The Poets in Vienna

One

     Two men walked the street between a small cafe and James Potter's apartment that Monday. Both had worn the same coat, same boots, and carried the same worn journal.

     One was Regulus Black. The son of a famous priest and millionaire. A handsome bloke who was as rich as he was daft.

     And the other? Was Quincy Fairswell. A poet.

     Everyone who was anyone knew who Regulus Black was. And if they didn't know him, they knew his father, and if they didn't know his father they knew a cousin, and so on and so on. The Blacks were well known and respected by half the globe. It was hard not to stare at second-hand royalty like them.

     Nobody knew who Quincy Fairswell was. At least, James didn't. Maybe he was making it big in the poetry business, selling meaningless words to rich men that preached literature. But as far as James was aware, Quincy Fairswell was like a ghost.

     There were no government records of him anywhere besides a name. No pictures, fingerprints, or birth records. It was as if Quincy had come and gone into existence in the short time James Potter had seen him cross the street. He was a nobody.

     That wasn't to say, James potter was any more of a somebody than Quincy. Because how famous could a hitman be? People didn't exactly bow at the feet of murderers.

     But James didn't need the people to tell him whether or not his morals were right, even if he questioned them himself. He had a job, an apartment, and enough money to last the year. That was all that mattered.

     All he needed to do was decide whether the mysterious poet or heir to a millionaire's fortune was a murderer as well.

     James tried to think of it logically, which was a relatively new approach for him. Normally it was just finding the target, killing the target, disposing of the body, and getting his paycheck. But of course, this time things had to be difficult. Things were never as simple as they had been. There was talk of an age of technology for the world, but most people passed it off as a tall tale. James liked to pretend it was all a ruse, but he had heard stories about the cops finding new ways to track criminals. Soon, it would be near impossible to kill without punishment. He knew they'd find a way to overcome it, they always did, but it still felt like everything he knew was slipping from his grasp.

     One day, maybe it would. And he would be left to hide from his past for the rest of his years, wishing he could dwell in the safety of the past. But now, James Potter was in Vienna, and he had a job to finish. He was only in Vienna because his boss had given him a simple job, one he claimed would only take a day or two. Find the criminal behind a series of murders, that all to do with some sort of poem. But choosing between the son of a millionaire and a secretive poet did not sound like a simple job to James.

     Sure, he could just kill Quincy, the poet, and go on with his day as nothing had changed. But if Quincy wasn't the target, James would be in serious trouble with people he didn't want to mess with. At the same time, killing someone like Regulus Black would have the cops on his back for months. No option was a safe option, he just had to make an educated guess.

     Was it likely Quincy, the mysterious poet who never showed his face, was the one working for a murderer? Probably.

     Was it likely Regulus Black, son of a millionaire, was? No. But it was way more exciting to think so.

     Now, James wasn't entirely daft. He knew that he couldn't just murder someone because it was exciting. Although it would be. But it couldn't be a coincidence that a random, mysterious poet had been spotted walking the same paths Regulus Black had. It was no secret that Regulus was rich, and James wouldn't put it past him to hire a decoy. James thought briefly that if he was Regulus Black, and he was going to hire a decoy, he would've chosen a better name than Quincy. But that was irrelevant.

     The point was, nobody would ever suspect Regulus Black to be a poet. He presented as a typical young rich man with no desires except being wed to a beautiful wife and continuing his father's bloodline. It made sense that Regulus Black would plant a decoy. Just to make sure that nobody would ever suspect him. It was smart, but James Potter was clever.

     James Potter wondered if Regulus Black had ever even read poetry a day in his life. It sounded like something rich people did, but he wasn't sure. Maybe that's why he had gone undetected for so long, nobody could see him writing poetry. It wasn't something men like him were bred to do. They were bred to follow in their father's footsteps, bound to a life of dinner parties and endless riches. It was a dream for people like James, to live without worry.

     James told himself that it was entirely probable that Regulus was the murderer poet. Whether it was true or not, was for fate to decide. Besides, if he didn't kill someone soon he was going to lose his job. What was the worst that could happen if you accidentally killed the son of a millionaire?

     James sighed hopelessly into his palm, back aching slowly from sitting on the bench all day. He couldn't even tell how long he'd spent staring at the same street corner. The sweltering summer heat had begun its long journey to a chilly breeze as the last days of August drew near. It wouldn't be long until it was fall and the tourists flooding Vienna's streets would die down. It was laughable almost, how something could be so adored one month and forgotten the next. Would the streets and cafes full of people turn into a ghost town? Or would things stay the same, the only absence being the soft chirp of crickets and hot pavement?.

     James couldn't foresee the future, but he hoped that he would be long gone before he could see Vienna in the fall. Perhaps he'd be somewhere warm like Peru, or California, killing some other criminal. Wherever he would be in the weeks to come, he promised himself he would think of Vienna. Of the small wooden bench he sat on, the cracked pavement flooded with tourists, and of the warm sun on his cheeks. He would think of Vienna how he saw it now so that he would never have to worry about the absence of summer. So that in his mind, Vienna would be forever in August.

     He grinned stupidly into his palm at the thought, feeling drunk off of sunlight. He let his boots hit the pavement with a thunk as he stood and dusted off his coat. For now, it was still summer, and James Potter had a man to kill.

     He really hoped Regulus Black secretly read classical literature in his free time.