I have to shake my head and clear my thoughts of Garnet, and the easiest way to do it is to just get the hell out of St. Moritz.  After a short night at the Hotel Kempinski — a chateau right out of your favorite fairytale — I hopped a limo back to Samedan airport.  I finished my cup of coffee and the rest of my Graubünden Nut Pie as the driver left me feet from the airport check-in doors.  Drives to Samedan aren’t as costly as drives from there, so I paid my 50 Euros tab and consulted with the Swissman who was handling the light traffic looking to fly out.

Checking my email shows no work ahead of me in Europe for the next 45 days, giving me a chance to head home, reconnect with friends and family and come up with a new excuse as to why I was gone for the few weeks I worked on Eber’s job in Spain.  My usual tactic is to diffuse questions by providing photos of tourist areas that I scrape from actual tourist Flickr accounts.  That’s 15 minutes of my 45 day hiatus, the rest will be planned as people provide for interesting nights and days out and about.

Since Samedan Airport has no commercial flights, I’m challenged only to find a flight to any major airport where I can connect through whatever cities necessary to arrive at my hometown of Chicago.  I inquire, in German, to the Swissman about outbound flights that will accept an anonymous passenger: “Gibt es ein Flug nach Zürich?”  Is there a flight to Zurich? “Ja verlassend in einigen Stunden.” Yes, in a few hours he replies.  1500 Euros, which is about half the expected rate.  I look around and see 3 middle aged princesses with their massive Louis Vuitton trunks in tow, as well as 1 suit who has his carry-on attache case and a suit carrier.  I pay, in cash, and prepare myself for the next leg of the flight by calling my handler in Zurich to find me a flight home.

My preferred airline is United which has a co-share non-stop on Swiss Air from ZRH to ORD daily at 12:55pm.  Flight #8 for those who care.  Business class tickets are around $2500 USD, with first class available for about double.  I have my handler book me a round trip leaving tomorrow with the return flight 364 days from now — I can always change it should I need to get back to Zurich in the near future.  30 minutes later and I get confirmation of my first class upgrade (free), putting me in the delicious front cabin of the Swiss Air Airbus A340-300 widebody metal.  Perfect.

The wait for the small turboprop out of Samedan isn’t long, and I look over some emails and updates as I wait.  I check my watch, twice, only to be reminded that it is sitting at the bottom of a metal can in Spain.  I send an email to my watch purveyor in New York City, asking him to replicate whatever model I had — the strap fit perfectly and the thin gold timepiece slipped perfectly under both French cuffs as well as the normal buttoned cuffs I wear casually.

The flight out from Samedan is as complex and scary as the flights normally are: the high mountain air and heavy winds cause the planes to heave and gyrate, always a fun experience for people watching when your cabin mates haven’t done it before.  I glance around from my rotating chair and see the 4 passengers either reading their papers or sleeping: we’ve all done this flight before.

Samedan to Zurich is exactly 200km by car, so the entire $1500 flight takes less than 75 minutes including disembarking into terminal 2G, the private commuter plane terminal at ZRH.  Again I try to check my watch forgetfully, glancing at the digital clock aligned above the restrooms of this tiny part of the terminal: 10:00am.  That means I actually have time to try to make a flight today.  Another call to my handler who laughs with a Swiss accent, telling me he already has me on standby for today’s flight.  I walk quickly to the commercial carrier terminal and before I even get to the specific gate, my cell phone rings with a call confirming my business class seat on the outbound flight at 12:55pm.  Perfect.

4428 miles left before I’m home, plus another 5 miles from O’hare.  It’s been a long few weeks, but nothing out of the ordinary for my lifestyle, my “career.”  The pay was good, the bonus was great, the customer is happy and the job offered some new contacts in a part of the world I’ve rarely worked in.  It is amazing to me that I’ve been working with Eber for 10 years.  10 years, and my face hasn’t aged a day.  I see a gorgeous redhead leaving the ladies room as I arrive at my gate, and my thoughts step back to Garnet again, but only for a moment.  2 more hours and I’ll be aboard Swiss Air flight #8, driving a wedge into those thoughts of a woman long gone, a trap turned travel partner turned business partner turned lover.  Is it always going to be this way when I visit, or will those memories disappear in the same way that memories of each job do, quickly and effortlessly?

