S T Y L E

     It was the strangest job offer I had ever had.
     Not that I noticed that at the time. It was a mild
afternoon, with me relaxing at a Greek cafe across town in my
silk shirt and blazer, drinking Chianti and passing the time with
Rimbaud. Sipping dry wine and reading the poetry of a madman:
there he sits, the gentleman assassin.
     The client appears when I am halfway through a dish of
calamari. He looks strangely conservative in a suit and tie, an
absurd formality considering the circumstances. A pair of
mirrored aviators throw my image back to me as he sits down. I
check my hair in the reflecting lenses: looks o.k..
     I wave a waiter over. "Two cappucinos," I tell him.
"Doubles." He nods and heads inside to the espresso bar.
     The client offers me a nervous smile. "I've never tried
Italian coffee before," he tells me, more to break the ice than
to complain.
     I tilt my head to look at him. The shades I wear are two
small oval lenses that lend me a calm, confident look. The frame
is a simple, graceful arc of nickel steel; the lenses are tinted
a smoky grey. I make it a rule to never wear lenses that hide my
eyes. People do not trust you when they cannot see your pupils:
it makes them nervous, suspicious, on guard. In my work, I have
found it advantageous to keep people relaxed, at ease. Off guard.
     "It is perhaps an acquired taste," I tell him with a
soothing smile. "But once acquired, not so easily abandoned." My
fingers twirl the stem of the wine glass slowly, spinning the
thin wine up towards the rim.
     He chuckles, relaxes slightly in his chair. "As many a
vice." We both laugh knowingly. The waiter arrives with two
cappucinos, two almond biscotti. I nod to him, and he takes off
silently.
     The client lifts his coffee in salute and I match his
gesture, taking a careful sip of the scalding sea that lurks
beneath a fogbank of milk foam. The espresso doesn't go with the
calamari, all told, but I finish the dish anyways. Never leave
food unfinished in front of a client; it either means you can't
pick a good restaurant or you're going to waste their money.
     I ignore the rest of my wine, though, and focus on the
coffee. It's important not to look too desperate, and in legit
business deals the drugs are wisest course to leave unfinished.
Things run opposite in the black market world, I've noticed....
     "It's not too bad," the client is saying, keeping me posted.
He sips his cappucino again. "A bit harsh at first, but easy to
get used to."
     I laugh the laugh of a jaded user creating an addict.
"You'll never go back to regular coffee again," I tell him.
     "You're probably right," he smiles. The sun begins to creep
around the skyscraper behind which it had been hiding, throwing a
halo on our table that glares off the linen tablecloth like a
searchlight. 
     "Ritchie!" Calls the waiter from inside, gesturing in a
Mediterranean way. A teenage youth in a T-shirt and jeans comes
out with a canvas umbrella over either shoulder, sets one up on
our table and one across the patio where the other diners sit.
     The client takes off his sunglasses: his eyes are bright and
pale, very striking. I like them instantly. He locks gazes with
me, lays his mirrorshades on the table. The meeting has begun.

     "I want you," he begins simply, "To kill yourself."
     I take a sip of my coffee. "How much?"
     He laughs. "The going rate." Finishes his coffee. "I need
you to disappear from this neighborhood, without a trace."
     "Happens all the time," I tell him frankly. "People are a
bit used to it by now."
     He leans forward. "Then you'll just have to be extra
convincing, this time." I catch his drift; this is
non-negotiable. I don't want to ask him why. "We plan to be
moving in this area very soon. I would prefer it if people could
assume we weren't working together, and I'm sure you would as
well."
     I nod. "Can I use your men for the job?"
     "If you must. I prefer to have no connection between us
whatsoever," he tells me, fingering his empty cup. "But it's not
a bad idea. If it's done right."
     "It's done right," I tell him. He smiles. "What's the meat?"
     "One assassination, one complication."
     "How much of a complication?" I ask him, draining the last
cooling swallow of my coffee.
     "I'll explain later," the client promises. "But the kill
will be easy. Public job, lots of noise and chaos. You'll love
it."
     "Yeah," I tell him. "I'll love it."

