Charlie De’Ath looked down at his dark brown Oxford shoes as he stood on the spray-soaked boardwalk separating the waterfront properties from Old Orchard Beach, Maine. They were scuffed with curves of roughened leather where the door panel he kicked in earlier that morning scraped across the shiny toecap. Tutting, he reached into the glove compartment of his customised classic car, a silver-blue and white Cadillac ’52 El Dorado for his shoe-shine kit. He always kept one in the car, along with a tub of hair gel, a clothes brush and for exceptional occasions, a spare suit, shirt and tie. For business purposes, he kept a box of rubber surgical gloves, an industrial-sized bottle of hand sanitizer and several tubs of moisturising cream in the trunk. Tony Torandi, his mentor in the early days, persuaded him they were necessary.

“A combination of hand sanitiser and moisturising cream will remove traces of gunpowder residue from your hands and the rubber gloves will prevent you shedding any skin cells at the appointment,” Tony said. Charlie later found out from a CSI agent on the payroll this was probably not true, besides using hand cream made him feel like a cissy. Still, he kept them in the car for old times’ sake

For Charlie, sartorial classiness was like a badge of office. He liked to look smart because he thought it gave him an air of authority, a kind of lawyerly feel, judicial even. He chuckled at that: Charlie was no judge. In fact, he never made judgements. Things were simple in Charlie-World, there were just three states of being: a problem, not a problem, and no longer a problem. Simplicity was his byword, which was just as well because having too much reflection about his line of work could lead to complications.

His former instructor in the arts of the game, Tony, had become a problem. He thought too much and started to make judgements. Charlie remembered their last job together. Some guy from Jersey was pushing his luck with the boss and stepped over the ill-defined line between irritation and intolerable. He was probably feeling his oats that morning when he stamped into the Two Down Café Bar and Grill, straight over to the boss’s private table and demanded reparations for late delivery. The boss nodded, agreed that payment, maybe a discount, was in order and said he was deeply sorry for any inconvenience. He said he would make things good. When the schmuck had left, swaggering out the door and nodding to his two heavies, the boss looked to Tony and Charlie and pointed at the door. That is all it took. A look.

They got there late that afternoon and waited until the muscle disappeared on some errand, then entered the house via the back door, made a delivery in the form of two copper headed slugs either side of Mister Schmucky’s forehead. It was an art-form in some ways, their synchronisation second-perfect and their exit would have been the same if the customer had not shared his home with his aged mother, who rounded the corner of the kitchenette in her wheelchair and started to scream the place down.

Charlie quietened her with a hand to the mouth and another to her throat, but Tony stayed his grip from tightening.

“The old lady isn’t a problem,” he said in his thick Staten Island accent, “she’s scared outta her wits. She ain’t going to say nothing.”

He looked at the panicked old woman, “You ain’t gonna say nothing, lady. You seen no-one, right?”

She nodded in terrified agreement. Charlie released her with the words, “The cops don’t want to know who did it. Your son is just another hood. But if you DO say anything to them, they might take it into their heads to investigate, then we’ll have to make things right. This is just business, just don’t make it YOUR business. Get me?”

She nodded again, choking back her sobs.

They left and headed back to the Island, Charlie driving, saying nothing. He did not like loose ends.

He reported back to the boss, who agreed with the sentiments Charlie expressed. The boss agreed, “Loose ends are bad for business, take care of it for me, Charlie.”

 He then went out again to take care of the old lady. Then he took care of Tony.

“You can’t let sentiment get in the way of business, Tony,” he said. Tony failed to reply, largely because the garotte in Charlie’s hands had already sliced his vocal cords.

He dumped the body in a warehouse owned by the late customer, tying it to a chair, making it look like a retaliation. The cops were dumb enough to swallow it, Charlie reckoned. Just to make sure, he put a few slugs in the body, doused it with gasoline and set fire to it, just to screw with the forensics.

Since then everything had been peachy, and this made Charlie happy.  He liked his life and believed there is something to be said for a good job, a decent wage and no problems. He went home to his lovely wife, Shona, and his three wonderful kids, ate his dinner, watched TV, took a shower then went to bed. On the weekend he went to the ballgame, had a few beers, left early and headed for home where he would make love to Shona and have a well-earned sleep. Life was simple and good. He had friends, money and a great family, plus the satisfaction of knowing that when he closed the front door he could forget about the job. His boss was good like that. He kept things firmly nine to five, him being a family man too. Sometimes he had the boys over for a barbeque on a Sunday, but that was social, not business.

He wished it would never end, but deep down, he knew it must someday, so he made provisions and a letter to Shona with his lawyer explaining how she could access the safety deposit boxes holding large wads of high denomination bills. There were even passports in different names, just in case she needed them, but his pride and joy was a small house in Vancouver, which he kept well maintained and stocked, just in case. He disliked thinking about things, but some things had to be thought through. Family is everything.

He lifted the trunk lid and placed each foot in turn on the lip and proceeded to shine his shoes as if his life depended on it. He found the motion of the brush as it made small circles with the polish very soothing and then he buffed them with a microfibre cloth. This was another of Tony’s revelations. Microfibre polished so much better than traditional shoe dusters.

The shoes took some buffing to bring them back to his required standard, but Charlie had time. Part of his simple routine was to always arrive early to an appointment. That way he could deal with any unexpected matters expeditiously. He was fond of that word, a gift from Tony again, who set great store by timekeeping. Charlie was of a similar mind: timekeeping is important. He had a mantra, “Fifteen minutes early saves fifty minutes clearing up.” He liked that, not too clever, but wise, not in a wise-guy way, more like a wise old man.  

Once the shoes were properly shined, he straightened his hat, donned a long, beige overcoat, tightened the silencer on his revolver and strode across the street to his appointment, pausing at the gate to the weathered clapboard property to take in potential escape routes. This distracted him momentarily and he missed the loose paving that splashed seawater all over his newly shined shoes and the bottom third of his sharply pressed pants.

“Would you believe it?” he said. Charlie never swore. Expletives were for losers, people who had no control over their emotions. He was a bit of an old-fashioned guy like that. He shook his wet trousers, but it was no good, they were soaked through. He would have to change once he was away from the scene.

Making sure there were no more hidden traps on the path, he strode purposefully up to the house, then took the steps two at a time and reached for the bellpush.

He failed to notice the wire leading from the bell was far thicker than usual, which was unfortunate for Charlie because instead of a welcoming bing-bong, or excitable tring, it crackled with an arcing ring of death and as he slumped to the floor he imagined a voice saying, “You should have thought…”

As he lay there gasping in pain, the door opened, and a shadowy figure stepped out.

“Hey there, Charlie,” he said, “Remember me?”

Charlie could not make out the figure’s features, partly because they were in shadow, but mostly because his sight was shot through with red flashes of pain. The figure bent over, and her face became clear. It was Meryl Torandi, Tony’s wife.

“Tony asked me to give you this,” she said as she ratcheted her .45 and levelled it at Charlie’s head. He tried to dodge, but bullets move faster than humans and two red holes appeared either side of his forehead, just like Tony had taught her.  Then she added, “This is personal, not business.”

She reached into Charlie’s jacket, pocketed his keys and walked over to the El Dorado. Firing up the engine, she drove the long way round to Charlie’s house, where her lover, Shona, was waiting with bags packed. “Never rush,” she heard Tony say in her thoughts. So, she took her time, after all, it was a nice day, she always liked this car and Vancouver was not going anywhere.