The redhead disappears down the terminal walkway and my thoughts are back on my upcoming freetime.  I sit an hour in the business class lounge for Swiss Air when the desk clerk informs me that I’ve been upgraded to first class instead, and she provides me with a pass for Swiss Air’s first class lounge.  Compared to United’s Red Carpet Club, Swiss Air’s business class lounge is a world better, but their first class lounge is worthy of missing a flight just to take in the amenities.  Between their business class and first class lounges they also have a Senator class lounge, which is perfectly suitable for even the pickiest traveler.  None of them are on par with the lounges in Japan, but they’re all in the top 10 favorites of mine to kill time in.

I am sipping a half espresso-half chocolate concoction and reading the paper (in English, thankfully) when the desk clerk informs me that first class passengers can now pre-board the flight.  The Airbus A340-300 widebody is a huge jet that offers first class their own cabin door for privacy and comfort and speed of boarding and disembarking.  I wander to the dedicated jetway, provide my ticket and get on board.  The seats are huge, the cabin is dressed excellently, and a glass of Champagne is waiting to be poured for me within seconds of sitting.  The flight attendant calls me by my name and even knows what food I normally like.  She confirms anyway to make sure my mind isn’t changed, and the bubbly is poured before the cattle class passengers even pass their own cabin door.

I check my phone again, then turn it off, figuring anything I need to know today can wait until I complete the 10 hour and 5 minute fliight back home.  Arrival in Chicago is at 4:00pm Central Standard Time, and my handler will make sure that I am greeted with my car service when I arrive, regardless of delay or extra speed in this flight’s service.

I inform the flight attendant to not disturb me, turn off the overhead lamp and air conditioning that is blasting, and close my eyes.  10 hours is just enough time for me to catch up on the sleep I’ve missed for the better part of the month.  They’ll wake me for dinner, of course, but I’m sure I’ll be out like an old incandescent bulb moments after my Duck a L’orange is finished.

—–

As dinner was served, perfectly, with an exquisitely matched wine, I wait for the flight attendants to clean off my tray so I can return to sleep.  We’re halfway through the flight and I’m anxious to be home and in my tub or my own bed in my tiny hovel of an apartment that gets less and less of me visiting since business blew up in the past few years.

Sadly, the sleep isn’t meant to be.  The purser on this flight, a gorgeous and meticulously dressed woman in her 50s, informs me that an incoming message was sent through Swiss Air’s corporate messaging program for me.  She hands me a small, hand-printed note with not much information:

Job in Monaco tomorrow, return on Swiss Air Flight 9 upon disembarking, confirmed for first class.

That’s it.  Swiss Air Flight 9 leaves 3 hours after this one lands, on the same plane heading back to the same city I just left.  Lovely.  19 hours in the same damned plane.  Monaco means only one thing: spy-turned-author-turned-spy Robert Eringer’s favorite client that I stole under his nose.  It won’t be smooth like Eber’s jobs, in fact it will be mayhem.  What would I do for just one week of rest before this job?  Anything.

Let’s focus on my visit to collect my finger or two of Springbank 30 year Scotch Whiskey from the client I just completed the job for.  My flight arrived on-time at Samedan Airport, which has been closed to scheduled flights for a number of years.  Because of its private nature and close proximity to St. Moritz, it has become a secret of the wealthy and powerful since its last commercial flight.  It has a high landing fee (paid for in person as you stroll into the barely manned control room adjoining the restaurant down the street) but you also have a value added option: you can purchase a Graubünden Nut Pie right then and there.  Don’t pass up on this exquisite and impossible to mimic creation of the Swiss.

I paid the hefty landing fee and snagged a limo waiting at the airport; the limo wasn’t there for me, but the drivers-for-hire in St. Moritz know the value they offer when a wealthy aircraft owner comes through the airport at any hour of the day and night.  St. Moritz in a handful of kilometers from Samedan, and my client’s villa another 10 minute drive outside of the main square.  As usual, I didn’t have to make that final 10 minute drive because my Orange carriered cell phone lit up 3 minutes from the main square of St. Moritz.  My client was informed that I had arrived, as I expected him to be.

“Wo sind Sie?” he asked.  Where are you? I told him I was driving down Via Maistra from the airport, just a few minutes from Plazza dal Mulin, the street with my final destination.  ”Ich warte,” he replied before abruptly hanging up. I’m waiting. He’s at his usual spot, Hemingway’s Club, a late-night bar that is one of the only options for public imbibing.  It’s early, and he’s certainly in a private alcove with the curtains drawn closed.