     "I don't believe you."
     "Good thing I ain't a preacher, then," I improvise. "But I
obviously have to work on my presentation." 
     Roy looks at me from across across the deck. "Cut the crap,
Gil." He leans against the wooden rail of his balcony, back to
the rather dubious view of cloudy seas and eroded cliffs. "I
mean, haven't you learned what happens when clients demand you
fake your death before you work for them?" The ocean wind blows a
strand of his long shapeless hair in front of his face; he throws
it back over his shoulder with an irritated twitch of his neck.
     "One hell of a fun ride," I tell him, "Is generally the
result." It always bothers me when people show some modicum of
concern for my welfare, even when it's just the pain of watching
an incredibly stupid mistake being made. Being the blood-letting
sociopath that I am, I always felt such attention was undeserved;
but who am I to judge?
     Roy refuses to lighten up, fails entirely to catch my jaunty
mood. "Well, sure, yeah, I guess you can say that, I mean it's
not like you haven't survived all of this so far...but don't you
believe in not pushing your luck?"
     I sip the pilsner that he probably wouldn't have offered me
if he'd known I would be so obstinate. His fault really, not
knowing where I'm coming from and all...
     "Nope," is my only reply. He's still standing, looking down
at me and my beer, sprawled across the deck chair in invertebrate
splendour.
     He chews this over for a fraction of a second, finally
catching on, and continues in a more relaxed, drawling tone.
"Well you might think about it. I've heard it referred to as
reasonable behavior before." Ah, sarcasm; that's it, Roy: don't
fight it. "'Cause I'd hate to think of you as an unreasonable
fellow."
     "Perish the thought, my good man," I rapidly reassure him in
an apathetic sort of way. "Reason guides my every move, sparks my
every thought; without reason, I'd hardly know what else to not
do." I don't think he gets it. Reason being what I try not to do,
thus without reason I no longer...ah, forget it. I flick my gaze
away from his expression.
     "So what kind of an exit are we talking about here?" He
asks, finally getting down to business.
     "Big," I tell him. "Grand. Opera-style."
     "Six guys?"
     "Make it four," I tell him. "No one uses six guys any more;
there's at least one idling the engine, and the rest shouldn't
have to fight for seats when they're peeling out." I drain the
bottle, catch the light on its gold foil label, then set it on
the deck where it casts a green-glass shadow on the faded wood. 
     "Usually you won't settle for being killed by any less than
six guys," Roy points out. The wind picks up, blows his hair
again. I try to picture him with a crew-cut. "Pride, and all
that." I try to picture him bald.
     "Client wants realism like nobody's business," I tell him.
"And nobody uses more than four guys anymore."
     "Got it. At home, or on the town?" He muses briefly, a palm
cupped beneath his chin. "A job gone bad?"
     "Think about it, Roy, would I let my home get trashed just
for some job?" I look around for another beer, don't see one.
They must be inside.
     "You're right," he replies, walking towards the sliding
glass door. "Home it is, then."
     "Exactly." I'm on my feet in a quick, fluid leap that would
have caught him off-guard if he didn't know me so well. Zero to
sixty in a quarter second, that's me. I follow him inside.
     "So what's this job concern, anyways?" Roy asks, walking
slowly through the dining room that seems dark to our dazzled
eyes.
     "No details yet," I admit. He gives me a typically critcal
look, then shakes his head theatrically and goes into the kitchen
to pour himself a glass water.
     "Roy," I tell him as he tosses back the water.
     "Mmm?"
     "How long have you known me?"
     He shrugs.
     "And how many times have I bought it?"
     "You mean besides that time in Madagascar?" He got me, he
knows it. I try not to think about it. "None, I guess."
     "Then what's the problem, nnh?" I work my way into my
blazer, letting him know it's time without resorting to something
as rude as words. "It's just a job. We've done them before." I
shrug my shoulders quickly, casually, letting the jacket and its
hardware fall into place as Roy follows me to the door. "And luck
exists to be pushed." Have to get that parting shot in.
     "You're a winner, Gil," he tells me, clapping a palm to my
shoulderblade briefly, in parting.
     "You don't have to tell me  that," I throw back as I head
out to my car. "Tell it to the other  guys."

