I Hate Killing People in Kansas City By Steven Cordin

Steven is this month’s winner of $512.50 for his story about how one decision can lead to another. No offense to those who live in Kansas City. I have visited, and the barbeque is quite wonderful.

Bio: Steven James Cordin is a native of the Chicago South Suburbs.  Steve has worked in banking as a foreclosure guru and fraud investigator. He writes about fraud, crime, and horror fiction.  His stories have appeared in Shotgun Honey, Mystery Tribune, The Yard: Crime Blog, and the anthology Jacked, by Run Amok Books.  Steve is currently working on a collection of crime fiction short stories.    

Without further ado, “I Hate Killing People in Kansas City” by Steven Cordin.

I hate Kansas City.

I hate coming here.  I hate the Chiefs.  I’ve lost money on the Royals, whether I bet for or against them.  They have some mad obsession with barbecue here. Not that there is anything wrong with barbecue, but have a little variety for God’s sake.   I mean, Chicago has both pizza and hot dogs.

Most of all, I can’t close my eyes here.

Then again, when your job consists of flying into town, stalking someone till you get a chance to put two bullets in their skull, and then flying out, you can get a little negative.

The flight into town was from hell.  The baby in the seat in front of me would not stop crying.  The old man in the seat next to me smelled of almonds, which made me think of cyanide.  My plane landed over an hour behind schedule and then we could not disembark for another thirty minutes.  The brochure in the back pocket of the seat in front of mine said the airport maintained only three runways.  No wonder it took forever to get off the plane. 

I can’t close my eyes in Kansas City.  The dead faces of my past flash in front of me.

Fucking town.

I hoped my contact waited.  I stepped off the shuttle bus in front of the car rental office and texted my contact on the burner phone the client Coltrane provided.  It took less than a minute for the response.

LOOK UP.

And then.

I AM STANDING NEXT TO THE GREEN CIVIC IN THE SECOND ROW.

I scanned the lot until I spotted him.  A young man standing next to a bright green Honda in the second row of the parking lot, one of four cars.  Not just green.  Bright.  Lime. Green. God damn thing would stick out anywhere. 

Unbelievable.   

I strolled down the second aisle, frowning.  As I got closer, I sized up a man in his early twenties.  Tall and thin, dark complexion, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. His sharp angular features matched his crewcut.  He stood at ease in military fashion, feet spread apart, and hands clasped behind his back.   I guessed ex-Army.  He looked a lot like me at that age, fresh out of the army.

He flashed me a toothy grin as I approached.  “Hi.  I am Paul.  You are…”

“Smith.”

 “Mr. Smith.”

“Just Smith.  Pop the trunk.” 

I stowed my bag in the trunk and jumped in the passenger seat. 

Paul slid in behind the wheel.  “I have the materials—”

“Let’s move the car to somewhere more private.”

He flashed his teeth in a brief smile again and started the engine.

A few minutes later we parked on a side street a few blocks from the airport.  He left the engine on.  “I’m sorry about the car.  It was the only one available.  I imagine you thought the color sticks out.”

“No.  Not at all.  It’s the kind of car all the contract killers drive around Kansas City this year.”

Paul’s eyebrows arched up, but he didn’t say anything.  He pointed to the glove box.  I popped it open.  Inside lay a small envelope and an automatic handgun with a spare clip.  My lips curled upward as I examined my favorite kind of kitty, a Beretta 3032 Tomcat.  Frank Coltrane at least knew the tools I preferred to work with.  The envelope contained the picture of a chubby man in his fifties.  I flipped it over to see the name Thomas Benson and several addresses written on the back.  

I tossed the picture back into the glove box.  “Do I have to do the job in any particular time frame?”

“Mr. Coltrane didn’t say.  I guess that’s up to you.  Just soon.  We rented you a room at a Best Western a few miles from here.  We can also get you another car if you want.”

“The addresses on the back of the picture.  That is the target’s work and home?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“Probably his office or breakfast.  He usually goes to this diner down the street from his office.”  