The limo driver drops me off, and doesn’t ask for payment.  I’m sure my client already knew who was driving me, and provided for the payment and a large tip on my behalf.  That’s a nice gesture always as the limo ride can be over 500 Swiss Francs, or almost $500 US Dollars.  For a 15 kilometer drive.  Ouch.  I make my way into Hemingway’s and see less than a handful of people, likely local workers more than travelers.  I wander to the third booth from the right as the curtain is drawn back slightly.  A step in and the curtain returns itself to the closed atmosphere of privacy.

My glass is waiting, just over a hand tall and a hand wide, perfect crystalline vibrations as I snuggle my hand into it.  A huge chunk of solid and clear ice sits in the glass.  My client, Eber, pours from a bottle of Springbank sitting on the table, letting the Scotch Whiskey pour over the ice and collect perfectly at the level of the ice cube.  He then pours his own glass from a more private and much more expensive bottle.  We clink glasses and our “conversation” is over after I down the perfect nectar he poured.  He never touches his own liquor; I’m not sure if he even drinks.  I leave quietly with neither a thank you from him, nor a thank you from me.  Payment has been rendered before for a job completed perfectly.  Eber doesn’t even look my way.  In German, Eber means “boar.”  His attitude is just like that of his namesake: uncaring but aware of his surroundings.

The car is still waiting outside.  I decide to spend the night in St. Moritz, so the mute driver speeds off to my regular hotel to sleep in my irregularly visited bed, alone.  Alone, as usual.  Alone, almost as always.  That’s not always been the case in St. Moritz.  Tonight I wish it wasn’t the case.  Garnet.  The name sits on the edge of my lips, my tongue pushing against my lower teeth as I fight the urge to form the hard-G to say her name.

I met Garnet on a flight into Samedan Airport a decade ago, when I was far younger and far less knowledgeable of my trade.  I’d started this “career” in my late teens, but it wasn’t until over a decade of working that I picked up all the traits I needed to get to the position I am today, practically at the top of my field.  The small commuter jet I was flying on to meet Eber for the first time had 7 people on it, a record number that has never been matched by even half that number since.  3 Germans, 1 Swiss in a conference with their chairs rotated to see one-another.  Myself, an American in birthplace only.  An Asian in a business suit, probably half Japanese and half Cantonese from the look of his eyes and hair and body type.  An then there’s her: a short, well dressed and rubicund-maned athlete, probably with a trained dance history.

She looked at me twice, but I turned away without holding that intense stare.  The second time I turned away, I used my peripheral focus training to notice the smile form on her face.  Since those days my fear of holding eye contact has withered away: years of practice along with confidence built from years of success.   Looking back, I showed my cards completely.  Lucky for me, the competition of the eyes was one of only a few battles with her that I lost.  All of those happened right away.

As we all readied to step off the plane, she disembarked immediately after me.  I saw her eyes on me through the reflection of the window next to do the exit door.  When I held that stare, her eyes turned from eying my outfit to locking directly onto my own reflecting eyes.  I looked at the door immediately as if to get my bearings, but she knew.  That damn smile reappeared and I’m sure my face cast a temporary blip of frustration.  I’m sure she saw that, too.

A beautiful woman, on a plane alone, flying to an extravagantly expensive and secretive city in Switzerland, carrying no luggage or bag other than a tiny purse just big enough for a small pistol, paying more attention to a 20-something in a $2000 suit instead of an older, wiser and actually wealthy man or group of men?  Alarms all over the place.  Ever heard of the phrase too-good-to-be-true?  It’s beyond that.  I believe in the idea regularly, and I even believe in just that phrase.

As I’m heading down the stairs to the tarmac, the redhead in tow behind me but only because we had the same destination in mind, I think back to my training years earlier in dealing with women.  One of my talents in my repertoire is being able to handle women of all sorts: servers in restaurants and hotels, girlfriends and wives of clients, sometimes even prostitutes and drug dealers and the homeless that abound in the seedy alleys that make up 5-10% of my life, it seems.

