The Last Job

I came to with a gasp.

I coughed and spat blood. I checked myself over.

No major injuries were visible. But wow my head was spinning.

I sat up.

A terrible idea. I turned over as quickly as I could and vomited.

I stood up, steadying myself on the wall. Everything was a blur of grey. I struggled with the zipper on my coat and felt something in my pocket.

"Thank God," I muttered. I still had the little black book with my list. Can't be losing that. I did my coat up to my chin and followed the alley back to the street. As I reached it I discovered I was on 18th street. Perfect, Aldo's Pizzeria was only a few blocks away. I pulled my hood up against the cold night and started walking.

The smell was glorious. Aldo must've just pulled a fresh pie from the oven.

"Hey Mark, good to see ya! What'll it be today?"

"Slice of that new Hawaiian if you don't mind, Aldo," I replied.

"You're looking rough there kid, you doing alright?"

"I think I'm just coming down with something, all good," I pretended like everything was fine.

Aldo grabbed a slice for me. I tapped my debit card and it was approved instantly.

That never happens.

I thanked Aldo and stepped out of the shop with my pizza, the little bell playing a cheery tone as the door shut behind me. I continued along the sidewalk, opening up my bank app as I walked.

Sitting in my account was twenty thousand dollars.

"Shit."

The job was not that big, where did this money come from?

"Come on, pick up…"

"This isn't how this works. I call you, you don't reach out to me," came an annoyed voice on the other line.

"Sorry Bartholomew. There must have been a mistake."

"I don't make mistakes Mark."

"I know… but I was moving a small amount for you. That was not worth twenty grand, I thought we talked about just a couple hundred. I didn't even make the sale on the last one."

"Ah yes, the surfer. You took care of him for me. Don't you worry."

"Bartholomew, I –"

"Don't call this number again."

Dead air.

I put my phone back in my pocket and sat down on the curb. I tore a piece of crust off the remainder of my slice with my teeth, thinking over what Bartholomew had said.

A siren cut through the fading light of the evening as a cruiser pulled up on the street next to me. Two officers stepped out of the vehicle.

"Sir, please put your hands in the air!" one said in a firm voice, hand on his holster.

I hesitated.

"HANDS UP!"

I raised my hands over my head, dropping the last little piece of crust. The other officer approached and cuffed me. A seagull swooped in and stole the crust off the concrete.

"You have the right to remain silent, anything you say…" I drifted off and didn't hear the rest.

I just stared out the window as we drove. When we got to the precinct the officers escorted me into an interrogation room and sat me down on a hard plastic chair. They cuffed my hands to the top of the table. The officers left the room and I tried to slow my heart rate.

"Mark Everett, do you know why you're here?" a young detective asked as she closed the door to the room behind her.

"I'm sorry, I don't."

"You're being charged with the murder of," she paused to look at her clipboard, "Sharkbait."

Murder? I felt sick.

Wait a second. Sharkbait was the last job I was supposed to do. Just a couple days ago. I didn't even sell him any of the coke I was supposed to. The guy invited me in, and weirdly enough during what was supposed to be a drop-off, we talked about getting clean – me for the past four-and-a-half years, and Sharkbait had been sober for fourteen months. That night put things in perspective for me. I hung out with the dude, we played old videogames and talked about how things were better when we were kids. It was that night I started writing my list.

"Mr. Everett," the detective startled me.

"I'm sorry," I fumbled, "I've met the guy once, we hung out. I haven't seen him since, I swear."

"And you were at his apartment why, exactly?"

"A blind date?" I tried.

"We know you were there to sell him drugs."

"Okay."

"You know that's bad for you, with your priors, right?"

"Yeah."

"What's worse though, is Mr. Sharkbait was found dead in his apartment this morning."

I felt like I was going to throw-up.

"He was found covered in bruises, looking like he was in quite the fight. Your prints were found in the apartment. We found you, looking like you were in quite the fight. No drugs were found in the apartment. So... what? He didn't want to buy, you got mad, and you went too far. Is that it?"

"No, that didn't happen."

"I'm gonna need a lot more than just your word," the detective left the room and the door shut behind her.

I rested my head on the cold table.

A uniformed officer walked in this time. He didn't close the door behind him. He just stared at the far wall for a moment before saying, "you're free to go." He pulled a key from his pocket and released my cuffs. I stood from the chair and exited the room. As I walked across the precinct floor, I caught a glimpse of the detective who had interrogated me. She was silently fuming at her desk as she shuffled paperwork.

