Original Intent

ORIGINAL INTENT

By

Larry E. Huddleston

ORIGINAL INTENT

Copyright ©2009 by Larry E. Huddleston

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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CHAPTER ONE

... some people believe I did what I did out of pure maliciousness. Well, to set the record straight; I’m here to tell you I did it because he had it coming! I was just the delivery system God chose to do the deed. The voice paused for a deep breath, as if to clear his conscience, then continued. It’s true I didn’t plan it out very well and that’s partly why I’m here living with its ghost. Truth about that though is that I didn’t care about the outcome. I just wanted it done and over with. It is, and we all just gotta live with it, now. I’ve got my burden to bear, same as everyone else.

I reached across my desk and turned the tape recorder off, leaned back in my comfortable leather chair, laced my fingers behind my head of straight jet black hair, sucked smoke deep into my lungs from the Camel Filter cigarette hanging in the corner of my mouth off my lip, squinting my right eye half closed to protect against the silver-blue smoke curling up, and thought about what I had just heard for the fortieth time in the last two days. Right off, I figured the kid was lying through his sixteen year old pearly whites; he’d never been that close to the house in his life. Plus, he probably didn’t even know my client, Todd Tillman, therefore had absolutely no reason, good or otherwise, to kill Tillson’s three year old, Grand Champion, Blue Ribbon winner of a wiener dog. But besides all that, the wiener dog was dead and the kid was willing to take the rap for it.

My name is James Closure. I’m mostly in the ‘get to the truth’ business. In my nearly forty years of life I have been many things. And if I live long enough I will probably, more than likely, be a few more. I lived on a short leash, thanks to Uncle Sam, my number one contractor.

Uncle Sam trained me to be a killer, and then sent me to the Desert War where I honed my skills to perfection. After that little deal was over there wasn’t much of a demand for professional assassins; me being a very good sniper with twenty-three confirmed kills. I left Uncle’s Special Forces and went to Law school at Yale where I graduated twenty-third in my class.

After hanging out my shingle, I won a few cases and lost a few. I decided I didn’t like the idea of losing, so took my shingle down and went into the investigation business for guys who didn’t mind losing once in a while. Uncle was a lot like me in that He never liked to lose, either.

My services don’t come cheap. Therefore, I generally work for the high rollers; and always the highest bidder. I am very good at ferreting out the truth. They know it and don’t mind paying for the best. Truth is I am very good at my chosen profession.

People say I’m easy to talk to. Truth is they don’t like pain and I have no problem inflicting more than they can stand if they refuse to tell me everything I want to know.

I don’t keep it a secret from them. I’m straight up truthful. I make it crystal clear from the start; ‘if you don’t tell me what I want to know, you will welcome the Devil himself with open arms’. That usually does the trick as I am quite convincing. If not, I assure them the tortures of hell will be quite pleasant in comparison to what I have planned for them. That works nearly every time. But, there are always a few who think they can stand the pain. Some macho thing or other. They realize very quickly I am way out of their league. I absolutely intend to learn what they know about what I want to know about.

In my opinion, that is a fair exchange. If they tell me, good deal. If they don’t and have a high tolerance for pain, well, they can keep their dirty little secrets. So far, none have made the mark.

And that brings us back to why the kid was lying and wanting to take the rap, blame, or credit, for something he didn’t do. Especially, since it really doesn’t amount to much one way or the other; braggin’ rights maybe, I reasoned. If that was in fact the case, in my opinion, the kid had set his goal a little low.

I was so deep in thought I wasn’t aware Marlow, my beautiful blond haired, blue eyed, five feet three inch, hundred and five pound, secretary was in the room until she set a case file on the desk in front of my nose, then picked up an ashtray and caught two inches of dead ash from my deceased Camel Filter. She then set down a steaming cup of the blackest coffee in history; just the way we both liked it, and said, One of these days you’ll burn yourself down and I’ll never get closure.

Marlow has been ‘hot’ for my body since I rescued her from her kidnapper and gave her a job in my office building as my secretary a few years back.

My standing policy is that I don’t get romantically involved with my employees. Employee rather. Marlow is my only one. I don’t have a high tolerance for pain and I don’t like complications.

You’ve already got closure by not getting Closure, Marlow, I grinned, picking up the case file and immediately seeing the Federal Seal on the bottom that I knew so well. Uncle needed somebody whacked and I was the man for the job. I brought the steaming cup to my lips casually.

Someday you’ll regret every time you turned me down and looked the other way, she laughed and stepped to the door, then out, closing it behind her.

She was right and we both knew it. One could never catch up if one opportunity was allowed to slip by. Once it was lost, it was lost forever. One could only live with one’s decisions and actions.

Turning Marlow down was like shooting myself in the head. Most men would say I was either insane or gay. I’m not gay. Sane is a matter of opinion. My decision was one that I felt necessary if peace and tranquility were to be maintained between us. I sighed and studied the case file under my nose. I lit another cigarette and sipped the coffee reading between the lines of the contract. It was hard to concentrate with the scent and memory of Marlow still in the office with me.

I thought about what she had been saying for the past year and a half and tried to study the file. It was impossible. I closed the file and leaned back in my chair. I loved this chair! We both knew that she had won again.

I sucked the cherry to the filter and swallowed the fabulous tasting smoke deep into the very bottom of my lungs, then drained the cup in annoyance with her insight, women’s intuition or whatever allowed her to know what my weaknesses were and how to play on them.

Knowing I was bested for the thousandth time I set the cup down, ground out the cigarette filter as I stood up, closed up the folder and left the office.

As I passed Marlow’s desk she watched me leave without a word. But, I had seen her sly smirky grin. I could almost hear her silent laughter.

It grated on me like fingernails on a chalkboard. I was indeed getting weaker. Trouble was we both knew it.

I left the office building and walked to the pay phone on the corner of First and Tennessee. I dialed a phone number from memory and waited for it to be answered. I had dialed the number several times in the past and knew from experience that it often took a little time.

I had recognized the Agency symbol on the last page of the contract and knew which Agency in the government to call. I wasn’t wrong. A nonhuman like voice, heavily filtered, ordered me in no uncertain terms to enter my code name. I did, and listened to the details of the order. I accepted the contract, accepted the terms, as always; I was once again in the service of the most powerful government on the face of the planet. I was its boy, its delivery system, to use the kid’s term.

After listening to the audio signature of the offering Agency, I pushed 6 to confirm my acceptance, then hung up the phone and walked away knowing that at that very moment, somewhere in the great machine of politics, a check was being drawn on Uncle Sam to the tune of twenty-five thousand dollars of tax payer’s hard earned money and being cut in my name. Life was good and getting better. I felt no remorse for accepting the money. I figured the man’s life was worth something. It was to me.

I stopped at another pay phone and called Marlow at the office and told her I would be away for a few days. After playing footsies with her for a few minutes I hung up the phone, walked to the parking garage and retrieved my 1956 Jaguar and drove to the airport. I locked the Jag in long term parking and entered the terminal.

As usual my ticket was waiting for me at the ‘Departures’ counter. My destination was Dallas, Texas, where in a night club called aptly, ‘The Twilight Zone’, the lead singer of a rock and roll band calling itself ‘Contaminated’ needed killing according to Uncle Sam. Who am I to question the orders and beliefs of a bureaucracy? I am just the delivery system; therefore it is a done deal. I have never failed on a contract; therefore I am in high demand if one should know the