Everything about her is wrong.  She’s hiding a secret, and she does it so invisibly that it’s obvious.  The alarms call my training which bring forth a single word, the most fearful word in a finisher’s odd vocabulary: honeypot.  You won’t hear it too often in the context that matters here, but the honeypot is something we’re all warned about from about 6 months into training: most of us are men, and most men fumble and get mentally hazy when a beautiful woman is presented anywhere within 60 feet of our presence.

As I continue walking towards the airport management building/restaurant to pay my landing fee, I am more aware of the mercurial woman’s presence.  She’s short but walks fast.  She’s quiet but I can hear the clicks of her expensive heals with a louder-than-expected staccato.  Her perfume bit through the chilly air of this mile high region in the mountains, mixing with the scent of ice and snow and salt from the runway, the burned rubbed oozing off the tires of the Gulfstream behind us.

As we arrived at the airport manager center ahead of all the business men, I grabbed the frozen metal door handle and pulled it open for the redhead.  Her eyes were on my eyes for a split second as her reflection moved in unison with the glass door opening.  This time her smile didn’t appear.  My first win — she’s unsure of whatever game she’s obviously playing.  It’s not a sexual or lustful game, but it’s a game nonetheless.

She pays her landing fee before me and turns on a heel without glancing back.  Out the exit doors she goes, to be whisked off in a limo and likely never seen by me again.  I pay my fee and head towards the same doors, right down the hallway (instead of left to the car port) and wander into the restaurant to grab my nut pie as I always do.

I walk to the order counter and place my order.  As my order receipt comes back, I am about to drop casual banter with the blonde and attractive Swiss as my shoulder is tapped.  I turned around and show a flabbergasted face.

“I’m Garnet.  I don’t like to be ignored.”

You are already aware that I carry a gun. I don’t kill people, I rarely even have to fire it at someone. A gun is not the tool of violence; in most cases, just brandishing this tool can prevent violence from breaking out. In situations where a scared or intimidated mark decides to try to take the advantaged position, my gun’s barrel facing them or penetrating them can shut that idea down fast.  If I need to knock someone out without permanent damage, the gun’s buttplate is just strong enough to put them down but not so strong as to leave a permanent mark.  It’s useful to pop doors off their hinges, stop a vehicle from pulling away and even take out a security camera.

My gun, if it matters, is a Berreta 92 made by Fabbrica d’Armi Pietro Beretta.  They’ve been making fine firearms in Italy for 500 years, and the Beretta 92 is the perfect weapon.  It has a long barrel so it fits down a mark’s throat quickly, but it can handle accurate shots and it still conceals well.  The magazine holds 15 rounds, illegal in most country, but just the right amount of ammunition to track and stop 3 aggressors.  If I need it, an 18 round magazine is available, also illegal in most countries.

My gun, though, is not my favorite tool.  In this trade, there are signficantly more important tools we use that allow us the freedom to meet a client’s goal quickly, easily and even safely.  For me, paid by the job, time is really of the essence.  Things happen, problems arise, and delays can turn into failures.  Finishing a job on top means return business.  Finishing it ahead of time means huge bonuses.  Coming up short can mean the end of a career, or worse.

My favorite tool is the passport. Many of us carry one, but a finisher has to have more than one. Jobs may take us to Los Angeles or London, where having one Western passport means no travel restriction or visa requirements. On the jobs that take us to Iraq or Cuba or Cote d’Ivore, a Western passport is a dead giveaway that you’re up to no good, or considering it. So we take our pick of various international passports, with a heavy attraction towards a few certain countries. My favorite is Monaco’s, one of the hardest passports to get.  You have to be a resident for 10 years and give up other citizenships (no one does).  Some of the other tiny countries are also good to have: Andorra in particular.  But having access to large country passports such as Australia or Switzerland is also required for passage without a problem.

Another tool that is indispensable is my network of clothiers, tailors and uniform shops.  I may wear the costume of an indentured servant who mops floors, but being able to acquire a tuxedo or tailored yachtwear or even the dress of a hotel bellboy is not just advantageous, it’s required.  A job’s clothing requirement can manifest itself in moments, and trying to sneak into a hotel locker room and find form-fitting attire in near impossible unless one can find 2 extra days in a job that may be finished in fewer.

