For Hire



He was a sweet lay. Charlie, I think that’s what he said his name was, picked me up at The Pub. He thought he did the picking, but then most guys do. The Pub was a neighbor bar: stained glass, heavy on the wood, pretences of English. We went back to his place, block away. Nice, but the decorator’s hand was heavy: faux ancestral photos, tinted engravings, leather, plaid throws.

What I liked about Charlie: he lit a fire, we sipped cognac, and then slowly, slowly and gently he unwrapped me, kissing as he moved down my body. By the time he got below my belly I was very ready. In the second act he cuddled, all sugar and warm. After the third act he fell asleep. I waited an hour, got up, dressed and left. I had places to go, people to kill.

Yeah, you read that right: kill. It’s what I do. Don’t advertise; in this line of work don’t need to. Over on 47th and Second, west side of the street, look up, you’ll see gold lettering on a third story window:

Allan & Monroe
Private Investigators
For Hire

That’s the office. I’m the Allan, Miriam Ivanna, though it’s been Mia ever since I had the choice. There’s no Monroe, never was, but a double barrel name is reassuring. That’s what the Marketing prof at Wharton said, though I don’t think he had this in mind.

I had wanted a job on Wall Street; had a couple of offers—Morgan, Merrill, but then the market went in the tank, and when the tank broke it was: we’d-love-to-have-you-and-we’re-sure-business-will-pick-up-in-six-months-but-at-the-moment. So, I did what every Jewish girl with JD/MBA does, went to Israel to do the kibbutz thing.

I ended up in the middle of nowhere: dry, brown, sand, desert, wind, lonesome, brown, wind, sand, lonesome, dry, desert, for eighteen months. Then an army recruiter came through: do-your-duty-serve-your-country. Training base near Haifa: cypress trees, rain, grass, lush, rolling hills, green, beaches, men. Turns out, I was a crack shot. Top of the class in basic training. From there to sniper school. Again, top of the class. A natural talent, who knew? Saw some action in Lebanon chasing the Hez around. Can’t talk much about it and there are some medals in a drawer and the suggestion I don’t go back into the area for a few, uh, make that ten years.

I was set for a while when I arrived back in the city, so did nothing. Wall Street seemed tame after Gaza and Lebanon. Contacted by K, one of my pals in the army. Asked if I’d do him a favor. Problem with a Russian in Brighton Beach. Not something I’d ordinarily do, but K saved my ass at Maroun al-Ras; I owed him. Took a couple of days to find the guy. Staked him out. A man of habits. Walked his dog in Asser Levy Park every morning at seven. Always the same paths. Spent a couple of days mapping the sight lines and covers. Found a grove of trees with the perfect angle. Waited for a rainy day: bullet shoots flatter, foot prints are washed out. Nailed him at 200 yards with my Galil. Envelope under the door when I got home. Generous. A call two months later. Envelope. More generous. Then got another call, friend of K’s.

First two hits, didn’t have a problem. K vouched for them. K’s friend, not so sure. Investigated, but afterward; yeah, I know. It was borderline. I should have had second thoughts about right here. And I did. It came down to this: battered wives, abused kids, this woman who net-bullied a thirteen year old into suicide. Some perps never get what’s coming to them. Talked to my rabbi about the Torah’s “eye for an eye.” Concluded the city needed its modern day paladin, not just the Dungeons and Dragons variety. Why me? I’m smart, educated, dispassionate (about most things), and can shoot. So set up the PI biz. Investigate first, fire second. License makes a good cover for carrying, and I do the occasional missing person. I’ve turned down 99% of the hit jobs on offer. Offense didn’t warrant the punishment. Tell them up front; I’m judge and executioner.

Late afternoon the office door opened, woman stuck her head in, saw me, then brought the rest of her body through. Late-twenties, black hair, Louise Brooks cut, Chanel A-line coat, low heel black patent shoes. Sat very straight in the chair, knees together, purse on lap.

“I’m not sure how to start,” she said. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Most people haven’t. What’s it about.”

“I was engaged to this guy, but before the wedding I got pregnant. When I told him, he exploded and started punching me. I fell down the stairs trying to get away.”

“Kleenex,” I said, handing it across the desk.

I noticed her hands as she wiped her eyes. They were discolored.

“That’s when, that’s how I lost the baby,” she said. “The police wouldn’t listen.”

“What precinct did you file the complaint in?” I asked.

“Then somehow he found out I’d reported him and one night when I was going home he punched me again, called me a lying whore.”

She showed me the engagement announcement. Showed me the bruises. Showed me the photo—oh my god! Charlie! She wanted me to do my sweet lay. Couldn’t believe it. Charlie. Though she called him Danny. I focused on the face: the magnetic grey-green eyes, laugh crinkles around the mouth, salt and pepper hair; then the hands under his chin, soft hands. Memory sent a tingle up my spine.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I need to fix the face in my mind; I never keep photos.”

I gave her another kleenex, helped her to the door, a sisterly hug, and said I’d be in touch.

This was close to home; never done someone I’ve known, biblically speaking. But if it was true, if it was true, he deserved to be whacked. I did my investigation and like all of them, checked the client and the accused: college and job records, co-workers, past lovers, friends. Not sure about Charlie. So end up at The Pub. There he is, looking same as the first time: cords, brown bomber jacket, sitting alone, sipping a Guinness. We go to my place. Pleasure first. Act One plays out like the first time, very very nice. Then business: is Charlie like what Miss Chanel said?

So I go a little mean on him, “Is that all you got?” I ask. Poke him in the ribs. He looks startled.

“Where’d you leave the big man?”

Light cuff on the ear. He turns red.

“What the hell’s this?” he asks, and gets out of bed.

I think, maybe he’s backing off, going to leave. Maybe Miss Chanel’s story doesn’t hold up. Then suddenly he swings around. Don’t see it coming. His fist smashes my cheek. He’s going for my throat when he must feel something cold in his gut. My rod.

“Whoa baby,” I purr.

He leaves. I think his pants are on backward.

Yup. Charlie has a mean streak. The streak is deep, and it is ugly.

Next Wednesday I’ll be in position on Summit Rock in Central Park. First light. Charlie will jog from his apartment on West 80th, toward the Reservoir. He’ll run directly toward the Rock, and me. I’ll be kneeling, arm vertical under my rifle, in the shadows. I’ll see him, then count down: I’ll feel the heat of the target; I’ll smell the target; I’ll breathe in, let half a breath out; I’ll be in my still place; slight, steady pressure from the very end of my finger.

the delinquent, 2009