More importantly, what would I do with myself? I had a very particular skill set, one that didn't lend itself to a lot of options.
"Because there's more to life than killing people and counting money, no matter how much one might enjoy them." His green eyes locked with mine. "Because you shouldn't have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Don't you want to live in the daylight a little, kid?"
Live in the daylight . Fletcher's catchphrase for having a normal life. Seventeen years ago, I'd wanted nothing more. I'd prayed for the world to right itself, for time to rewind so I could go back to the safe, sheltered existence I'd once had. But I'd given up that fairy tale long ago. Nothing but wistful pain would ever come of wanting something I couldn't have. That gilded dream, that soft hope, that sentimental part of me was dead, burned away and crumbled to ash-just like my family had been.
People like me didn't retire. They just kept going until they got dead-which was usually sooner, rather than later. But I was going to roll the dice as long as I could.
Even if it was a sucker's bet in the end.
But I didn't want to fight with the old man. Not tonight. Like it or not, he was one of the few people left in this world that I loved. So I distracted him by waving the folder in the air. "You really think this is a good idea? This assignment?"
"For five million dollars, I do."
"But there's no time to do prep work with this job," I protested. "No time to plan, to go over exit points, nothing."
"Come on, Gin," Fletcher wheedled. "It's an easy job. You can do something like this in your sleep. The client even suggested a place for you to do the hit." I read some more. "The opera house?"
"The opera house," Fletcher repeated. "There's going to be a big shindig tomorrow night. They're dedicating a new wing to Mab Monroe."
"Another one?" I asked. "Aren't enough buildings in this city named after her already?"
"Apparently not. My point is there will be lots of people there. Lots of press. Lots of opportunity to get lost in the crowd. It should be easy enough for you to slip in, do Giles, and slip out. You are the Spider after all, known far and wide for your skill and prowess."
I grimaced at his grandiose tone. Sometimes Fletcher reminded me of a circus ringmaster making the sad elephants, browbeaten horses, and two-bit acts seem more thrilling than they actually were.
"The Spider was your idea, not mine. You're the one who thought you could charge more for my services if I had a catchy name, Tin Man," I said, referring to the old man by his assumed assassin name.
Fletcher grinned. "I was right, too. Every assassin has a name. Yours just happens to have a better ring than most, thanks to me."
I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
"C'mon, Gin. It's easy money. Pop the accountant tomorrow night, and then you can take a vacation," Fletcher promised. "A real vacation. Somewhere warm, with oily cabana boys and boat drinks."
I raised an eyebrow. "And what would you know about oily cabana boys?"
"Finnegan might have pointed them out when he took me to Key West last year," Fletcher said. "Although our attention quickly wandered to the lovely ladies sunning topless by the pool."
Of course it had.
"Fine," I said, closing the folder. "I'll do it. But only because I love you, even if you are a greedy bastard who works me too hard."
Fletcher raised his coffee mug. "I'll drink to that."
Chapter Three
I finished my lemonade, took the folder, said good night to Fletcher, and went home.
My apartment was located in the building across the street, five stories up on the top floor, but I never went straight home from the restaurant-or anywhere else. I circled around three blocks and cut through two alleys, making sure I wasn't being followed, before coming back and slipping into the building. Everything was quiet, given the late hour, except the squeak of my shoes on the granite floor in the lobby.
I rode the elevator up to my floor. Before I slid my key in the lock, I pressed my hand against the stone around the door frame. Nothing of note. Just the stone's usual low, muted voice. I wasn't home enough for my presence to sink into the gray-colored brick. Or perhaps I just didn't care to listen to my own innate vibrations.
I'd chosen this particular apartment because it was the one closest to the stairwell, with access to the roof and a sturdy drainpipe that ran down the outside of the building. My escape routes, along with a few others. I tested them at least once a month, played possible scenarios of capture and evasion in my mind. My own mantra for survival. You could never be too careful, especially in my line of work, when even a small f**kup could mean death. My death.
I flipped on the lights. The front room was an oversize kitchen and den, with the master bedroom and bathroom off to the left, and a spare set of matching rooms off to the right. A couch, a love seat, a couple of recliners, appliances. A plasma-screen TV, with DVDs and CDs piled around it. Piles and piles of well-worn books stacked three feet high in some places. A nice set of copper pots and pans hanging from a rack in the kitchen. A butcher block full of high-end, silverstone knives sitting on the counter.
There was nothing in here I couldn't walk away from on a moment's notice. Always a possibility in my profession. I was careful on my jobs, and Fletcher was extremely selective when choosing clients. But there was always a chance of discovery, exposure, torture, death. More reasons Fletcher wanted me to give up the business.
Still, to placate the old man, I tried to lead a somewhat normal life, except for my nighttime activities. My main cover ID was as Gin Blanco, a part-time cook and waitress at the Pork Pit and perpetual student at Ashland Community College.
Architecture, sculpture, the role of women in fantasy fiction. I took any class that appealed to me, no matter how eclectic.
But the literature and cooking classes were my favorites, and I signed up for at least one every semester. Cooking was a passion of mine-the only real one I had besides reading. I enjoyed the smell of sugar and spices. The endless combinations of sweet and salty. The simple and complex formulas that let you turn separate ingredients into cohesive, edible works of art. Plus, cooking gave me an excuse to have plenty of knives lying around. Another necessity in my line of work.
Seeing everything was in order, I moved farther into the apartment. I should have gone on into the bathroom, taken a shower, then curled up in bed, studying the Gordon Giles file. Planning the hit. Writing down the supplies I'd need. Visualizing my escape. And dreaming about the oily cabana boys Fletcher had promised were waiting for me in Key West.