The dress-acquisition market is an active market in every major town, and even in many minor ones.  The network of job handlers who work as a middleman between the customers and the finishers always have their preferred clothiers, yet the likelihood of work being found specifically in London or Cairo or Budapest is close to zero.  Maybe spies like James Bond or Jason Bourne will find work in a major town, but we in the finishing business usually end up in some borough of a tiny village a hundred kilometers away from reality.  That’s where the extended network of anonymous and mute cloth tradesmen come into power.  The power they wield makes a difference of finishing a job ahead of time and failing completely when someone recognizes that I am not where I should be, that I am not who I should be.

Beyond the pistol and the uniform, the completing tool of my trade in regards to my person is my knack for changing my look on a whim.  Using the term “chameleon” is not really an acceptable comparison.  Certain species of chameleons have the ability change their color, but adapting one’s look to what a particular job portion requires is more than just changing your skin tone or outfit.  My hair, my eyes and even my height and facial expressions is more important.  My pronounced jaw can be held down and in or up and out, which puts a significant strain on being recognized by those who may have seen me as an aristocrat last week and a mopboy today.  My fast growing hair allows me to change my length from long to short in an hour, but let it grow out again in mere weeks.  My facial hair grows just as fast, and trimming it in odd ways can throw off most people who are unaware of those around them.

Producing a change to facial structure includes even cosmetic changes.  A little mascara, the gem of the female cosmopolitan set, can be applied in 1 millimeter amounts to the side of the eyes to produce a more Asian look without being noticed.  A touch of makeup can cover a mole or even create a new one, which pulls attention away from other flaws that are obvious to the trained observer.  A little skin-glue can pull my skin tighter, or actually accentuate wrinkles to add 20 years to my face.  Not everyone has the power of concealment, but it’s been said by those who came before me that the man who can adapt their face can adopt the lifestyle of the wealthiest or the poorest, the oldest or the youngest.

The final tool of my trade which has nothing to do with my ability to use force or adapt my external clothes or my external look is the entire network of support folk who I utilize for fast access to jobs or insider information.  The handlers (who number under 2 gross internationally) find work, acquire payment in advance and pay me upon completion (or earlier, if the customer asked specifically for me).  The hotel bellhops and desk clerks will always offer information for 50 Euros or 100 US Dollars, but only if you’ve worked with them before and have kept your mouth quiet about the source of simple information such as when someone is checking out and what airline they’ll be flying with.  The restaurant maitre’d will place me at a table that is within hearing distance but faced away from an important meeting that I have to acquire information from.

The renters of motorbikes and cigarette boats, limousines and small aircraft have a network of background checks on those in my line of work.  In many situations, I don’t even have to offer my identification or a security deposit as I’ve worked with them before, or they can confirm my history through that almost-shady non-digital network of industry competitors who will stand for my past of returning their equipment generally on time, generally in the right area and generally without much drama for them to reacquire their equipment.  On the occasions where I fall short of generally doing things correctly there, a significant and sizable bonus is always paid.  If I don’t have time to return a motorbike, it’s due to me trying to beat a deadline so my own bonus is strong.

The firearm, the clothes, the face, the networking — they’re all tools, they’re not me.  Who I am matters little, I have no resume, I have no portfolio, I have no feedback from other clients who will give me a positive reference.  The handlers who pay me only resort to hiring me if I’ve given them a profit or made their clients happy.  The man I work for today may never remember me, but if I work for him again, I’ll remember him.  On the situations where I meet a client, I don’t just monitor their personalities, I look for flaws.  More than once have I worked for a client only to work against the same person down the line when his competitor decides to extract revenge.

We’re not the enemy, we’re not middle men, we are tools ourselves.

I am the final tool of my trade, I am the ultimate tool of my clientele.  Even though tools like me clash with the same tools carried and hired by those I’m working against, these jobs can not be finished without me, or a tool just like me.  Such is the job of a finisher, to be an anonymous tool not a person.

Walking out of that office door, the floor clean, the Diputado’s head in his hands as he stares at the newspaper he was reading when I entered the room. He’ll do fine. He’ll oblige my client and we’ll even compensate him for his new found clarity with another pound of gold coin. That’s how it works, actually: people get paid, they fuck up, they correct it, they get paid more.

No one wants to think of the other outcome. Everyone fucks up. Most fix it so that they can break promises again. Sometimes it reminds me of a couple I know; they slam each other’s faces with fists, then they make love till the early morning. Like shampoo, it’s rinse and repeat. Not my style, just my job.

