Picture This

‘So?’

‘So the job got complicated. Somehow that Latisha woman guessed I swapped out the syringes. But there was something else. That girlfriend of yours… ’

‘Which one?’

‘The one I helped fall off the Brooklyn Bridge. What perfume did she wear?’

‘Jerome, if you’re having some problem with this, I can double the money.’

‘Just tell me: what perfume?’ Jerome’s tone had turned threatening. Surprised, Felix stepped back.

‘It was unusual, with a jasmine base, something she picked up in London.’

‘I knew it. So I’m cancelling the job.’

A slow horror spread through Felix as he struggled to hide his emotions. Playing dumb, he stared, with an amazed expression. ‘Are you okay? This isn’t some weird belated PSTD thing, is it?’

‘Don’t patronise me, Felix. I’m a machine. Scent is something they train us for: scent and recognition. I knew that scent. I’ve only smelt it once before. On the Brooklyn Bridge, helping your girlfriend jump.’

Half incredulous, half terrified, Felix blustered on. ‘You mean you caught a whiff of Maxine’s perfume? That her ghost was there when you went in for the kill?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Jerome’s tone was just a little too defensive. ‘Instinct tells me this job has gone bad. And I’ve been recognised. I’ve got my back to think about.’

‘You can’t do that, not to me. Haven’t I been loyal?’

‘You might want to try some of that garlic pitta bread.’

‘I don’t do carbs.’

‘Try the pitta bread,’ Jerome growled; it was an order, not a request. Felix reached out to pull the top piece from the pile; underneath was a roll of hundred-dollar notes. He picked it up. It was the money he’d paid Jerome. By the time he turned around the hitman had disappeared.

‘What now?’ he asked himself out loud.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get over it.’

Felix looked up, startled. The skinny blonde girl stood before him, smiling. ‘Try the tofu and cashew stir-fry. Great for broken hearts.’

*

‘We have to move the equipment out, get you somewhere really obscure, maybe up in Queens.’ Felix strode around Gabriel’s flat, kicking an old pizza box out of the way.

‘I’m not going out that far. I need to be able to do my own painting.’ Gabriel, truculent, sat with his arms folded defensively; he never liked it when Felix was in a temper, but he’d learnt that the only way to deal with it was not to respond or react aggressively, just sit it out. However, he’d never seen Felix this agitated. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I tried to get rid of the Latisha woman. It didn’t happen.’

‘What do you mean “get rid of”?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Was it the same way you got rid of Maxine Doubleday?’

‘Goddamn! You’re such a child sometimes! What do you think we’re doing here, making postcards!?’ He loomed over Gabriel, who flinched. ‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend to finish my glorious career in a state penitentiary.’

Gabriel slipped out of the kitchen chair, reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He walked over to the light box.

‘Okay, I’ll move some of the stuff downstairs to the cellar. Chung the super has a storeroom in there that I know he would rent to me, and it has a lock on it. I can work on the Hoppers down there.’

‘Thank you. I promise this one is going to be the last. In a year’s time, we’ll be laughing about this.’ Felix didn’t sound convinced.