(Stickying this - Monk)

This just spilled out of my keyboard. I think it would be cool if this were another round robin that we could all take turns writing together. So feel free to contribute.




Frank Barrister knew he was dead even before he saw the skinny man in the pea coat draw the pistol from his pocket. He’d first spotted the man as he was exiting the restaurant on Charles Street. Across the street, leaning against a wooden fence, his hands deep in his pockets, the man reminded him of Ichabod Crane in the old Disney cartoon. Painfully thin and with a prominent adam’s apple, large navy pea coat swimming on his gangly frame, the man pushed off the fence and started across the street in Frank’s direction.

That’s when something clicked in Franks head and he knew.

He hadn’t been expecting this so soon. Sure, he had known that this was a distinct possibility, after all he was messing with some serious people here, and people this serious never forgot you if you stepped out of line did they?

He risked a look over his shoulder and saw that Navy Pea Coat was closing ground between them, his right hand pulling something from his oversized pocket.

Panic swelling up in his throat and threatening to escape as a scream, he hurried down the street looking for the largest crowd he could find to lose himself in. This was going to be a professional hit and the more people around to witness it, the less likely it was to take place.

Turning the corner onto Magnolia, he saw just the crowd that he was looking for, a group of about fifteen college kids stumbling out of a T.G.I. Fridays into the street. They were loud and drunk, calling attention to themselves, and were just what the doctor ordered.

Frank put his head down and quickened his pace.

It had all started out innocently enough as Frank recalled now. Well, maybe not entirely innocent, after all you can hardly call soliciting a prostitute on a business trip innocent. Not when your wife of eleven years is at home with your three kids thinking that you’re at a luncheon with a client.

She called herself Traci. Frank figured she hadn't been working long. She still had that wide-eyed optimism of youth. The part of him that was a father wondered how she'd wound up selling herself for a couple hundred bucks. The part of him that was a man just reached for his wallet.

"You've done this before, right?" He looked around the bar with a self-conscious laugh. She nodded toward the door. "Let's go." She took his hand and walked him into the hotel lobby. The matronly hotel clerk peered at him knowingly over her tortoise-shell glasses. The elevator doors opened, and they waited for the car to empty.

He studied her reflection in the mirrored doors. A little too pale, a little too thin, but tall and curved in the right places. Away from the smoke-filled bar he caught the cinnamon smell of her body. She smiled, aware of what he was doing.

The smile died the instant the elevator doors opened.

He'd seen the couple prior to the door opening up. At the bar, thirty minutes later.

They called themselves Bravo and the Blonde. People weren't sure if they were lovers, siblings, or simply colleagues. Then again, those who employed them tended not to dwell on such trivial matters for long.

The guy who called himself Bravo stood 5'11", a long body atop short but sturdy legs. He wore a dark trenchcoat and a doo-rag over his head. His face was covered with sporadic salt and pepper stubble that he had little care to dye or shave regularly. Those who would laugh at his fashion stylings changed their mind when they saw the scowl often etched into his face.

The Blonde made her partner look small, standing 6'2" with a thin but powerful frame. Unlike Bravo, who tended to bury himself in clothes, the Blonde tended to wear more colorful gear. Tonight she was wearing tight white jeans and a red blouse than had more buttons undone than done up. Her cleavage and her tight stomach were on display to anyone who would look. Like Bravo, she tended to repel lingering and curious gazes with the intensity of her glare.

If anyone was privy to their discussions they might discover a much more light-hearted side to both, though.

"Her," said Bravo, pointing at a girl in a blue dress with his eyes as he sipped on his caesar.

"To generic," countered the Blonde. "The girl in the purple skirt, though. She looks like she works out at least two hours a day and has seen action."

"I'll give you that," he said, placing down his drink and running his finger along the spiced rim. "And one hell of an ass too."

"So crude. But you are right."

"I'd elaborate on that ass," he teased, egging her on for a moment before adding, "but it looks like our guy is on the move with some of the local talent. Let's hit the stairs."

Frank tried acting cool. Nodding to the couple as they stepped into the elevator—while simultaneously shepherding young Traci in close with his left arm—he outstretched his right index finger toward the panel choices. "Which floor?"

Bravo coughed, and uttered nothing else until the elevator door fully closed. "Your room will do, Barrister. And, yes, we know your name—don't we, Dear?"

The tall blonde responded by jabbing the unlit "7" button which was still four floors away (and again another six from the "14" Frank had pushed in the lobby). "Pay the girl, Barrister. She'll be stepping out early. Seven's lucky." The blonde squeezed Traci's left hand with her own, and forced the girl's palm upright to Frank. "Make sure you stay lucky, kid. Call it a night."

Frank considered, then quickly rejected, the feigning routine of affront and indignance. Instead, he pressed a neatly folded stack of bills into Traci's palm. Frank had had the payment prepared in advance, the money clipped tight in his left trouser pocket. He was meticulous and systematic in his life, in his adultry, and especially in his embezzlement from his company—Brown, Harrleton, and Associates. He guessed it must have been too easy to trace the missing funds to him.

Still, he wondered—as he gave a reassuring smile and nod to Traci as the door opened on the 7th floor, and she stepped slowly away into the hallway—why would his company, if they had discovered his crime, approach him like this? Emboldened by that line of thinking, Frank decided to cast out a random, impromptu lure just to see if these two would open their mouths for it. "So," he said, "I assume this is about Bob Mannings?"

