A Pocketful of Hope

I was walking home with a belly full of expensive food and a head full of questions. The questions weren’t about to get answered any time soon. I’d be better off drowning them with the cheap whisky back at the office. Didn’t just rot your guts, it silenced all questions and a nagging conscience too. If the money in my pocket hadn’t been a cheque, I’d probably have stopped in the first bar I found and seen how much of it I could drink through before I passed out. I guess The Guy knew me better than I first thought.

I’d give him a name except I don’t know it. Sure, I had a cheque for $20,000 from him, but the name on that was Mr A Friend. Smart move wise guy, using a false name on your account. I’d ridden in his fancy car, eaten in his private room at the exclusive Thorn Tree. If a regular Joe like me tried to eat there, I could have my name down for at least twenty years and still get turned away at the door.

You might think it odd to accept a dinner invitation from a complete stranger. If that’s the case, you’ve obviously never lived on old pastrami and cold pickles for a week. I’d been living that week for months. A telephone call later and I was being picked up in a sleek black streak and driven to meet my date.

This was the era of the pandemic, of lockdown. Of lost jobs and isolation. My line of work suffered just as hard as any other. Nobody had the money spare to pay someone to right their wrongs, and there was even less opportunity to right them now people weren’t even going out. Hitmen are a luxury item.

I hadn’t always been in this line of work. It’s not exactly where I saw myself when the school’s career officer asked. My dad had been a cop, my grandad had been a cop. His dad before him, and his dad before him. If there was a cop on board The Mayflower it would turn out we were related. It was expected that I’d follow in the family footsteps. My dad’s hopes were so high that I couldn’t reach them. The second my fingertips failed to grasp those lofty aspirations, I put all my energy into seeing how low I could sink. I might not have amounted to much, but dammit if I hadn’t given it my all to get here. Only my dad’s reputation kept me in school. By the time I left I had nothing to show for it but a bad haircut and a reputation at the pool hall.

But you can’t fight nature, and I became a private detective. Business boomed for a while, blossoming in the rich earth that my name and connections provided. I rented an office, had my name painted on the door in fancy gold lettering. I had no boss to kowtow to and I kept my company by the hour. Life was sweet. Then the internet happened. Suddenly, the work that took me days was being done in an hour by some spotty teenager in the comfort of his parents’ basement. I gave up my apartment. I lived in my office. I swallowed my pride, scraped off the sign that said Private Detective, and tacked up a card that said Man for Hire. The first job that walked through my door was a blonde bombshell with more curves than a mountain pass. Her husband had a great life insurance policy, if only she could get to it. After that first job, the others were easier.

The job The Guy offered me was a different sort of first. For starters, I’d never been wined and dined before. I’d sat opposite him, trying to hide the hole in my sleeve. “$20,000, each.” I clarified.

He nodded, and pushed four envelopes across the marble table.

“Hey now, you said there’d be three marks. Who’s number four?”

“It’s you, Mr Reeve. For your fee.”

How I stayed on my chair I’ll never know. My usual fee was a quarter of that, but then this wasn’t my usual sort of job. If I’m honest I’d have done it for a month’s rent and the meal itself, money was so tight right now I’d turned the mattress twice looking for more.

“How’d you know I won’t take the money and run?” I poured the last of the wine into my glass. It was thick with dregs. I drank it anyway, the waiter looked physically pained.

“I’ve done my research. It’s not your style.”

Before I left, he passed me a small black book. It was smooth, with curved corners and slipped into my pocket as if it had always lived there. “This is everything I know about them. Last known addresses, husbands, wives. Hopefully it will make your job quicker. Easier.”

Easier? He may as well be doing it for me.

The bank was still open, so I fell in there rather than into a bar. I paid the cheque into an account that normally held cobwebs, and paid the change in my pocket for express clearing. If it hadn’t bounced by the morning, I’d be richer than I’d ever been and back in work.

