Wednesday, July 11, 2018

[writing exercise] “Before the Kill Fee”

The real problem was Enrique Donaldson’s continuing to cause trouble for the more comfortable and successful members of the business alliance. But the on-rushing Enrique had to keep pushing all this “new” product stuff and “up market” lingo until of course his profile began to enlarge and be noticed by the cops, at the irritation of the alliance. The boss sold off one of his distribution lines just to avoid a future confrontation with Enrique. But the boss was still the biggest operator in the city and the biggest target. A target for the cops and the impatient know-it-alls like Enrique. Enrique would have to go.

The problem, for the alliance, was “good” hit men did not grow on trees. Good meant reliable. Quiet. Professional. Knew when to not make the shot. There were plenty of trigger-happy wannabes. They were young, ex-military (they said), dishonorable discharges more likely, government drop outs, quick to show they could shoot and prove they possessed cojones but slow to show they had brains. Some couldn’t follow orders if they were drawn in crayon.

One of the newest guns, Billy-something-or-other, whacked a lower-level dealer who was holding back. It was as if Billy wanted to quickly show the upper management he could to the job. Billy did the job, okay, if wiping out the dealer was the only criteria, but got caught about two hours later and then pleaded guilty, which kept him out of a trial and away from the chair. Seeing him in court on the evenings news showed a stupid kid who thought he was a tough hombre slowly realizing he was going to spend the rest of his natural born life in prison.

Business all across town had taken a hit as well as did the dealers who ducked for cover while users scavenged for product. 

There hadn’t been a hit for another two years but it had taken two years for business to settle down and make money. Then, Enrique.

Not concerned that he was about to rip the business alliance apart, for he was never sure just how well he was a part of the alliance, Enrique Donaldson, a mid-level dealer with a good system and good supply, making more money then he had enough sense to know and appreciate, caught, he said, one of his bottom-level dealers skimming. How much and was it worth the wrath of the cops if this lower level part of the structure were erased were questions barely spoken aloud and of course not answered. The more higher-up suppliers never completely trusted the dealership and some internal leakage was expected. Too much and it had to be dealt with, usually with a stern talking to, following by a usually more effective visit from the muscle.

Enrique had gone right to the dealer, a poor kid, black, living at home with his invalid mom, a story ready made for the hearts and minds of all other poor people, and in front of the kid’s mom pulled the trigger, as if thinking maybe by word of mouth his potency would be enhanced. The old woman was under some heavy sedation and not much use to the cops but the neighbors had been more than helpful and cops pretty much knew who pulled trigger except of course Enrique’s driver, a skinny, stupid ex-crack addict by the name of Reynolds Something or Something Reynolds was in the apartment, too, which made knowing who exactly shot the kid a tough call to make.

Either way, Enrique would have to go.
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