“Let’s go,”

Paul sat there, studying me.  “You want to go there now.”   

“Is that a problem?”

“No.  I thought you would want to go to the hotel and relax after your flight.”

I’ll relax when I am on a plane out of here.  “What instructions were you given?”

“Pick you up at the airport.  Drive you around or make sure you had a car.  Do whatever you tell me.”

“Okay.  I need you to provide me a ride to the target’s office.” 

“You aren’t planning to do it right now, are you?” 

“I just want to see where he works.”

He stared at me a moment and then turned to face the road.  “Okay.”

We jumped on the twenty-nine to head to the target’s office, an address outside The Coves neighborhood.  It should have only taken a few minutes to get there, but of course we hit a wall of traffic.  We slowed to a crawl.  I rolled my window down but rolled it back up as acrid exhaust fumes filled my nostrils.

“God damn city,”  I said and closed my eyes as we crept forward. 

 “Have you been to Kansas City before?”

“Yeah.”   Dead faces flashed in front of my closed eyes again.  ‘I’ve been to this shit hole a few times.”

“You don’t like Kansas City?”

I nodded.  “Say, if you were going to drop me off at the hotel, how were you going to leave if I kept the Civic?”

“My car is at the hotel.  I took an Uber to meet you at the airport.”

My eyes snapped open.  “You let a witness drive you to the airport?”

“Yeah…”  He stammered.  “The driver didn’t know why I went to the airport.  And I used a fake name and credit card to book it.”

“Would that be the same card you registered my room and the car rental under?”

Paul looked straight ahead at the traffic ahead of us.  “Shit.”

I sighed.  My eyes flicked down to the Tomcat on my lap.  No.  Not yet.  Reluctantly, I put it back in the glovebox.  “Does the target know you?”

He shook his head.  “We’ve never met.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.  I work at one of Mr. Coltrane’s warehouses.  Benson’s company manages it, but he never goes there.” 

Only a tentative connection, this should still work.  “How long have you worked for Coltrane?”

The cars around us finally began to move.  He sped up, our exit less than a mile away.  

“About four months.”

“Doing what?”

“I drive a truck for one of his warehouses.”  He guided the Civic onto the off-ramp and into local traffic. 

“So, you are a newbie?”  Sweet Jesus.  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. 

“I guess so.”

“Making coffee.  Picking up sandwiches for the boys…”

He stiffened in his seat and frowned.  “I’ve done a few off the book’s jobs for Coltrane too.  I was thinking this job was a step up.”

“Yeah.  Next, he will send you to grade schools to steal lunch money.”

He let out a deep breath.  “Are you always this sarcastic and mean?”

 “Yep.  Get used to it.”

He remained silent until we approached a strip mall on the right, and he turned into the parking lot.  “The diner he has breakfast at is in here.”

“Well, let’s have breakfast.”

He pulled into a parking space.  I studied the cars in the lot.  “Do you see the target’s car here?”

“Yeah.  It’s the Dodge we just pulled next to.”  Paul looked at me deadpanned for a moment.  He broke into that quick dazzling grin.   “Just kidding.  He drives an SUV.  It’s parked on the other side of the building.”

I got out of the car and didn’t respond. 

We walked in.  A dozen customers sat at tables and booths.  The warm, inviting atmosphere of the diner did nothing to improve my mood.  The hostess seated us in a booth at the far end of the dining area.  I touched Paul’s elbow and steered him into the seat facing the wall.  I took the opposite side, with a clear view of the target sitting with another man two booths down.

I pretended to read the menu.  “Whatever you do, don’t turn around.”

He began to turn around as I knew he would, and I pressed the toe of my shoe into his shin.  Hard.  “Do that again and you will walk with a limp for the rest of your life.”

He frowned at me.   His voice sullen.  “Okay.”

I pressed my lips into a smile and chuckled quietly as the bus boy brought water.  Act natural for anyone watching.  I waited to speak till he left.  “Don’t say anything till after our waitress takes our order.  Act natural.”

