Joe Tessamano sat down on the barstool at the Winchester Saloon and raised his index finger to the female bartender.
“Draft Bud,” he said.
The woman gave him one of the best tip-grubbing smiles he’d ever seen. She was half his age, but that didn’t stop his imagination from drifting away. He watched her in those tight jeans pour his beer and place it on a cocktail napkin in front of him. He slid a twenty dollar bill toward her and said, “Keep it.”
She beamed and Joe smiled back. He took a sip of his beer and looked around the darkened bar. It was his first trip to Payson since he’d moved to Scottsdale from the East Coast. Scottsdale was oozing money, with oversized trucks and hot moms driving convertibles and everything else this little mountain town wasn’t. But he didn’t drive the hour and a half for pleasure. This was simply a business trip. Or at least it had the potential to be a business trip should the circumstances present themselves.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a hand-rolled Dominican cigar. The Cuban’s had the best tobacco, but the Dominican’s knew how to roll better than anyone he’d ever seen. He licked his lips, then placed the cigar in his mouth. The female bartender gave him a firm look.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he assured her. “I’m just getting it lubed up for later.”
She grinned and Joe winked back.
A thin man with dark skin and thick mustache sat next to Joe. “Are you Joseph?” the man said with a Middle Eastern sounding accent.
Joe didn’t like the guy already. He was stiff and uncomfortable and drawing attention to himself just by his formal behavior. He’d called him Joseph as if he’d learned his name from looking up Joe’s driver’s license.
“Joseph?” Joe said. “That’s who you’re looking for?”
The man nodded. “Yes, please.”
If Joe didn’t suspect the guy was carrying an envelope full of money he would’ve just shot him right then. Joe looked around the shadowed room, pool tables and dart boards filled the east side of the bar. Lynyrd Skynyrd blared from an antique jukebox. He gestured toward a booth on the other side of the bar. The two of them slid in on opposite sides.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Joe said, blunt and not caring how it sounded.
The man swiveled his head around, then said, “We need someone eliminated.”
“We?” Joe said. “Who’s we?”
“I mean me,” the man tried to recover.
“No, you said we. So tell me who I might be working for and maybe I’ll listen.”
The man with the mustache just stared. It wasn’t a deep thoughtful stare, just a blank expression like he hadn’t considered the possibility the assassin would ask any questions.
Joe got out of the booth and patted the guy on the arm as he passed. “See ya, pal. Good luck finding someone stupid enough to work blind.”
He’d only taken four or five steps before he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Please,” the man said. “Let me explain.”
Joe had no intention of leaving. He was way too intrigued to let this guy fly the coop, but he wasn’t going to be bullied by an incompetent negotiator.
They returned to the booth and Joe twisted the tip of his cigar between his lips, waiting for an explanation. The man looked down at his hands folded on the table.
“Do you know the name Kemel Kharrazi?” the man said.
“Of course.”
“Well, when he died he left behind some loyal followers.” The man looked up at Joe as if that might be enough. Joe kept his mouth shut which he knew would force the imbecile to keep talking.
“And some of these followers have a grudge against the person who murdered their leader.”
Joe wanted to tell the guy that Kharrazi wasn’t exactly murdered, but that was beside the point. As far as he knew Kharrazi was trying to escape an FBI manhunt when one of their agents tracked him down to a path in the woods of Payson and won a game of chicken against the terrorist. The two of them were supposedly racing head-on toward each other with trucks when Kharrazi turned into a tree and died from the collision. But Joe still stayed quiet and watched the man raise his eyebrows as if Joe should finish the story on his own.
“I’m listening,” Joe said, playing stupid just to watch the guy squirm.
“So,” the man said. He looked around the room. Only a few people were playing pool and two old-timers were watching an East Coast football game at the bar. It was noon and the Winchester wasn’t exactly a lunchtime type of place. “We’re part of a group of people who support the Kurdish search for a nation of their own.”
“The KSF,” Joe said.
“I didn’t say that.”
Joe shrugged. He wasn’t particularly political, but you had to be living in a cave not to know who the KSF was. “All right, who’s the target?”
The man drew a thin envelope from his pants pocket and laid it in front of Joe.
Joe opened the envelope and saw the picture inside. He had to hide his surprise.
“You know her?” the man said.
Joe nodded, but kept it straight. “I never met her, but sure I know her. Most people around here would.”
“Are there any problems?”
Joe lifted his glass and took a long pull on his beer. Now’s when the negotiations began and it was one of the few pleasures Joe missed about the business.
“Well,” Joe began, “I’ve been retired almost ten years now. I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to take any unnecessary chances, if you know what I mean.”
The man was paying full attention, which was good.
“Plus, this isn’t your ordinary get-rid-of my-ex-wife kind of thing,” Joe added.
He thought he saw the man twitch at the idea Joe might decline the job.
“So, I don’t think this is something worth the risk,” Joe finally said.
The man reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a lumpy envelope and placed it in front of Joe.
“I give you ten thousand right now,” the man blurted. “The other forty when you’re done.”
Joe looked at the envelope, then up into the man’s jittery face. “When does this need to be done?” he asked.
“By tomorrow.”
This time Joe didn’t hide his surprise. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Joe picked up the envelope and felt it like he was testing a ripe cantaloupe. Then he put it on the seat next to him.
“Tell you what,” Joe said. “You give me that other envelope you’re carrying with the forty and maybe we can agree on something. But you’ll give me another fifty when I’m done.”
“Another fifty? That’s one hundred-that’s double what we agreed.”
Joe pointed his cigar at him. “We didn’t agree on jack shit. I said I’d listen to your proposal, that’s all. Now, those are my terms. I don’t need any of this to live a full and happy life.”
Joe gave the man his hundred thousand dollar smile and waited.
Finally, the man pursed his lips and pulled a larger envelope from his pocket and handed it to Joe. “Okay. By tomorrow.”
There, Joe thought, sticking the cigar in his mouth. That wasn’t so hard, was it?