Page 8 of Himbo Hitman
I have a place and a time to meet Arlie, and it’s been on my mind all day. I refuse to be late. I even set about five alarms in the lead-up to leaving so that I wouldn’t get distracted and forget, and since I have some time to spare, I’m going to show up with a little something for her as my thanks for doing this for me.
Unfortunately, my bank balance limits what that something could be, so I settle for two coffees. We’re in for a long night, so this will keep us going.
Only when I get to the front to order and the cashier asks for my name, I hesitate. If we’re doing what I think we’re doing tonight, I can’t leave any evidence for the police. That starts now. I need to start thinking like a calculating, cunning creature of the night.
And those calculated, cunning creatures probably don’t give their real names for coffee orders.
“Jerry,” I blurt, proud of myself for catching this. “And Harley.”
The cashier rings me up, I stand to wait, and when they call my order, I remember to answer to the wrong name. I’m already killing this thing. Pun intended.
The street outside looks cut in half, with the bright, busy road and shopfronts, and the still black canvas above it all. I love the nighttime. It makes the traffic and the people seem more magical, and when I smile at the people I pass, most of them even smile back.
During the day, people are too busy rushing around, earbuds in, talking obnoxiously loudly.
I meet Arlie a few streets over, in a shady alleyway that we probably shouldn’t be lingering in—though, I guesswe’rethe reason people shouldn’t hang out in these places. Boy, that is going to take some adjustment.
“Got you something,” I say, holding out her coffee.
She looks at it like it’s about to explode in her face. “You stopped for coffee.”
“Thought we might be here a while.” I turn a little so she can see my backpack. “Brought snacks and a set of cards too.”
“This isn’t a sleepover.”
“I know.”
“We’re not braiding each other’s fucking hair.”
“That’s lucky, because I don’t know how to do that.”
“We’re killing someone, Perry.”
“It’s Jerry.”
She blinks at me. “What?”
I hold up my coffee so she can see. “Jerry. It’s my alias.” Then I shake her cup at her. “And yours is Harley.”
“Mine is already Arlie.”
“Oh … I thought that was your real name.”
“No.”
“So, wait. I don’t even know your real name?”
The exhale she lets out is slow and measured. “No.”
“Tommy? Everett?Luther?”
The way she looks at me answers my question.
“Wow. Okay. Can’t say the lack of trust doesn’t hurt?—”
“We’re going to be late.” She takes both coffees. “Have you drunk from this?”
“Not yet. It was a bit hot.”
