The following story is in response to a challenge set forth by Aggie Sith at her blog.  This is the first part of the story, I’ll put the rest up tomorrow and Wednesday.  Enjoy!

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It was raining the morning when I first met Rachel Cartwright, and by rain, I mean one of those bloody awful downpours that will soak ya to the bone just looking at it. Now I don’t use umbrellas, and I don’t trust a man who does, but even if I did, carrying one that morning would have been a useless gesture. A hard bitch of a wind blew, ripping the umbrellas out of the hands of many of the people struggling to get to work or whatnot without getting drenched. Their efforts were in vain. Not only did the wind blow their umbrellas every which way, it also sent a lot of the rain skittering sideways and all around, so no matter how they held their protection, they were getting hit. It was almost funny enough to laugh at, but then I’m not much of a comical guy, so I just walked on my way.

It took me about ten minutes to make the walk from my place down to my favorite diner. If you’ve heard of me at all, you know the name of the place. If you don’t know my name, trust me, you’re better off. The people that come to see me are not having a good time, not at all. They come to me because I’m their last resort. Well, maybe not the last resort. They can always go downtown and jump off any number of buildings to fix things for good. Short of that, though, they try to hire me. I’m not a nice guy, and the things I do generally don’t come up as the topic of conversation at dinner.  But when the chips are down and everything’s gone straight to hell, well, I’m the guy you want.

Anyway, I walked into the diner and sat at my usual spot, a table back in the corner.  I always sit with my back to the wall and my eyes on the entrance.  I hate surprises.  If someone’s coming for me, I want to know about it before they reach my table.  A couple minutes after I sat down, the waitress came over to take my order.  Florence is a cute gal.  Well, at least she was years ago, and she hasn’t really lost much, but she’s getting old and it shows.  But who am I to talk?  I’m no longer young myself, and five’ll get ya ten there’s not many women who are turned on by my looks.

Anyway, Flo took my order and ambled away, and just about the time she got to the window to hand the order back to the cook, the door opened and in came a vision from heaven.  She was that beautiful.  And not in a bubbly cutesy way like a lot of the so-called beauties you see in the movies nowadays.  This woman was classy. 

She stood there in the entrance looking around the place, and then her eyes found me and she walked slowly in my direction.  Soon she was standing before my table.  I looked up at her.  The lady clearly didn’t seem to know what to do.  Her mouth was quivering and she seemed to be about to cry.  That got me from the start.  I can say no to just about anyone, but a sad woman about to cry?  I’ll do almost anything to get her to calm back down.

“Have a seat,” I told the lady, motioning to the chair in front of her.

She sat quickly but gracefully, and then reached into her purse and pulled out a photo which she laid on the table.  She slid the picture over to me and I turned it around to study it.  It was of a man, probably in his thirties, well-dressed and groomed, but with a savage look about him that belied his general appearance.

“Who’s this,” I asked her.

“That’s my husband,” she answered.  “I want you to kill him.”

I slid the photo back over to her.

“Maybe you should try putting an ad in the paper,” I said.  She was beautiful, and I’m a sucker for a classy dame, but I’m also no fool.  Her mouth opened, and her eyes widened, and she seemed about to say something when Flo came over and interrupted her.

“Coffee, two biscuits, side of sausage, and a bowl of oatmeal,” Flo stated, setting the food and drink down in front of me.  “Can I get you anything else?”

“This’ll do it,” I answered.  “Thanks, Flo.”  The waitress smiled at me, looked suspiciously at the woman seated across from me, and then ambled off to help other customers.

The lady reached into her purse, and when she withdrew her hand, she placed a fifty-cent piece with JFK’s image mostly scratched out on the table and pushed it over to me.

“A man gave this to me and told me to give it to you and you would help me.”

I picked it up and put it in my pocket.  “Kinda chubby guy with a slight hairlip?” I asked her.  She nodded.  “Alright, I’ll listen to what you have to say, and then I’ll make my decision.  Tell me why you want your husband dead.”

“He’s a monster,” she said.

“Yeah, he does look rough.  What’s he done to you?”

“Nothing,” she answered.  “Nothing to me.  But he’s killed people, I don’t know how many, and he’s going to kill again if he’s not stopped.”

“Why not go to the police?”

“The police can’t help.  I have no real proof, and I don’t know who he’s killed.  Even if I did, all the system could do is lock him up, but that wouldn’t stop him.  I don’t think they would lock him up, though.  Once I told my story, they’d dismiss me as crazy.  I need someone like you.  Will you help me?”

Damn, I thought to myself.  Her words did sound crazy, but she seemed to be totally on the level.  She did not act like a nut, and I’ve dealt with enough of that kind over the years to be able to spot a crazy.  I decided to take the bait.

***************TO BE CONTINUED**********************

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