As I roll down that lonely but clean hallway, turning out the lights as I lock up behind myself, I consider the unlikely odds of me returning again next week. Slim to none. No one wants blood on their hands, but in reality it won’t be me coming back. I’m not the muscle, I’m just the shot of adrenaline that you get moments before something bad happens.

I hear a noise, and my hand reaches to my tool bag strapped to the small of my back. No, not for a weapon to defend myself, but for a bag of chocolate M&Ms, the plain kind. Forty-two-and-a-half grams of mostly sugar. That’s my rush of adrenaline to end my day. A door opens in front of me and a man who I recognize from days of scoping out the building smiles and walks past me. I don’t get scared, I know how people think, how they respond.

Most people respond with tears. Some people scream. Once in awhile, they draw their own weapon, which is quickly knocked out of the way. There’s something a lot of people don’t know about others: what you’re going to do 10 seconds from now is completely readable. If you’re thinking of pulling a gun from a drawer, the muscles in your neck tighten. Which side tells me which hand you’re going to move. I can see muscles move in your hand, fingers twitch. Your eyes give you away.

If a woman is going to kiss me for the first time, I can read that, too. She’ll take a minor lean BACKWARDS. Most guys will never notice. They’ll lick their lips sometimes, or glance at mine microscopically. I notice. It’s my job.

My response is always to prepare for the most realistic situation, not the worst. The worst never happens, people are afraid of it. You might get a nut case here or there who flings himself at a gun pointed at his chest, but they’re easy to admonish: smack that bitch in the temple, hard. Problem solved. He’ll end up crying, too.

As I get in the freight elevator, I grab my backpack I left there for this slow exit. Manuel’s jumpsuit gets thrown in there, along with the shoes and the toolbag. I throw on my Eton white cotton-linen blend dress shirt (with black gold cuff-links), pull on my Brioni flat front slacks in chocolate, and pull on a pair of old Bottega Venetas in black. The belt is also black. I prefer these Venetas because they’re worn in, and if I have to run (doubtful), I can.

The elevator breaks at the ground floor, chugging the last few inches. It’s an old building with new public elevators. This one is on its last leg. I hop down the 1/2″ difference to the ground floor, swing past the security front desk with a wave, and head onto the street. A quick mile walk and I’ve gone from the center of town to the outskirts ghetto. I’m out of character, but the regular characters here have no beef with me.

Anyone in dress shoes in this area has business here, and is left alone. My business is with one of the many metal oil drums that are burning whatever paper, cardboard and garbage could be found. I add the backpack to the fire, stare at the homeless degenerate drug abuser who looks scared at my eyes, and turn back to reality. In truth, there are more degenerate drug abusers on any nice street than here, but a least they hide their problems, away from burning bins of trash.

The car I called arrives almost exactly when I do, pulling up to a pre-specified stop off of Río San Pedro. My driver is Alfonzo, the same guy as always. He never asks who I am, but he always comes exactly on time. I turn my wrist to check my watch. Fuck! There’s $13,000 in fine gold, sitting at the bottom of an oil drum with 1200 degree fire blazing above it. All in a day’s work, I guess.

Alfonzo is nervous with me, twitchy. I pay him in cash, he never takes me anywhere apparent, we never speak. He’s twitchy with me, but not with others. I’ve driven in cars with him as the driver before, but I had a different haircut, facial hair, dress. He didn’t recognize me then, but he was always comfortable with the customer I was with. It’s OK, he does his job, he never asks questions, he’s prompt, and he takes me where I need to go.

He drops me off in an alleyway, off Santa Engracia not too far from where he picked me up. I pay him, in Swiss Francs, and watch him drive off through a reflection in the warehouse building window ahead of me. I walk down the alleyway and grab my scooter rental. My bag is still on it, even the keys are in the ignition. The bum who is watching it is sleeping against it. I kick his leg, twice, and he wakes up. He mangles something in French, but I have no idea what he said. I whip out 100 euros and pay the bum, thanking him in French. He smiles longingly at the 100 euro bill he’s holding, not paying attention to anything I say.

I hop on the scooter, making my way down Calle de Sta Engracia. I twist into traffic on Plaza de Chamberí, continuing onto a crazy traffic circle that leads me to Paseo de Eduardo Dato. The next few streets are named after who-knows-whoms: Calle de Juan Bravo, then Calle de Serrano, followed by Calle de López de Hoyos and ending up with a right turn/merge at Calle de María de Molina.