As I got to the exit door, another detective greeted me with a smile, "Bartholomew sends his regards."

My phone vibrated in my pocket as I walked down the street, away from the precinct.

"Hello Mark," came Bartholomew's icy tone, "You're welcome for getting you out of that pickle."

"I didn't do anything," my voice betrayed the panic I was feeling.

"Oh, but you played your part wonderfully. I have more work for you."

"What if I don't want any more work?"

"Would you prefer I have some officers pick you up again?"

"Bartholomew, I –"

"Go to the address I'm about to send you." The line went dead.

The address came through in a text: 1247 Lower Company Street. A second text read: ROOF.

It was getting pretty dark, so when I came to the address, it was hard to find a door. I circled the building until I found one that was held open with a brick. I entered a stairwell that looked like it went up forever.

As I climbed, I touched the book sitting in my pocket. Inside was my list of people I hadn't been the best to. Family, friends. People who I had fallen out of touch with, who I wished were in my life more.

It looked like I was finally at the top of the stairs. A grimy door stood in front of me. Like the one far below, it was propped open with a brick.

I opened it and stepped onto the dark rooftop. In the light of the moon I could make out two figures on the other side of the roof, one a slighter figure in a fitted suit, the other a large man, obviously one of Bartholomew's enforcers.

"Welcome Mark," came the icy tone I heard an hour earlier over the phone. Bartholomew didn't turn around. The muscle stood perfectly still.

"Glad you came to your senses and decided to continue working for me," Bartholomew spoke again.

"I came here to t-tell you," I stuttered, "I want out. I've been clean for four years now."

"You did have a nice conversation with Mr. Sharkbait, didn't you? He told me a similar thing."

"I've come to give you your money back," I took the little black book out of my pocket. I wanted to explain my leaving. Telling someone, even him, would make it more tangible for me.

"Well that is truly disappointing," Bartholomew turned around and I saw his face for the first time. His cold eyes struck a chill down my back. He gestured at the big man, who moved towards me.

He grabbed me and tossed me like a garbage bag, I felt myself fly through the air and come to a sudden, painful stop when I slammed into the half wall at the edge of the rooftop. It took all I had to hold on to my book.

I struggled to stand up. The large man was rushing towards me, he had a knife in his hand. He closed in and all I could do was thrust the book over my head.

Pain didn't come. The man struggled with the knife, which was firmly lodged in my book. He gave up trying to stab me and took a step forward, lifting the knife as one with the book, and me.

He was going to throw me off the roof.

I let go of the book. The sudden loss of weight threw off his balance. He lurched forward. I heard a rattle of metal as he tripped on a pipe that had broken from the wall when I slammed into it. The big man hit the wall at knee height, and momentum carried him over the side. The first sound I heard the man make was the guttural scream as he fell.

I lay there, not knowing what to do. The anger in Bartholomew's voice brought me back to the rooftop.

"Must I do everything," Bartholomew drew a handgun from inside his jacket and aimed at my chest, "you couldn't just go on living your pathetic life. You know I could keep you from trouble. I AM THE LAW IN THIS CITY!" I could see the rage boiling under his skin, even in the darkness. "Do you know how many police are on my payroll? Both of you could have had it easy, lining your pockets working for me. But Sharkbait was weak, just like you. Which is why he had to go, just like you…"

The rooftop door was flung open, "OMPD, drop the gun!" It was the young detective from before.

"You'll never go anywhere in your career if you defy me, girl," Bartholomew laughed. "Why don't you just look the other way, like the rest?" His gaze came back to me. He aimed and pulled the trigger back.

But she was faster. I watched as the hole tore through Bartholomew's knee. Heard him shout in pain. Watched his gun drop out of his reach as he crumpled to the floor. He writhed there, cursing, as the detective hurried to me.

"Thank you," was all I managed before everything went dark.

I opened the gate and walked down the path. The wind was blowing, and the sun was starting to break through the clouds. I held my book, pretty damaged now, in my hands. One of Detective Adams' team had recovered it from the street where it fell.

I turned to the last page I wrote on. The last page of my list. SHARKBAIT, in my scratchy handwriting. I walked past several rows of headstones before I saw the priest. I couldn't make out what he was saying. I paused for a moment, then approached the grave quietly.

"Good morning son," the priest addressed me.

He was the only one there.

"Good morning Father," I bowed my head.

"Thank you for coming. Who were you to Andy?"

"Oh, I'm nobody Father."