     "Lotta talk goin' round."
     "'Bout what?" I ask innocently.
     "'Bout you, a job, a client."
     "Interesting. Old job, or new?" Like I haven't had this
conversation before.
     "New," the barkeep tells me. His name's John, I like him, he
pours well.
     "Hmm." I pretend to be distracted for a moment. "That's
odd." I look at the mirror briefly, check who's behind me. "Well,
make it stop." He nods. "It's embarrassing enough being
unemployed; I don't need my face rubbed in it." Pause, brief
enough to indicate the change in topic. "I'll take a Rogue. Red."
     "Red it is." John heads off to pour. Convinced or not, he
knows what story to stick to.
     "Styyyyyle," comes a drawling call from across the room. I
cringe internally at my trade name; it originated as a PR trick
many years ago ("If you're going to do it, do it with Style"/"Got
something to say? Say it with Style", etc.--you get the idea),
and at this point changing it would mean I'd have to start over.
     I look around the bar, see an oddly-matched pair in the
corner. Tall guy, shades and a battered armor trenchcoat, face
hard and lined like the guys who used to work undercover. The
other is short and stocky, an oddly fluid face, in a fur-lined
leather vest and many-pocketed canvas pants. He's got a Joker
T-shirt on and laughs sporadically, without any real reason. I'm
wondering what the punch line is when I notice that the large guy
is just sitting there, sipping at a beer so dark I almost think
it's coffee, not laughing at all. The shorter guy calls my name
again, a little softly; he tosses his head back with an abrupt
burst of laughter when I glance over at him.
     There's a gentle thok in front of me as John sets the brew
down. I jerk my head imperceptibly towards the corner.
"Trench-man and the hyena over there," I point out. He flicks his
eyes over briefly, then back. "Who are they?"
     "Couple of blows from Detroit," John  replies. "Made out
good in the bust-and-bang game, nobody could touch 'em back
there." He pauses in thought. "Haven't mentioned why they came
out here yet; I figure it's for the corporates. There's big money
here on the coast." I sip the Rogue, roll it around my tongue to
savor the nuances of fruit in among the hops. 
     "Detroit," I repeat slowly. "Rough town." John nods. I pay
him for the beer, leave a tip, head over to the table in the back
where the two are seated with their drinks and their respective
attitudes.

	"You guys got that car-bomber look,".
	"Watch it, what you say there, Style," the short guy drawls."Car-bombs 
is crass." He laughs at his own accent.
	Across from him the guy in the trenchcoat grunts. "Dig it. The king is 
trying to dump on us."
	"King?"
	"Yer the king of the mercs, man. Like Elvis, get it? Old, slow
and washed up." He laughs his short, clipped laugh. "Heh-Ha!" I just look 
at him.
	"Or so I says to meself when I hear you're working for Montana.
And I think, now why would a great man like Style get worked into
a deal with Montana? So I check them out. No reason for them to
grab an assassin: no change in leadership, no recent or planned
buyouts, no ex-employees leaving. In fact, only change at all is
in their biotech dept, increasing in budget and personnel by 32%
in 18 months." 
	"You seem to have an interest in my affairs," I tell him, making 
a mental note to sick Roy on these guys. "Got any news on what my
ex-wife is up to?"
	"You make the mercenary field look good, Style. You bring to it
a long-dead grace and, shall we say it, style that has the James
Bond mystique up and running again. It would be a shame for
something to, he-Ha, happen to you." 
	He looks at me like flattery does something. I shrug and let him continue.
	"So anyways I ask meself what would the biotech division
be doing that would require the services of the inimitable Style?"
	"Probly let loose a viral strain..." mutters the tall guy. "Now we're all in
for it."
	"But how, I wonder, would Style take on a virus? Those moves he got
are great, but they're not molecular. So I thinks: like, they created 
something, and its escaped. Style is out to dispatch it...." He's stopped 
laughing now, and is looking at me intently.
	"You're a hell of a storyteller," I knock back the rest of the beer and 
stand up. "Let me know how it ends."
	Yeah. Roy is definitely going to have to look these guys up.


     The sun is hot and angry, beating down upon the coast as I
sip chilled wine and watch myself die. The tattered remnants of
an ocean breeze stir occasionally, waving about the ferns that
surround the television. My resident paranoid impulse sends my
gaze out across the sand and sea every few minutes, though I am
out of the woods by a good stretch. Metaphorically speaking.
     The scene unfolds before my eyes in the clipped, abrupt
fashion of a newsflash. Which, I might add, it most exactly is. I
remember the events precisely, yet not from this vantage; it is
almost a surprise when the Blazer lurches to a sharp halt. The
men are rolling out of the back and firing even before the brakes
squeal.
     Four of them, in long heavy coats of ablative armor,
standing behind minimal cover and unloading their weapons the fun
way. The first salvo is grenades, four of them, HE I think,
crashing through the windows into the bottom floor of my
building. I don't do much on the bottom floor; this is mostly
designed just to make me mad.
     It does. In seconds I am leaping through the flames and
wreckage, a casual jumpsuit on, my left hand picking off clay
pigeons with the needler while my rights swings the sword
purposefully. Not a bad shot, really; I should get a glossy of
that for my portfolio.
     That's when they use the chainguns. Four of them, again,
creating a field of angry lead above the sidewalk. My first
needles stick in the armor coats like tiny toxic darts; I make a
mental note to include high-concentrate acid rounds in my
magazine, next time.
     The chainguns don't get me. I watch myself execute a quick
lunge that my truer devotees would have come to expect, planting
off a windowsill to vault and swing onto the lowest platform of
the fire escape.