Bravo and the Blonde exchange a quick glance that gives nothing away. Frank's left palm started to itch, as it always did when he was in over his head and couldn't bluff his way out. A useful warning device - usually calling for a quick exit - but the in-transit elevator forestalled those plans. Plan B - bolt as soon as the doors open. He always knew where the emergency exits were and paid attention to the maps on the inside of the hotel room doors. The stairs were next to housekeeping. Perhaps the housekeeping room would still be unlocked. Perhaps there would even be maids there - a good distraction and a witness.
At the ninth floor the doors opened.
"Frank! My god, what are you doing in town! You should have called me - we would have put you up!" The stranger was at least 250 lbs. and no more than 5" 10" - but moved quickly as he reached into the elevator and extracted Frank. He made eye contact with Bravo, and Bravo actually flinched. Bravo punched the "close door" button on the panel and the elevator slid away.
"Thanks, I guess, but who the hell are you?" Frank wasn't sure if he was still in the frying pan or had made the long jump into the fire.
"Not here. Do you have a car?"
"A rental. Downstairs in the garage."
"Well, don't use it. Don't go near it. We'll get clear and I'll call for clean-up."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Do you want to go home again? To your quiet life? Office intrigues? Poker with the boys? A little light embezzling? Then stop asking questions and move. Follow me."
The stranger headed for the stairs, but took out keys to a nondescript door next to the housekeeping closet. Behind the door was the freight elevator.
"Let's go. We don't have much time and we can talk inside."
The door chugged closed and the elevator rumbled to life, descending slowly.
The stranger turned to Frank. "First off I have to ask you. How much do you know about your wife?"

A traffic jam of questions left Frank's mouth hanging silently open. Finally one broke free.
"What does Charlotte have to do with this?" The nondescript man in the nondescript clothes gave Frank a nondescript look.
"That's what she's calling herself?" The question was muttered under his breath, but in the silence of the elevator Frank heard it just fine, as he was meant to. Tired of being scared, tired of feeling guilty, tired of wondering who was going to try to push him around next, Frank let a surge of righteous indignation propel him into a furious rage. He spun at the man, face red, hurling tiny flecks of spittle with each word, his right hand gripping the man's upper arm in a powerful hold.
"Who the fuck do you think you are? Did Charlotte hire you to follow me? She knows, doesn't she?" He was getting worked up, now, and the volume and force of his words became far more important than their logic or coherence. "Did she send those two goons in the elevator...the other elevator..after me, too? That'd be just like her, trying to teach me a lesson with some elaborate little ruse she picked up from her insipid soap operas! Well, I've done nothing wrong, and I don't like you butting into my business no matter what you're getting paid! Now, you'll let me go, and you'll let me go NOW!" The man did just the opposite. His arm, the arm that Frank thought he was holding tightly, shot up faster than Frank could see. His hands, almost freakishly large for his frame, Frank noticed for the first time, acted in concert, one giving Frank a quick jab to the solar plexus, while the other grabbed Frank's throat, applying just the right amount of pressure on the carotid artery to make everything go black.

Frank came to in the back of a large car with darkly tinted windows. The nondescript man was seated opposite him studiously cleaning his fingernails with a tiny, wicked looking knife. He looked up when Frank moved to sit up.
"Don't move too fast, now. You are going to have a headache for a bit. Aspirin and water are in that compartment to your right." he gestured to a little door that Frank hadn't noticed. "Let's talk about 'Charlotte', why don't we. I assume you met in North Carolina? She keeps a clean house, volunteers a little (but not too much), always has dinner on the table at 6, never asks for anything other than the occasional trip home - alone - to see her mother? Grandmother?"
Frank realized his mouth was hanging open and he felt like he had forgotten to breathe. "Grandfather. How did you know? About North Carolina? The house? Everything?"
"Let's say, I know 'Charlotte'. She is disciplined and predictable in many things, ruthless and unpredictable in others. Her strength, her weakness. She would have been fine, if she had stayed out of the game. We were willing to overlook her little experiment in domesticity if she had laid low. But she couldn't resist freelancing - keeping her hand in. I can't really blame her, she is one of the best."
"The best? At what?"
"Do you really want to know? You are in danger - your family is in danger - and I'm not even sure who all the players are yet. At least two international governments, our own (of course), some corporate muscle and possibly a terrorist cell or two. You are deep in it. And you don't even know what is going on." The fat man began laughing as though he had not laughed in a long time. He wheezed and wiped his eyes with a dazzling white handkerchief. "God, I hope I get to see her face when this all goes down. I have such a big ‘I told you so’ planned.” The fat man opened the case next to him and brought out the biggest gun Frank had ever seen up close. He place it under his coat where it vanished into his bulk. Then he pulled a folder out of the case and handed it to Frank. The folder was filled with photos of him, his wife, his kids, all taken at random times - going to school, walking the dog, mowing the lawn, shopping for groceries.
“We...ah...liberated this folder from the two in the elevator. They work for us... sometimes. Sometimes they work for themselves. As you can see, they are meticulous. Of course, you are very predictable. Oh, and you should make it right with your employers, since, as you may recall, your wife helped you get that job. Her connections are wide and deep, and you do not want to mess with these people. They are probably the ones who hired the Bobsie twins. I doubt they would have done any permanent damage, but you can never be sure with those two. Ah, here we are. Everyone out!”
The chauffeur opened the door and Frank stepped out into the bright tropical sun. His eyes blinked in the glare and his head started to throb again. Before him was a ramble down packing house for fruit - if the sign above the door was correct. It looked unused and unsafe.
“After you, my good man!” The fat man gestured toward the slightly ajar door. Frank, fighting down the impulse to turn and run down the road as fast as he could, slowly moved to the door and pushed it open.