Since then everything had been peachy, and this made Charlie happy. There is something to be said for a good job, a decent wage and no problems. He went home to his wife and kids, ate his dinner, watched TV, took a shower then went to bed. On the weekend he went to the ballgame, had a few beers, left early and headed for home where he would make love to his beautiful wife and have a well-earned sleep. Life was simple and good.
The shoes took some buffing to bring them back to his required standard, but Charlie had time. Part of his simple routine was to always arrive early to an appointment. That way he could deal with any unexpected matters expeditiously. He was fond of that word, a gift from the late Tony, who set great store by timekeeping. Charlie was of a similar mind: timekeeping is important.
Once the shoes were properly shined, he straightened his tie, donned a long, beige overcoat, tightened the silencer on his revolver and strode across the street to his appointment, pausing at the gate to the weathered clapboard property to take in potential escape routes, then took the steps two at a time and reached for the bellpush.
He failed to notice the wire leading from the bell was far thicker than usual, which was unfortunate for Charlie because instead of a welcoming bing-bong, or excitable tring, it crackled with an arcing ring of death and his final thought as he slumped to the floor was, “I should have thought…”
