The shy hitman

Little did Michael know when he woke up at six o’clock on that Monday morning that it would be his last day working as a hired assassin. To him, it was a job like any other and he was relieved that he could earn some extra money since working as a taxi driver during the pandemic was not worthy at all. Of course, there was no pleasure in doing what was he doing, not to mention that he had to buy new clothes and shoes every week, change the color of his hair pretty often, and still working as a taxi driver to cover this all up, but in a short time after accepting the new job he was free of any debt and the bank called to congratulate him for paying off the mortgage.

However, in the last couple of weeks, he couldn’t sleep properly and caught himself thinking a lot about quitting. All he needed was one last job and then he could happily disappear into the unknown crowd. Be a normal person again. He fantasized about having a family every time she saw that dimple girl smiling at him, Hanane was her name, a beautiful black-haired Algerian woman from whom he bought his everyday coffee. He never had the guts to ask for her number cause of the fear of being rejected and if such a thing would’ve happened he knew that he’d never dared to walk again into that petrol station for coffee or to see her again. He was a shy guy in that matter.

That Monday morning was no different. He grabbed his coffee, took a last glance at her, and walked out of the shop heading to the Tesco car park. He pulled his car near the only uncut tree guarding the entrance, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette; took a sip of coffee, and opened the Uber app. As he was loudly exhaling the smoke and enjoying the silence, pleasantly disturbed only by a few morning birds, his eyes grew heavy, and felt like he was finally ready for a good and healthy sleep. He didn’t know for how long was asleep or even if he was asleep at all when he heard the familiar sound of the Uber app. Startled, he reached for the phone to shut down the noise but in doing that he accepted the trip request. The time was 6.35. He decided to cancel the trip and go back to sleep when he saw the rider’s name on the screen. A well-known, famous name. A name of an actor. The name of the passenger whom Michael was supposed to pick up was Clint Eastwood. What could Clint Eastwood do on the streets of a small town in East Midlands, England, on a Monday morning during the world lockdown – was beyond comprehension for Michael. It was probably a nickname, he thought, chosen by his mates on a Friday night out, down at the local pub, when trying to say different movie lines between vodka shots and when his turn arrived he decided for the one who made Eastwood famous: “do you feel lucky punk? Do you?” and, being natural in his acting, ended up with this nickname. Or maybe one of his parents loved the actor and decided to name their kid after him. Or, who knows, maybe it was his real name.

Whatever the reason for giving unusual names to kids, Michael started the engine and drove almost two miles to the pickup point. The man who got in the car was far from the looks of a movie star: short and with an impressive belly, carrying a phone in one hand and a little black book in the other. Driving to the destination, that movie line began to play over and over again in Michael's brain. He even remembered that specific scene in which the real Clint Eastwood, playing a police officer, pointed a gun at a criminal's head saying the famous line: „I know what you’re thinking, punk. You’re thinking: <did he fire six shots or only five?> You’ve gotta ask yourself a question - do I feel lucky? Well, do you, punk?"

And then, unexpectedly, he heard the rider saying: „Come on! Ask me what you want to ask”. Puzzled, Michael looked through the rear mirror to make sure the rider wasn’t talking on the phone. He wasn’t. He decided to keep silent but the rider started again: “so, you gonna keep me waiting now?” After another moment of silence, Michael said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir”. “You know very well what I’m talking about. And don’t call me sir. I’m not that old. Just be a good chap and ask the damn question and let’s get over with.” Michael was suddenly afraid that this man could hear his thoughts and began to wonder if he hadn’t, by mistake, said something with a loud voice, as lonely people sometimes do. “Don’t be afraid, said the rider in a more peaceful voice, I know what most people want to know when I told them my name so feel free to ask whatever you want.”

In Michael’s head, the only thing related to the passenger was still that 70s movie line and now it was jumping all over his brain as if begging to be verbalized. “All right, I’m gonna do it”, he thought and, to his passenger bewilderment, said in a loud voice, a little hesitant at first, imitating the actor as best as he could: “Do you… do you feel lucky punk? Do you?” He even thought of grabbing his gun from under the seat to be more convincing.

The fat Eastwood looked him in the eyes for a few eternally seconds and Michael couldn’t decipher his look as hard as he tried. He started to feel uneasy and decided to focus on driving. After all, he was a driver, not a movie star. What was the point in all of this anyway?

“Damn it, the rider finally said, I thought you were gonna ask me if I’m related to him or something similar like most people do. I didn’t expect that.” And then, to Michael’s amazement, he burst out laughing whilst opening his black book and searching inside his jacket for a pen. Then he saw him trying to write something but his eyes were filled with tears as he continued laughing like crazy. He was rolling down the back seat and accidentally opened the car door which made Michael pull over. He fell out of the car, then picked up his little black book and threw it in Michael’s direction, saying between tears of laughter: “I’ve never been lucky in my whole life”. For a moment Michael thought he was laughing at him. “I could kill you in seconds”, he mumbled as he opened the book.

It was a dated notebook filled with unusual numbers that didn’t make any sense. He read: 13th of February: 13.445; 14th of February: 17.531 and so on, to the present date, and the number allocated for it was 20.000. He remembered he once had a little black book like this in which he used to write down the amount of money he could win after joining the local radio contest. All he had to do was to send a message with the word “CASH” and if he was lucky he would receive a call from the radio station asking him to say the number told on the air the day before. And just like that, the money would be his. He fantasized a lot about what he could do with all that money and kept his phone close to him all the time.

And then, out of the blue, in those early hours of Monday, as he was searching through the pages of his passenger book, the phone rang. Fake Clint Eastwood’s one. He reached for it at the same time as the rider who jumped back in the car. He suddenly realized that it was a matter of life and death to answer that call and it was probably the same for the passenger whose behavior changed really quickly. A heavy fight erupted between the two of them, each one trying to reach for the phone without succeeding. The time was very precious and Michael was afraid that the phone would stop ringing. The rider’s hands were placed around his neck pressing it with so much force that he began gasping for air…

He woke up in his bed, all sweaty, not knowing for some long seconds what happened to him. The phone was still ringing. He placed it close to the ear and heard: “Well, someone finally answered. Good morning there and welcome to our daily competition. I’m Steve from Gem FM. We were afraid we wouldn’t have a winner today. Do you feel lucky?”