My little scooter barely keeps up with traffic, and as I hit Av de América, I wonder why I didn’t ask for a bigger engine. Who knows. 7 kilometers down and I finally pass under the sign that reads “Autovía de Acceso al Aeropuerto de Barajas,” which puts me on highway E-90. Moments later, Barajas International Airport pops into view. It’s dark out, the day has passed.

So why this basically boring story? This is mostly my life. It’s not all excitement, it’s not adventurous. I get work, I do the work quickly, and then I’m alone. There isn’t room for friends or wives, children or parents. Today it’s Madrid, tomorrow it’s Tijuana, next week it’s Oklahoma where cities mean nothing because the entire state will just lead one to suicide. At least there’s work.

As I drop off my scooter at the airport exchange, I whip out my passport. Monaco, this one. It’s a lot easier to rent and travel in Europe and Western Asia when you have a Monegasque passport. The attendant doesn’t even look: he knows me, remembers me, and promises to take care of the paperwork. He also knows his 100 euro bill is attached to the bottom of my passport as I slide it his way. It’s not there when he returns it.

Off I head, into another airport in another town to complete another job. My customer doesn’t expect me. He’s already paid me in full, and even included the bonus since he knows I do my job quickly, efficiently, and without any blood on his hands (or mine). Still, I like the end of a job the most: the glass of Scotch that even I could never afford, with a cigar that is even more expensive, and an hour of time with a client who I will never admit to knowing in public, or even in private. Such is the life of a Finisher.

Such is my life, my truth.

Back and forth.

I wasn’t wandering these government offices, really. I was mopping the floors. Hallway floors, specifically.

Dressed in a blue jumpsuit made of denim, Manuel posted in blue stitching on a white badge over my left pec, mop in hand, bucket on 4 shaky wheels. Back and forth, back and forth. No one even noticed.

As I passed a mirrored-glass door, I noticed, though. I’m this dark after 2 weeks straight of dangerous tanning. I look like Manuel, wearing my long hair hidden under a sun-bleached mop wig. My eyes are darker than usual, thanks to the contact lenses covering them. My beard is gone, only a tiny bit of scruff on the chin.

Back and forth. The mop is almost cathartic to me. My hands are so soft, not inclined to this kind of hard work. It feels like I’m on a Zen mission at a Buddhist temple, sweeping rocks back and forth in a garden courtyard.

Down the hallway I go, my mind only on my work. Sadly, my work isn’t about actually mopping this floor, but what lies ahead of me at the end of the hallway.

As I slowly make my way down the floor, back and forth, a few people exit doors, locking up behind them. The door at the end of the hallway stays closed.

Back and forth. I slow down a bit, but as the second-to-last doorway on the left side of the hallway opens, an older woman with grey hair and skin lighter than mine steps out. She sees me, smiles at me, locks her door and walks slowly on the wet floor behind me. One door ahead.

I knock on the door, and mumble “Economía doméstica.” Si, si, comes the reply.

I open the door, unlocked, and push my mop bucket in as I mop up the remainder of the hallway, leading the wet wicks into the room. My head is down, noticing a little of my reflection in the gray murky waters below as it splashes concentric circles outbound toward the rim of the bucket.

I look up. The gentleman in front of me is seated behind a desk of grandeur. The office cost more than the annual payroll total of every previous worker down this hallway. It’s a shame, but that’s not my concern. This is not my country.

The man is seated, still, mostly ignorant of me. I’m not surprised. He doesn’t recognize me, even though he saw me not 8 weeks ago, barely 3 miles from this very building. I was light skinned then. My hair was long, my eyes lighter. I was about 4 inches taller since today I am wearing flat shoes and hunching my back as a housekeeper would likely do, one who is used to moving that mop back and forth.

Back and forth.

He looks up at me only momentarily. His eyes don’t show any sign of recognition, and as I move closer to his desk, I scan the area behind him. His hands are on his lap, and he’s reading a paper. I quietly and discretely see that he is reading something concerning the very reason I am here.

As I center myself on the floor, mere feet from his desk, the mop falls from my hand, falling away from me, the desk to my right. It clatters on the floor, loudly. Louder than it should, but I did give it a push for exactly this reason: noise. Professionals know how to use sleight of hand and noises to catch the attention of those who are unaware of the trickery at hand.

