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Mercado
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Mercado sat drinking a beer in Cheers on Beacon Hill. He was in the original basement level bar, not the replica set bar built on the ground floor after the popularity of the television sitcom. People sat drinking, eating, and enjoying themselves. A family passed wide-eyed with bags filled with Cheers swag from the gift shop. Tourists, he figured.
Mercado drained his beer and placed the empty mug on the bar. He nodded to the bartender who filled a mug from the tap and placed it in front of Mercado. Sam Adams Brick Red. The bartender swiped the empty mug away with his left hand in a single swift motion and wiped the bar dry with the cloth in his right.
Mercado took a sip of his beer. The bartender returned and placed an order of Pub Skins in front of Mercado.
“Get you anything else?” the bartender said.
“Another beer when I finish this one,” Mercado said.
“You got it.”
The bartender moved away to take the order of a couple who sat down at the opposite end of the bar.
Mercado checked his watch. His client would be there soon. On her insistence, they always met in a public place. He figured she was afraid to meet him alone. He was a dangerous man, so fearing him was not unreasonable.
He looked around but wasn't sure what she would look like. Other than the fact she was five foot five, slender, Caucasian, and in her late fifties, she had on a different disguise each time they met. He wasn't sure what was up with all the cloak and dagger spy shit.
It wasn't like he was going to blab about who was paying him for contract killings. That wouldn't be good for business. Mercado was very discreet. And careful.
So was the client. Or so she believed. Mercado had figured out who she was fairly quickly. It wasn't difficult given the assignments. He also had trailed her home to a Brownstone in Boston's Back Bay.
But he played along. She was the client. It was no skin off his nose. As long as she paid, what did he care?
Mercado waited by eating the potato skins, piled with cheddar cheese and bacon bits, and drinking his beer. He left the side of sour cream untouched.
A woman wearing a pink Red Sox cap, Cheers sweatshirt, and designer sunglasses sat next to him at the bar. A small purse hung at her side. She had dark straight hair that reached her waist. She looked like a 1960s version of Cher.
“I remember when this was the Bull and Finch Pub,” she said. “But I love the Cheers Hot Bloody Mary.”
That was the phrase Mercado was told his client would use.
He responded as agreed, “I'm drinking Sam Adams Brick Red.”
It was like his client imagined she was a villain in a James Bond movie.
The bartender came over. “What can I get you?” he asked the woman.
“Cheers Hot Bloody Mary,” she said.
“Coming right up,” the bartender said.
Hmm, Mercado thought, maybe she actually does like that drink.
“I trust you completed the job?” she said softly.
“Just like you asked,” Mercado said in a hushed tone, as required by the client. He slid a USB flash drive with a video of the accident taken from his cell phone. The woman took the flash drive and dropped in her purse.
Mercado continued, “I watched it after I transferred it to my computer to copy the file. It's a little dark and rainy, but you can make out the car and license plate well enough.”
“Very good,” she said.
The woman reached into her purse and handed an envelope to Mercado under the bar. He took the envelope and placed it in his jacket pocket. Even with his meaty hands, he could feel the stack of bills.
“The balance owed, deposit for your next job, and details on the girl,” the woman said.
The bartender walked over and placed her drink on the bar in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said.
The bartender nodded with a smile. He glanced at Mercado's mug. Nearly empty. He turned to the taps behind him, filled a fresh mug with Sam Adams Brick Red, and placed it in front of Mercado.
Mercado nodded his appreciation to the bartender. The woman took a sip of her cocktail and waited for the bartender to move away before speaking again.
“Another accident. But different,” she said.
“No problem,” Mercado said.
“I'm leaving town tomorrow,” she said, “so I want it done tonight. We can meet at the airport in the morning. I've also left you details for that meeting in the envelope. Commit everything to memory, then destroy the paper.”
“Sure thing,” Mercado said. “Like burning it in a wastebasket? Probably better than shredding it.” He stifled a laugh but enjoyed toying with the woman.
“Whatever way is best,” she said in all seriousness.
Kind of sad. He had always found the woman rather pathetic. And desperate. But she also had ice coursing through her veins. Not enough to kill someone herself, but obviously enough to pay somebody else to do it for her.
That was Mercado's stock and trade.
Yet he didn't plan to become a contract killer. It just turned out that way.
He knew something was wrong with him. He understood his head was messed up. But he was too messed up to understand how he really got the way he did. But he figured it was too late to find out why.
“Good luck,” the woman said. She dropped money on the bar for her drink and got up from the bar stool.
Mercado would take good luck, but he didn't need it. He was skilled at what he did.
The woman turned and left. Half the Cheers Hot Bloody Mary left in the glass. Mercado finished his beer.
“Want another?” the bartender asked.
“No,” Mercado said. “I need to go to work.”
He paid and left.