Coffee and Karma

Whinstons coffee shop had seen a great many schemes hatched under its roof. Quaint and unsuspecting, the single-floor building had provided the perfect place to talk over delicate matters without suspicion. In the faint glow of the shop's retro lighting, everything from arson to assassination had been discussed, planned, and dealt with under the guise of a friendly chat over a cuppa.

Sitting tensely in the high-backed chair hunched over an empty mug, the young man, more like a boy really, mulled this over. Where he sat this very second, a hacker may have. Scoping around the software of the city's million-dollar companies. A smuggler could have twirled a cake fork between their fingers as they haggled over the specifics of a job. Or perhaps even a Hittman like himself. Waiting for a client to finally show up after nearly an hour of twiddling their thumbs in the corner of the shop.

The boy shook his dark hair off his forehead impatiently. To anyone sparing a glance in his direction, he would look like nearly any college student taking a day off. Lounging seemingly unconcerned in his chair, a thin file of papers and a science textbook lain to the side of the table. Yet if you were to look deeper, you would spot his hand twitching in his pocket. The furtive and anxious glances at the stranger watching him from afar. Even the small chuckle as he thought to himself about his situation. A college student studying forensics science about to take on the job he was trained to unearth. The irony of it all elicited a spurt of confidence from the boy, this he could do. Violent tendencies and a knack for evading suspicion had driven highschool teachers to point him in the direction of a profession that would control him. But nothing could stop him once the shady underlings of society welcomed him into the fold.

Feeling braver with this knowledge, the boy looked into the stranger's eyes. With a sharp nod, he beckoned him over. The stranger worked his lanky frame through the maze of chairs and tables and sat before the boy, hand outstretched.

“Nico right, the babysitter. Why don’t I buy you a coffee?” The boy nodded and shook the stranger's hand now with the confirmation that this was his client. Nico, his chosen name, had roughly translated into victory when the boy had put it into google. He had liked the power it held when people called him that. The 'Babysitter' referred to his profession. As for the offer of coffee, confirmation for whether he still wished to take on the job.

“That would be amazing,” the boy said. He beckoned a waitress, then turned back to the stranger once they’d placed an order. “Excuse me if this sounds incentive. But I was under the impression I would be wooing a rather lovely lady today.” The stranger chuckled in response though nervous sweat beaded his forehead.

“Sofie is feeling a little off today, so she asked me to come instead. Make sure you were up for the job. Our little girl is a tough one,” The boy inclined his head. Sending a spokesperson was common enough. As for the target...

“Oh, I’m sure I can handle her. What’s her name?”

“Lilly Samos. She looks nearly just like her mother, it's amazing really.” He handed the boy a leather wallet open on the photo of a woman in her early thirties with blond highlights and a sadistic smile.

“You’ll find a list of her ‘requirements’ and such inside,” he pointed. The boy pocketed the wallet as the waitress returned with their drinks. The stranger flashed a smile at her a handed over a five-dollar bill as thanks. She left swiftly, thanking the stranger, leaving them to their conversation.

“Black huh,” said the stranger glancing at the boy's mug, “Most youngsters I’ve met prefer the sweeter side of things,”

“I believe good coffee should be strong and bitter. That’s how you know it will work,”

" A practical man then. I’m sure you’ll be intrigued by this then, the most concentrated mug of coffee of the twenty-first century made right here in good old America. The darn thing costs nearly five-thousand dollars, tell me, son, would you pay that much for a cuppa?” The boy gave himself a minute to sip the bitter mix in his mug. The financial aspect of this job always left him uncertain and unfulfilled.

“If it's done well, then I’d be willing to pay near double that. Think of the work that goes into making something like that. You gotta respect it,” The stranger swirled his drink, clearly processing what the boy was implying.

“I dunno about you, but I personally would at the most pay three-quarters of that. If it's that expensive, then I bet the brewer would go for any valid price. I mean, how many customers do you think they’d bring in otherwise.”

"I suppose I would realistically limit myself there as well,”

"Yeah thought you might. Damn though, imagine drinking that. You’d have to have a pretty strong stomach,”

“Say’s you, I’d down it in one every time. I practically grew up drinking this stuff,” a grim smile played over the boy’s face. Memories of the first time he’d been welcomed into the world of corruption and cruelty under the city. His tutor, a grizzly man with somewhat questionable sanity, had swung down from the windowsill into his dorm room with nothing other than a rusted knife. He threw the blade across the room an inch from the boy’s head.

“Lesson one,” he’d whispered, “Always be alert.”

The stranger took another sip of his drink thoughtfully.

“I thought you might have. Still, I gotta ask how you would manage,”

“Easy,” the boy said. He leaned forward in his seat, breaking his disguise for just a moment. “I’ll invite her here. Get us drinks with a little extra something, then wait. Next morning and all will be done. It’ll be simple, coffee and karma.”

“Coffee and karma,” repeated the stranger. The two finished their mugs and walked outside into the crisp autumn air. A few more blocks and the stranger handed the boy a thick envelope. “Coffee and karma,” whispered the boy, if only it were so simple.