Negotiation

He shifted the pistol under his armpit very subtly. He licked his lips nervously. The bigger man to his side, his Boss, shuffled slowly to the table. Though his eyes portrayed a calm and collected nature, inside, he felt his innards bouncing about behind his flesh. Jake hoped that he was only imagining that annoying bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. His Boss sat down just as slowly and pulled out a dark brown and slightly bent cigar. Drawing his breath slowly, he shifted forward towards the man in front of him.

        Jake had heard of this man before. They called him the Count. Some of his crew said he was nothing but a legend. Others said he wasn't one man but a whole army. But he had only dismissed them as bullshit. Now that he had a chance to look at the guy, though, he knew he was eating those words. Everything about him just eked danger; the unsettling way he sat up straight as if he was jerked up by strings at all times. He made the languid movements when he puffed on his cigarette, held by a skinny and long holder. The way he glided into the room as if he was walking through thin air. From his looks, though, he didn't seem much. The guy had a slight build and a bald head with circular glasses. He wore a black leather trench coat and a business suit with a wide-brimmed felt hat that was a matching shade of dark. His nose was bent like a fish hook, and his lips seemed to have no color. It was like he only had a black line painfully etched into the front of his face. He looked like one of those queer-looking artist types, the kind of guy that'd draw a man's naked body and then sleep with him. He didn't seem like anyone in this world.

 The guy had a reputation, though. They said he was the deadliest assassin in five states. His kill list was so long it would have rivaled the Bible in thickness if they put his deeds to print. Though his various murders varied in technique, the one that seemed to be a constant (his favorite) was using a knife. He came to that conclusion when he saw the two blades the Count carried on his hip, two foot-long blades so wide he could've sworn they were butcher's knives. His calling card, he found out, was he'd leave his best impression of a painting he fancied in cuts along the victim's back. How he had the time to do that, he could never figure out. But he did it and was very successful each time. His reach, he was told, didn't just stop in the States. Apparently, he's been hired all across Europe and even some African countries. This guy was no joke. One false move, and it could be the end of him. He bit the inside of his lip, but it did little to steady his growing nerves. They only placated a little when the Boss began to spoke.

"I'm glad to see you've accepted my invitation," his Boss said, tapping away cigar ash. "I've always been a goal of mine to meet with you in person. I'm a massive fan of your work."

The Count said nothing. His only movements were the puffs on his cigarette.

"You have a certain set of skills that I require. Have you kept up with the news lately?"

The Count shook his head slowly as if it was restrained. The man felt a shiver go down his spine. The Boss puffed a little and began.

"Anybody on the street can tell you that lately, I've been at a bit of a bind. My business, as any business would, of course, requires me to rake in as much dough as I can. To do so, I need to do a little, ahem, advertising."

He put his two hands in the air and curled two fingers.

"To do that, I have to have a broad reach. However, some little shit in the Fourth Borough has, um, acquired some and taken it to his own."

        Before the Boss could go any further, the Count swiftly brought up his hand. It stopped his Boss in his tracks and almost made Jake jump.

"Where and when?" The Count asked, his voice tinged with an accent he wasn't sure he could place.

The Boss, surprised, continued.

"To the point! I like that about you! He's going to be at the Fiddler's Mound around ten o'clock tonight. It's his favorite place to eat and find a broad. He drives a Lincoln and always parks around back so nobody can mob him."

The Count nodded his head.

"I will front you ten grand right now and give you two in the morning when you clean the mess. This will need to be done with stealth, something I know you're damn good at. However, I would like to send a message; anyone who encroaches on my territory can expect a little something to happen to them."

The Count stood still, like a statue. He seemed to be contemplating his next move. Jake stood there amazed; he can't be serious! Twelve grand for a killing? This guy?! That's got to be chump change to him. The nervousness he felt suddenly gave way to slight aggression. His Boss must be crazy to think that he's going to accept that job for such little money. He was a moment away from voicing his concern, from saying that there was no way that he'd buy it when the Count amazed him. Standing up straight, in his tense and uncomfortable style, he bent forward and, in an almost whisper, said to the fat Boss in front of him.

"Have the check made to cash and have it sent to the Morris Hotel. It shall be done tomorrow."

And he gathered his coat and dashed out the door behind him.