Crybaby Boy

Chapter Eight - I Think We're in Business

Chapter Eight - I Think We’re in Business

“You better call.  If you get no answer, call again.  Keep calling, ‘cause of you make your family worry, you’re in trouble.”

- Wiona Mason

The plates had been taken away by the time I realized I needed to call home to tell them not to look for me, but I couldn’t risk somebody figuring out who I was calling and go after my family either.

            I told myself I’d do it later… after I got out of this place, first.  And maybe away from Peyton, too, even if just for a few moments.

            Before I could work out a strategy to get away from Peyton, Meester Dwhite stood up again, clapping his hands together--not once, not twice, but thrice.  That unlucky number sure loved me today.  I wish I could say I favored that number, too.

            “As I mentioned before, you’re gathered here to help me decide on a suitable successors for my former second in command and all of you hitmen present are candidates for taking on Martin’s former position, but I couldn’t just decide on one of you, so I thought that maybe the decision wouldn’t be such a heavy weight on my shoulders if I had you prove yourselves first.”

            By now I was beginning to wonder if I should have left earlier… or later.  Could that have made a difference?

            “All of you are to face off against each other, and the last man standing so to say, will be the one to take on Martin’s former position.

            The table broke out in hushed murmurs, and far too many were excited, happy even.

            “Not to worry now,” Meester Dwhite said his R’s weird.  He gave a little chuckle, silencing the table effortlessly.  “I have high hopes for many of you.”

            Like his “high hopes” would get me anywhere.  I haven’t been in a fight in years.

            “But-”

            There’s always a but….

            “But first of all, you must complete a certain task for me.  Let’s call this a qualification round.  It’s really quite simple.  Robe?”  I didn’t like the look Meester Dwhite shot Robe one bit.

            Robe turned and picked up a little black bowl, and gave it a shake.  There were folded pieces of paper in, each one a different color.  He handed the bowl to Meester Dwhite, who nodded his thanks.

            “Each pair is to take a single piece of paper and head to the address specified.  All you have to do is kill everyone who lives at said address.  Your Initiator will contact Robe once you’ve completed your task and he will come by to ensure the job was properly done.  You have a week’s time at the most.  The clean up is your responsibility, and if you fail to complete the task, somebody will be sent to take you out.  Any questions?”

            Silence.  I’m fucked.

            Meester Dwhite narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing us.  “Once you take your paper, you will tear off a corner of it and leave it at the table, in front of where you sat.  I know what color is attached to which address.  There will be no swapping targets, understood?”

            He gave the table one last sweep.  His eyes seemed to rest on me a little longer than on the others.  “That is all,” he bobbed his head and sat back down, passing to the bowl to the masked man next to him.