Thirteen

It was a long ride for Cristal, but it was also a relaxing one. The sun was rising gradually, spreading daylight across the sky. Cristal had gotten some needed sleep while riding on the Greyhound bus as the landscape changed from urban metropolis to rural area and back to the metropolis of Massachusetts. There weren’t many passengers on the bus, so she had her own seat and time to think.

The Chow Ling Tao hit had gone smoothly, so it was time to get out of Dodge. Chow was an important figure, both politically and in the underworld, so there was no doubt that those devoted to him would come looking to avenge his murder, which happened right in front of his family.

She checked her bank account via cell phone. Her payment had already been transferred. Another body, another dollar.

She closed her eyes, feeling the bus driver navigate through narrow, winding roads. The engine snarled up steep hills, approaching their destination in great time, New Bedford Ferry Terminal. The place looked almost historic with cobblestone buildings lining MacArthur Drive.

Located approximately seven miles off the southern coast of Cape Cod was Martha’s Vineyard, where Cristal boarded the eighty-foot ferry carrying one hundred and thirty passengers to Vineyard Haven, a seaside village also known as Tisbury. With indoor and outdoor seating on the ferry, Cristal chose to sit outdoors beneath the blue sky and was treated to some of the best sightseeing on Buzzards Bay.

Stepping off the ferry with the other one hundred thirty passengers onto the island, Cristal headed toward one of the idling cabs waiting near the port. She was only one of a few young black faces sprinkled amongst a sea of Caucasian faces.

She climbed into a white cab with a white driver on Water Street and told him her destination. Fifteen minutes later, she arrived at a peaceful-looking beachfront cottage on Lagoon Pound Road.

She handed the driver a fifty-dollar bill for a twenty-dollar fare as she climbed out the backseat. “Keep the change,” she told him.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling.

After closing the cab door, she finally turned around and took in the beauty of it all—sun, water, sand, and sea. The cozy cottage was sizable and simplistic—a little old-fashioned white clapboard with shutters, a wraparound porch, a canopied swing off to one side, and a few steps up to the door. There was hardly any grass because it was mostly a meditation garden with little statuettes hidden near bushes. Purple, pink, yellow, and blue perennials added to the lush flora that draped, shaded, concealed, and beautified.

Cristal walked up the steps and entered the cottage like she owned the place. Inside, there was the smell of wild roses growing through the hawthorn hedge and the smell of timber. She could hear opera music playing from the rear of the cottage. The rooms were minimally furnished with just the bare necessities, but comfy.

She walked into a small back room overlooking a colorful garden. In the room a man sat quietly on a saddled seat counter stool, his right arm raised with a paintbrush between his thumb and his fingertip with him softly brushing against the white canvas attached to the easel in front of him. A wonderful picture of his garden was gradually coming to life with a kaleidoscope of color as Nicolai Gedda, the celebrated Swedish operatic tenor, delighted his ears from an antique record player.

“You don’t knock first?” the man said without turning, his focus still on his artwork.

“Do I ever?”

“It’s the polite thing to do.”

“When have I ever been polite?”

“I could have had company,” he said composedly.

“Then she would have to leave.”

He grunted while touching up the amethyst flower in his painting, bringing out its star-shaped blooms of brilliant blue and sky blue, as well as violet and white. His talent with the paintbrush on the canvas was unquestionable.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“I needed to get away.” Cristal stood directly behind him, gazing at his artwork. She was impressed.

“To get away, huh? From the Chow hit?”

“You heard?”

“It’s all over the news.”

“I made sure to cover all my tracks.”

“By coming here afterwards.” He finally turned in his seat to face her.

“It’s never been a problem with you before.”

“It never is. Coming here once a month to escape is fine with me, but do not start making a habit of it,” he said to her in a stern tone.

“I won’t,” she said.

He turned around to continue working with the brush.

“It’s nice,” she said, referring to his painting.

He didn’t respond.

The Bishop, an aging, distinguished man with smooth, dark chocolate skin, a head full of stark white, wiry hair and a thick, grayish goatee, was Cristal’s contact at GHOST Protocol. He had been born in Cuba to a Nigerian father and Cuban mother. He had come to the States in the late seventies when he was nine years old. He’d started out as muscle for a guerrilla pimp named Winter and was known and feared for his brutality against conflicting pimps and gang members.

During the mid-eighties, The Bishop was recruited by a drug cartel to become a triggerman because of his marksmanship and his knack for locating and terminating anyone where he found them, whether in public or private. He soon became a vicious hit man with a legendary reputation. Subsequently, his thirst for violence and his hardcore reputation landed him in a state prison, where he did a fifteen-year stint.

In the late nineties, he was scouted by GHOST Protocol to become an assassin for them. He’d worked his way up the ranks throughout the years and was highly respected. His name alone sanctioned fear in his victims and cohorts. His list of kills included warlords, politicians, drug dealers, kingpins, presidents of foreign countries, dictators, other assassins, and CEOs of billion-dollar companies.

