ONE

SHE HAD JUST OVER THREE HOURS TO LIVE, and I was sipping grapefruit juice and tonic in the hotel bar.

"You know what it's like these days," I said, "only the toughest are making it. No room for bleeding hearts."

My companion was a businessman himself. He too was recovering from the recent highs and lows of the '80s, and he nodded as vigorously as the whiskey in him would allow.

"Bleeding hearts," he said, "are for the operating table, not for business."

"I'll drink to that," I said, though of course in my line of work bleeding hearts are the business.

Gerry had asked me a little while ago what I did for a living, and I'd told him import-export, then asked what he did. See, I slipped up once; I manufactured a career for myself only to find the guy I was drinking with was in the same line of work. Not good. These days I'm better, much cagier, and I don't drink on the day of a hit. Not a drop. Not anymore. Word was, I was slipping. Bullshit naturally, but sometimes rumors are difficult to throw off. It's not as though I could put an ad in the newspapers. But I knew a few good clean hits would give the lie to this particular little slander.

Then again, today's hit was no prize: it had been handed to me, a gift. I knew where she'd be and what she'd be doing. I didn't just know what she looked like, I knew pretty well what she'd be wearing. I knew a whole lot about her. I wasn't going to have to work for this one, but prospective future employers wouldn't know that. All they'd see was the score sheet. Well, I'd take all the easy targets going.

"So what do you buy and sell, Mark?" Gerry asked.

I was Mark Wesley. I was English. Gerry was English too, but as international businessmen we spoke to one another in mid-Atlantic: the lingua franca of the deal. We were jealous of our American cousins, but would never admit it.

"Whatever it takes, Gerry," I said.

"I'm into that." Gerry toasted me with whiskey. It was 3 P.M. local time. The whiskies were six quid a hit, not much more than my own soft drink. I've drunk in hotel bars all over the Western world, and this one looked like all of them. Dimly lit even in daytime, the same bottles behind the polished bar, the same liveried barman pouring from them. I find the sameness comforting. I hate to go to a strange place, somewhere where you can't find any focus, anything recognizable to grab on to. I hated Egypt: even the Coke signs were written in Arabic, and all the numerals were wrong, plus everyone was wearing the wrong clothes. I hate Third World countries; I won't do hits there unless the money is particularly interesting. I like to be somewhere with clean hospitals and facilities, dry sheets on the bed, English-speaking smiles.

"Well, Gerry," I said, "been nice talking to you."

"Same here, Mark." He opened his wallet and eased out a business card. "Here, just in case."

I studied it. Gerald Flitch, Marketing Strategist. There was a company name, phone, fax, and car-phone number, and an address in Liverpool. I put the card in my pocket, then patted my jacket.

"Sorry, I can't swap. No cards on me just now."

"That's all right."

"But the drinks are on me."

"Well, I don't know—"

"My pleasure, Gerry." The barman handed me the bill, and I signed my name and room number. "After all," I said, "you never know when I might need a favor."

Gerry nodded. "You need friends in business. A face you can trust."

"It's true, Gerry, it's all about trust in our game."

Obviously, as you can see, I was in a philosophical mood.

Copyright © 1994 by John Rebus Limited.