A young cute blonde came over to take our order.  I ordered bacon, eggs, and toast.  Paul ordered some fruit and bacon.  As she scooted off to place our orders, I nudged Paul with my foot.  “Turn around.  Call her back.  Take a quick look at the target.  Don’t make it obvious.”

He did so, and the waitress scooted back.  “Yes?”

“I forgot to order coffee,”  I said.

“Bring me some tea with lemon.”  Paul piped in.  He flashed her that grin, and she blushed.

After she disappeared to the kitchen, I asked.  “Did you see the guy with the target?”

“Yeah.  That is Mr. Benson’s personal assistant, Kaminski.  Drives the SUV for him, too.”

I took a sip of water.  “Don’t ever call the target by name.  Makes it easier to pull the trigger when the time comes if you don’t think of them as somebody.”

“Okay.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Nothing, really.”

“He’s hired muscle, probably a professional bodyguard.”  I sighed.  “You don’t have any info on him?”

“No.”  He sat back and his brow crinkled up a little.  “I was only briefed on Mr. Ben…the target.  They said he had an assistant and only gave me a name.  I’m sorry.”

Coltrane sent us both in blind.  I blew out a breath.  “Not your fault.  Coltrane should have provided more info.”

“How do you know he is a bodyguard?”

“What did you see when you looked over at him?”

“Just a guy about my age.  Nice suit.”

“I see a young athletic man, about six feet tall, one hundred and seventy-five pounds.  Thirty years old.  Crewcut.  Scar on his left hand, knife wound.  Ex-military or law enforcement.  Sharp eyes that keep darting around, looking for threats.”  I took another sip of water.  “The suit is Brooks Brothers, but not tailored very well.  You can see the bulge of his handgun on his left breast, so right-handed.”

“Is he a problem?”

I shrugged.  “Probably not.  But I would have liked to know before I took the job.  The target looks to be in his early fifties, likes to dress well.  The watch and the ring on his left hand suggest money or he likes to show off.  Thirty pounds overweight, florid complexion.  I’m guessing if Coltrane waited a few months, the guy would have a coronary.”

“You’re good.”

“I read what people put out there pretty well.”

The waitress returned with our food.  After she left, Paul asked.  “Now what?”

“They left five minutes ago.”  I took a piece of bacon.  “Enjoy breakfast.”

We ate breakfast in silence.  After a few minutes, the burner phone vibrated in my pocket, but I let it go to voicemail.  I told Paul to go pay the bill while I went to the restroom.  Inside I pulled out the phone and pressed call back.

“Yeah.”  The voice was a bit raspier than I remembered, but there was no mistaking Coltrane’s drawl.  “You made it into town, finally.”

“Yeah.  They wouldn’t let me stay on the plane till it took off again..”

“You are such an asshole.” He muttered.

“Then why did you hire me?”

“Because you are good at your job.”

I nodded.  “Right.  So, what you call for?  The idea is to go through the contact.”

Coltrane snorted.  “To make sure things are on track.”

“They are.  More or less.”  I leaned against the wall.  “You left out a few details.  Like bodyguards.”

“Yeah.  Well, you know enough to get the job done.”

I doubt that.  “I’ll get the job done.”

“You better.”  He paused.  “How is the kid working out?”

“Oh, he is a dream.” I stretched out the last word out a few seconds.

Coltrane barked out a short laugh.  “But he’ll do.”

“Yeah.”  I let out a breath.  “He’ll do.”

“Why don’t I like the tone of your voice?”

“He’s a nice kid,”  I replied.  “It’s a shame. That’s all.”

“Jesus.”  He snapped.  “Get over it.”

“He’s a nice kid and so...clean cut.”  I pressed back against the wall.  “We were like that once.”

“No.  We weren’t.”  He replied.  “You have always been a jerk.”

“You could have found me someone who at least got arrested for urinating in the park or something.”

“You said you needed a fall guy to make this work.  You got one.  Make it work or I’ll gut you.”  Coltrane hung up.

The kid was waiting for me in the Civic.   “Where to?”

“The target’s office.”