The Bishop was able to keep a mental account of every kill he had made in two decades, and he was able to recount the details of each kill. How did he do it? He used a mnemonic device first used by Hippo, the ancient Greek philosopher. Using some article of personal import, he would mark it and mentally tell himself the story associated with that mark. Some assassins got a tattoo to commemorate each kill, but there was only so much skin available on the body. Anything tangible could be actionable evidence against them in court and be admitted to a grand jury: notes, journals, blog entries. One of his golden rules was to never write anything down. Ever! A notch in his memory was able to help him track his progress and remember his kill stories. Now, in his fifties, he no longer had to fulfill the contracts, only assign them.

The Bishop had been married three times and had three divorces and no children. He’d never learned how to display love. In his line of work, emotions were dangerous to have. Love could prove to be costly.

Most people who knew The Bishop thought he was the coldest thing around, from his eyes, his touch, and his mannerisms. He rarely smiled or joked. He was a wise man, spending most of his time away from it all. The painting and opera music relaxed him.

“Do you ever get out?”

He ignored her.

“How did you learn to paint so well?” she asked.

He continued to ignore her. He always behaved as if he was annoyed with her questions and meddling. He rarely had any visitors, and Martha’s Vineyard, where the only access to the island was by ferry, was the perfect place for a retired killer.

Most people were fearful to be around him, afraid of his past, and terrified by his brooding personality, but Cristal wasn’t afraid of, or intimidated, by him. Looking deeper into his eyes, she knew there was a layer of compassion within. She admired him. He appeared to have peace after all the murders he had committed. It was remarkable that he was able to adapt to a peaceful society, become a taxpaying citizen, and remain undetected by the locals.

Cristal turned and was about to exit the room when she suddenly heard him say, “I love to paint because it’s a distraction from everything else in this crazy world.”

“I see.”

“You need to find your niche away from it all,” he said.

“My niche? From what?”

“The place this life will take you if you don’t know how to handle it.”

Cristal listened willingly, knowing his history. He had been around and had survived it all—prison, numerous murder attempts against his life—and he had escaped prosecution and death by always being cautious.

“If you don’t know how to escape from the murders, then it will consume you and tear you apart.”

Though he’d always behaved like he was annoyed she was there, in honesty, he did enjoy her company. He saw something in her that he’d seen in himself years ago. She was special, and she was a survivor.

“When I found you, you were a wreck, Cristal. They wanted to forget about you, but I know determination, skills, and wit when I see it. And you had it. I vouched for you, and you came through. I knew you had the skills to be one of the best; that you wouldn’t disappoint me.”

Cristal was pleased to hear it. She remained nonchalant toward his comment, smiling inwardly. For The Bishop to say he was impressed with her was like a medal of honor. He rarely gave anyone praise.

“Thank you,” she replied simply.

He touched up a few items on his painting and stood up. He walked toward her and looked at her. Though her face was scarred a little, and her eyes were filled with coldness and pain, she still had beauty in her. She had eyes like a warrior. For him, it was rare to see eyes like hers in a young woman.

“I need to make a run to the store,” he said. “You feel like taking a ride with me?”

“Why not?”

They exited the cottage and walked toward his white Jeep Wrangler. Clad in his cargo shorts, white shirt, and sandals, The Bishop looked like a normal, everyday American enjoying the life of retirement.

“Hey, Mrs. Dearman,” he said to an elderly white woman tending to her garden in front of her home.

She quickly smiled and waved back. “How are you, Sam?” she hollered.

“How are those violets coming along?”

“They’re coming along great. I’m keeping them in moist soil and trying not to let them dry out, like you suggested.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” The Bishop replied dynamically.

Mrs. Dearman’s eyes landed on Cristal.

The Bishop quickly said, “My granddaughter.”

“Oh hello,” she greeted.

Cristal faintly waved. She was taken aback by The Bishop’s sudden change. He seemed like a completely different person. What gives? She wondered. Why was he so out in the open and chatty with his neighbors? A man like him, a stone-cold killer, wouldn’t he be a bit more secluded and standoffish? Wasn’t he afraid of his past catching up to him?

She climbed into the passenger seat of his Wrangler. In all her visits, this was the first time they were leaving the cottage to go elsewhere. He moved like he had always been a civilian here, all of his life.

The Wrangler rounded the narrow curve on Weaver Lane, thick trees and shrubberies on both sides of the road. They rode in silence for a moment. She took in the scenery. It was a different world from everything she was used to.

They pulled up to a fruit stand fifteen miles from his home. The open-air business venue that sold seasonal fruit was nestled in suburbia, on a side road, and was teeming with people going through and selecting quality fresh fruit and vegetables.

Cristal and The Bishop climbed out of the Wrangler and joined the others in the market. As they walked around, he was greeted warmly by the other locals, even the owner of the stand. The atmosphere, reminded her of the sitcom Cheers, “where everybody knows your name,” and The Bishop was Norm.

The owner, a short, round man with a natural smile and thinning gray hair, said, “We got some fresh mangoes in last night, Sam. I saved a few on the side for you, knowing how fast they can go, and how you love first pick.”

“You’re the best, Mike.”

