The Bowler Hat sat quietly on a bench in Central Park. He had just been put on indefinite suspension because he had “failed to handle matters in everyone’s best interests.”
He had raped a woman and killed a Chinese labor leader and his wife, but those words would never be spoken. It was business and would be handled with business vernacular. Besides, “publicity” was the dirty word, not “violence.” Several Chinese workers had reported seeing a white man who fit the Bowler Hat’s description by the Chungs’ cabin at the time of the murders. That wasn’t the concern. The word of a few Chinamen would never convict a white man. But should that information get in the hands of a crusading newspaperman, the “wheels of justice” might be forced into motion no matter how well they had been paid to remain still.
The Bowler Hat didn’t take suspension lightly. He viewed it as tantamount to a death sentence. He loved his work and didn’t know what he would do without it.
While he was thinking these thoughts, a strange sensation surged through him. He recognized it as sadness. He had only felt it once before, when he was twelve. He had infuriated his mother, a regular occurrence, and she had cornered him at an abandoned well. She grabbed for him, he stepped aside, and she fell into the well. A month later when she had passed away, after having caught typhoid from the contaminated water in the well, the Bowler Hat went into their barn and there, amid the farm animals, he bawled like a little baby. He despised himself for being so weak, and he swore that it would never happen again. Yet, here it was.
He forced the sadness deep down inside of him, willing it to never come back. Feelings led to mistakes. He had already made too many of those, and he had to deal with his present situation.
Purportedly, his employers had arranged a temporary job for him, so he could earn a living while he was “mending.” But what did it take to make promises? His knowledge of his employers’ activities made him too great a risk to just be cast aside. He knew of others who had been deemed no longer useful and were eliminated. One was removed by his wife while making love, another by an usher at the opera, in the middle of Don Giovanni, for God’s sake. Anything was possible.
The Bowler Hat looked around the park. There were couples walking arm in arm, people riding bicycles and high-wheel tricycles, and others seemingly just enjoying the beautiful spring weather. Everything looked innocent enough, but he knew better. It was at times like these, when the subject felt comfortable, that a really good assassin struck. And they would have to send their best to eliminate him.
The Bowler Hat rose. Any number of men could come at him, and he had to be ready. As he walked, he sensed danger all around him. There was a man sitting on a bench with a picnic basket, a basket that could easily contain weapons. Another man was pushing a baby carriage. It was suspicious. Only women did that. Then he saw a portion of a black derby hat through a large bush. Why was it not moving? Was the man lining him up in his sights? The Bowler Hat felt trapped. He suddenly started running, not just running but sprinting.
When he was safely outside the park and had stopped to catch his breath, the Bowler Hat began to realize that maybe his employers were right. Maybe he did need time to mend.