The bald, bloated, well dressed gentleman snaps from his paper and sends his eyes to his right to see what the commotion is. He begins to speak, “Cuáles son usted que…” I cut him off, pounding my palms hard on top of his desk, flat.

“You know what I’m doing, you fat fuck.” He looks at me again, his brow creasing. “Who the hell…” he stops. He looks again. He looks at my hands, noticing how soft and unscarred they are. He looks at my face. “Dios mío.” He didn’t exclaim it at all, it just came out.

“Don’t ask for your God, you fool.” I turn my flat right palm into a fist, and softly bang the desk. Again, professionals use tricks to grab attention of others. The desk is easily 3 feet deep, made of gorgeous mahogany, shined and coated with a glassy finish. It’s perfectly kept, with no extraneous paperwork or clutter, just as a member of the Congreso de los Diputados would have it.

I softly pound the desk with my right fist, his eyes glaring at the rhythm. He barely notices my fist moving to the right, to the empty corner of his desk, then moving forward.

He tries to lurch upwards out of his chair, but lacking wheels and lacking stamina from his grotesque form, he isn’t quick enough. I hop forward, shoving his shoulder down harshly, my hand squishing into his soft suit and soft body. “Sit down, bastard.” I tell him, looking him dead in the eye.

He’s scared now. His phone is 3 feet to his right, out of reach. Everyone has left, so there is no hope for help here. It’s just me and fat-fuck. Err, Mr. Fat-Fuck, as it is.

“What do you want” he mangles in English. “Isn’t it obvious?” I ask, staring at the beautiful gold ring on his finger. He notices my stare and looks down. When his eyes make contact with his ring, he gulps, returning his eyes to mine.

8 weeks ago, I was dressed better than him. The meeting of the minds was a surrounding of powerful people, mostly fat bald wealthy powerful minds, if you can call them that. Powerful, only inasmuch as my own customer allows them to be. When we met, briefly, at his car after the event, the tiny box I gave him weighed only 8 pounds, 3 ounces. 3 ounces of it was cardboard and brown wrapping paper. 8 pounds was pure gold sovereigns. Worth around 71,000 Euros.

“You voted wrong,” I explained, clearly and concisely. When you deal with puppets, you have to speak in simple words. “No tenía ninguna opción, I had no choice,” he mumbled, slightly shaking in fear. Coward. He forgot my hand was still on his left shoulder. I didn’t.

I grabbed at what little hair he had, at the back of his neck, behind his ear. Hard. “Aaaiieeeee” he yelped, his mouth open and his eyes closed, in pain. Good thing his eyes were closed. The surprise barrel of my Fabbrica d’Armi Pietro Beretta in his mouth when it tried to close as I lessened my grip caused his eyes to pop wide open.

“Kray, Kvray” he mumbled, my pistol muffling his true words of Que, que. “What, what? It is funny to me that your last name translated rhymes with brainsplat. Is it funny to you?” He tries to nod his head no, but I hold my weapon tightly, preventing him from moving much. I laugh maniacally, seeing the tip of the pistol popping through his chubby cheek, left then right. Back and forth. It reminds me of the cheeks of a certain Spanish broad who had a similar appearance with me the other night, except it wasn’t my Beretta that was making her cheeks pop.

Back and forth.

“I gave you 100,000 US in gold. You were told how to vote. You failed. Not me, but you failed someone, and we both know that these things don’t happen.” He nods his head yes. I withdraw my nickel-plated wonder from his mouth. “No, don’t talk. Don’t ask how I got in, or when I will be back. It’s better to wonder IF I will be back. You have a chance to redeem yourself.” He nods again, a single tear finally breaking from his left eye, down his cheek.

I move my pistol closer to his face, my hand holding the back of his head gently to prevent him from flinching back. The tear touches the tip of my gun, and I wipe it off quickly, pulling it back and reholstering it in my the pouch clinging to the back of my jumpsuit. Tools and such, they say. I only have one tool. It fits nicely.

I bounce back 2 feet to my right, sidling his desk. He’s surprised at my speed, surprised again when I bounce back 2 feet to land centered on his desk. Again I pound my palms on his desk and stare at him. I open my mouth to speak, then close it. I look at him again, seeing this cowering blubber of power about to burst into tears again. I smile, bend over to pick up my mop, turn to the left, and finish the floor around his desk.

He just stares at me, but I don’t notice. I have a floor to clean. Back and forth.

Back and forth.