The Bishop grabbed a plastic bag, and, with Cristal following behind him, started slowly going through the aisles, which were filled with an assortment of colorful fruits, vegetables, and snacks. He inspected each piece of fruit thoroughly before dropping them into his bag.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said out the blue.

“What’s that?”

“How did I go to The Bishop, from Sam?”

“It came across my mind.”

He picked up an apple, looked at it for a moment, and continued talking to her without looking her way. “It can be a hard transition if you make it that way.”

“Well, explain it to me.”

“Not here.”

Cristal didn’t push for an answer, knowing The Bishop always did things on his time.

They continued shopping for fresh fruit. He had a thing for mangoes and pears. He was a very healthy and fit man for his age. His physique was still impressive. If he wanted to, he was still able to take out a dozen men with his bare hands.

The Bishop once preached to his apprentices, including Cristal, “Equality is for the weak and stupid. It’s about pulling the trigger, simple as that. One finger, one movement.”

After getting everything he needed, The Bishop paid for his fruit with cash and went back to his truck. He started the ignition and drove off.

Cristal thought, Is this a cover, or is this really him, someone new and transformed? Does he worry about his old life catching up to him?

Riding the same road back to his cottage, he said to her, “Natalia was supposed to come see me today.”

“So where is she?”

“Her plans changed. She’ll come next Tuesday, like planned.”

Natalia was his girlfriend from Boston. A few years older than Cristal, she was beautiful and intelligent, with a shy smile and a warm heart. She was a business graduate from Harvard. Cristal didn’t know anything about her and had never seen her, but The Bishop spoke about her every now and again. She would come over twice a week always on Tuesdays and Saturdays and spend the night with him. She would cook for him, wash his clothes, and make strong, passionate love to him.

Cristal was happy to learn he had someone special in his life. Even an ex-killer like The Bishop had his needs too.

They talked more on their way back to his cottage about the business of killing. It was only them, in a moving Jeep out in the open, in a calm vicinity, and having trust between the new school and the old school.

He said to her, “If you want to make killing your business, you have to treat it like a business.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard those same words from The Bishop. He knew that for a scarred woman like Cristal, in most cases, it wasn’t hard to take a life when a life had been taken from someone. It wasn’t about embracing revenge, but nurturing hatred.

“Some of you young assassins, y’all get sloppy and gaudy, running and zooming around in speedboats and fast cars, or rappelling down the faces of tall buildings. Myself, I’ve quietly interrupted my target’s Starbucks run with a quick double-tap to the back of their head. They never saw me coming. I’m in, I’m out, shots off, target down, move subtly, and then I’m on to my next job. That’s the work ethic that got me to where I am today.”

He smoothly wheeled the Wrangler around the steep curve like a professional racecar driver, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift, shifting with no uncertainty about veering off the road.

“You know how I survived? How I’m able to fit in?” He glanced at Cristal, maybe looking for a response from her. “I’ve maintained a balance of work and life.”

Cristal nodded.

“I’ve been killing people for more than thirty-three years. There’s no denying that rising to the top takes commitment and sacrifice. Killing people has to be the first priority, but does it have to be the only priority?”

Cristal didn’t know the answer to his question, so she chose to listen, rather than intervene with her own two cents.

“Consider this,” he said. “A woman, Elizabeth, works all her life, beginning with a summer paper route when she is twelve years old. By the time she’s sixteen, she’s working two jobs, babysitting on the weekends and working after school as a supermarket cashier. She graduates college summa cum laude with a double major and never looks back. At forty she’s acquired wealth, respect, two dogs, and a career. She has all the trappings of success but no one to share it with. Is she happy?

“Let’s consider this second scenario. Jenny married straight out of high school to the quarterback. By the time she’s twenty-one, she has two kids, at twenty-five she has four. In their late twenties, her husband begins to feel like he’d made a mistake marrying so young and takes out his frustration on his wife with a couple backhand slaps across her face. He’s a womanizer, although he tries to hide his discretions. At thirty, he no longer cares to cover up his affairs, and the children become privy to his adulterous ways. On Jenny’s fortieth birthday she smiles as she’s surrounded by her husband, kids, family and friends. To the people on the outside looking in, she has what most women want. She is a housewife with four loving children and a husband. Jenny has a family, but is she happy?”

The Bishop took the next corner at 35mph. He had control over the winding roads, knowing the area like the back of his hand.

Cristal held onto the overhead bar of the Jeep for support, with the doors being off and the steady, jerking movement making her rock from side to side. She didn’t answer the question, knowing it was rhetorical.

“This is what I’m trying to tell you. Those were just two examples of an unbalanced life. The key to happiness is creating the life you want to live.”

He pulled up to his cozy, comfortable cottage nestled away from the city. Before exiting the Jeep, he looked at Cristal seriously. “You can’t pull the trigger if you got the shakes, so never stress yourself.”

The Bishop was always full of advice, trying to school Cristal, reminding her to never get sloppy. He even informed her how grimy and treacherous the Commission was. They lure in unsuspecting recruits, tantalize them with large figures in an overseas bank account, and when they turn twenty-five and expect to age out, they’re murdered without a dime to their name. She was floored by the news when she first heard it.