The Goom-ba smiled, “So, you’re the Trigger Man, Jason White, huh.”
Me: “I don’t like that name, Trigger Man. And the second, is a name you may call me, and I may answer to it. For now.”
Goom-ba: “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I heard ‘bout you and the jobs you done. It’s why my boss had me contact you. I’m here to hire you. The Marcone job was somethin’. Smooth as silk. You know, my boss was related to Marcone. A cousin or sumthin’, but hey, it was biz’ness, right. But anyway, I would like ta know ‘bout that one job I heard you did. How the hell did you get close to that fuckin’ moolie in the Black Night gang. I mean, it wouldn’t be easy to get inside there, you being a brown-eyed wasp white boy like you is. C’mon, dish the dirt, it’s been years, so you can tell.” I tapped my fingers on top of the closed computer notebook next to me on my desk. Figures Goom-ba was the type to show his racism. I’d kill ’em, but his blood would dirty my floor.

Me: “You don’t need to know that. I have my ways, that’s why you are here. Just know that the job gets done. Now, do you have the particulars on the target, or am I here to take in the pleasure of your company. That being the case, your boss will be receiving a personal visit from me: and won’t be happy."
Goom-ba: “Whoa, whoa, easy, easy. No need for that.” Goom-ba started to sweat. If it was from my threat, fine. If it was from the closed shades, keeping in the heat from the hot San Diego morning, then I may have to hurt him, sending a message to his boss. Doing that may be bad for business. I wouldn’t want to kill a whole mafia family today. It can be very messy, and I like this suit. The Goom-ba unbuttoned his tan suit coat, maybe because it was hot, and maybe to reach for something. I’m not worried about it. There were five fully loaded disposable Gloc-9s lining the underneath of my desk where I sat. Plus the ceramic Kevlar mesh vest I was wearing. This Goom-ba, isn’t the type to aim for the head. He’s sloppy. I could see it in his eyes, even through the shades.

Goom-ba: “Yeah, that’s the mark info. You gonna take the job or what?”
Me: “I want to know why this gentleman has the honor of my attention.”
Goom-ba: “Well, all I was told to tell you was that his boss had taken, too many liberties when visiting our fair City in Nevada. Re$pect must be given.”
Me: “Rolled your boss’ out of some cash in one of their gambling casinos and forgot to up some to them.”
Goom-ba was silent.
Me: “Fine. From a distance, or up close. Clean, or messy. I already know that he’s supposed to be a message. All I need to know is what kind. The price varies on the proximity and degree of message.”
Goom-ba: “Up close, and messy. My boss’ want to see just how good you live up to your rep. Mr. White.”
Me: “Ten Million. Transferred to this account. Now.” I turned on the notebook, punched a few keys. Goom-ba typed in his info from a piece of paper from his pocket. He typed with one finger. The computer chimed, ‘transfer complete’. He pushed it back to me. I took it, and hit the red button on its side. I opened the nearby safe, threw the notebook in the safe, closed it, and spun the combination.
Me: “Tell your boss’ to look for proof in the paper in two days. Now leave.”
Goom-ba: “Why didja put that in the safe for, huh?”
Me: “Wait.” A second later, the C-4 made a small ‘poomp’ noise. A small vial of acid cleared the remains away.
Me: “Good-bye Goom-ba.”
Goom-ba: “What did you just say?”

I looked at him. Stared would be more appropriate. Hands sitting in a prayer position.

He got up, made a face as he straightened his tie, pushing his chair with his calves, buttoning his coat. He turned, and exited through the office door.

I sat there, and spun the swivel chair toward the window, and split the blinds on a crack, watching Goom-ba run across the street to his Lincoln.