The Man (short story)

People said you could find anything on the dark web, and Giles found that to be true. In less than three hours, he identified the right entrepreneur and arranged a meeting. Now, standing outside of an anonymous dive bar, he was ten minutes away from closing the most important deal of his life.

Withdrawing a silk handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at the sweat that had formed around his temples. His skill in handling high-pressure situations had earned him his fortune, but this one had sent his heart racing.

After returning the pocket square, he pulled out a small bottle of beta blockers and threw them down his throat, swallowing them dry. Inhaling deeply, and with his nerves back under control, Giles once again surveyed the meeting location.

The outside of the place was a dump, and like all dumps, it would be filled with trash. Normally, the thought of being around these people would turn his stomach, but not today. That no one would know him was to his advantage.

Like every decision he made, it was done with intention. Leaving nothing to chance, his analytical brain had run through all possibilities. From the guy cheating him out of his money to the police busting him. Those things always existed within a margin of error, but the odds were in his favour, and he wasn’t a man who shied away from risk. But only after he had worked out the probabilities.

He glanced at his Rolex before yanking his sleeve down to cover it. Nine minutes to go. The quicker this meeting was over with, the sooner his new life could begin. With a sniff of his nose, he stepped forward and pushed open the door.

As expected, the place had been untouched by modern times or cleaning methods. Tattered posters of local boxing matches covered the pockmarked walls, and the patrons were just as unappealing. They stood hemmed in by worn wooden dividers. Like cattle waiting to be put out of their misery. Faces turned to see who had entered.

Giles stared back at them, taking in their tattoos, dyed hair, and general hygiene. The more he saw, the more his face contorted as if he had tasted soured milk.

Still, he hadn’t made it to the top of the societal ladder for nothing. He often thought one of his strengths was the ability to empathise and connect with the common man. The grimace moved to a smile and a plan of action formed in his mind. These simple folk only needed friendly reassurance and to see a little confidence. If anyone lacked the intellect to recognise an aspirational figure such as himself, he’d simply buy them a beer. That’s all these people cared for.

Flashing his bright white teeth in every direction, Giles looked around the room until he saw his new employee. The man he had hired off the internet.

It had to be him. Broad shoulders, greased hair, sat alone. The guy personified a blunt force instrument. Giles peeked at his watch again. Eight minutes to go. The man had insisted on meeting at seven on the dot, no earlier and no later, but if they were both there and ready, then it would be stupid to wait. Time was money, after all.

Giles sidled up on the barstool next to the man and waited for him to down his shot of whisky. A hard drink before doing business reminded him of the good old days back on Wall Street. Perhaps if this guy proved reliable, he could contract him to solve a few other problems.

The man slammed his empty glass down and grunted as he shook his head. With a clenched jaw, he turned to face Giles.

A harsh neon light that ran the length of the bar threw into relief a broad nose and cauliflower ears. The acrid stench of smoke hung in the air.

The man said nothing, he just stared. Giles gulped so loudly he was certain that everyone heard it over the noisy rock music that rattled out of the jukebox.

“Trigger37?” The username raced out of his mouth like a Nascar.

“What?” the man replied.

Giles looked down at the bar, and his shoulders slunk. “You the man?”

A feeling of insecurity washed over Giles for the first time in years. He rubbed his damp palms on the front of his Italian wool Brioni trousers. The soft, expensive fabric relaxed his mind, reminding him of who he was.

The man smirked. “Yeah, I’m the man. You want to buy me a drink?”

“Sure,” said Giles before sitting down and signalling for the bartender to bring a round of drinks. The two of them sat in silence until the alcohol arrived.

“You’re not a cop, are you?” Giles had seen enough television to know that if he was being set up, then the officer would have to identify himself when asked.

“Are you saying I look like a pig?”

“No offence meant. I had to ask. You are a big hitter, though, aren’t you?”

“They don’t get back up when I’m done with them,” said the man before downing his shot.

Giles looked at the enormous paws that encased the now empty glass. “You good for Friday?”

“I’m all set. Preparation has gone well,” said the man, tilting his glass toward Giles.

Giles’s brow narrowed. He wondered what the guy could have already done, but he put that thought aside. This man was a professional. Of course, he would have performed due diligence. Satisfied, Giles withdrew a stuffed manilla envelope from the inside of his jacket and, after glancing around the bar, tossed it into the lap of the man. “Half now, as agreed. Along with a picture and the details,” said Giles while hopping off the stool.

As he bulldozed his way through the human cattle, a surge of relief flooded his body. His mouth, however, was bone dry. He’d decided that he would stop off at that new cocktail joint to get a decent beverage. It would serve as a celebration, as well as an alibi. In a couple of days, he’d be a single man again. And a richer one at that once the insurance pays out.

He swung the door open, but paused before he could step over the threshold and back to civilised society. Standing in front of him was a brute in a leather jacket. This man glared at Giles.

With a newfound zest for life, Giles puffed his chest out and pushed past the Neanderthal, laughing as he made his way across the street to the parked Jaguar.

The man watched Giles get into his car, and he silently mouthed the licence plate. He then entered the bar for his seven o’clock meeting.

***

Copyright 2024, Marek Z. Turner.