I went back to the office, lay on the mattress where my desk used to be, and watched my thoughts dance around on the ceiling. I had debts to pay. The sort that got you evicted and the sort that got your knees broken. But after that there would still be a large chunk of cash to burn a hole in my pocket. I should use it for something sensible. Maybe I could go back to college, apply myself, follow in the family footsteps. But as I fell asleep, my dreams rattled with roulette wheels.

The next day my account didn’t just look healthy, it looked radiant. With trembling hands, I drew out enough money for expenses and took the trolleybus up town. This time I could pay my fare, rather than dodging the conductor. The first address belonged to a woman who was an hour’s ride away. The Guy could have done the job himself, but if people did everything themselves there wouldn’t be a role for people like me.

I checked the black book for the tenth time. On its creamy page, the details were written meticulously in ink. You didn’t need to see the pen to know it was expensive. Sarah Develin. 28/29 years old. Her address. Three children. No husband. I checked I still had the envelope with her name on it. I was just supposed to do my job, and then leave it there. It wasn’t sealed. What’s a guy to do?

As soon as I’d read it, I wished I hadn’t. I’d learnt a long time ago that, in my line of work, the less you knew the better. I always got sucker punched by feelings.

I indulged in the little ritual I always did before a job. Careful not to arouse suspicion, I patted my pockets. There was my clip with my spending money in it, there was my other clip, and just under my arm was what it was for. My pistol was probably the closest thing to a friend I had. Add in the little black book and you had yourself a holy trinity: details, money and means.

It didn’t go smoothly. I’m not saying it went badly, I’m just used to doing my work from a distance. You don’t see their faces from a distance. You don’t see their expression. Up close work is always messy. For a start, she’d moved house. Still a tenement, but six blocks over according to the old man who’d answered the door she should have been behind. Near miss for him.

The sun was high, and the brown bricks of the buildings just bounced the heat right back at me. By the time I arrived I was hot and sweaty, my hair had fallen forward and my pants were clinging to my legs like frightened children. I’d have crossed the street if I’d have seen myself coming the other way. No wonder that I heard her footsteps walk to the door, stop as she eyed me through the spyglass and then pause as she worked out how long she’d have to stand there before I went away.

“Miss Develin?” my throat was hoarse, I coughed and tried again. “Miss Develin? I have something important here for you.”

It was a bad opener, she probably thought she was about to get served court papers. Still, people rarely expect the business I deliver and today’s was no exception. I slipped my hand under my jacket and wrapped it around the handle of an old friend.

“Miss Develin, I can wait here all day if I have to.”

It took her a couple of tries to get the key in the lock and turn it. The door opened as much as the security chain would allow. Through the narrow crack I saw red hair and a bruised face. My fists clenched, if there was some guy behind those bruises I’d like to have a quiet word with him. If it were some girl, well, I’d learnt the hard way to stay out of cat fights. I slipped the envelope through the gap. She took it with delicate fingers.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice was soft, shaking as much as her hands.

“It’s for you.” I said, because some surprises you just don’t want to spoil. I was turning to leave when I added, “You deserve it.”

I jogged down the last few steps from the building. I felt good. This felt good. Maybe I’d been doing it wrong all this time. I was going to have to head back to the city and hire a car, the next address was on the state line, and the other was further still. The sun finally cast shade down one side of the road, I figured I’d enjoy the walk. Maybe I’d take lunch somewhere. Somewhere that didn’t serve pastrami. Or pickles. I stuffed my hand into my pocket, where the black book was waiting for me. A pocketful of hope for those named in it, and maybe for me too. I could do night classes. I could try and reach those high hopes. Maybe.

Despite all that sunshine in my soul, I still couldn’t shake her bruised face out of my mind. I tried to picture her, sitting on her couch, turning the envelope over in her hands. She’d run one of those delicate fingers under the fold of the envelope, open it up and extract the rectangular piece of paper. What would she see first? That it was a cheque for $20,000, or would she read the message. The one written on the back. The one that said, “I’m sorry I was never around. Love Dad”.