Murdergram, Part 2 Page 10

  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 busines
s.”

  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.

  Fourteen

  Tamar had carefully checked Melissa’s SoHo apartment, but to no avail. It seemed like she had vacated the apartment a few days earlier. Now, she skillfully picked the lock to the front door of her next option, the Boston apartment, and she cautiously entered the spacious oasis.

  Tamar slowly crept into the lavish Brookline condo, located a stone’s throw from Fenway Park. The beautifully decorated 1,375-square-foot, two-bedroom condo had artwork hung in the long hallway and the latest amenities. Melissa Chin was living well from her book sales. Dressed in all black, a silencer-equipped .45 in one hand and a goody bag of torture devices in the other, she went through the apartment room by room. She was in the mood to extract information from the author the hard way, yearning to know how she was able to write about herself and the Cristal Clique. Where did she get the information? Who was she?

  The master bedroom was Tamar’s last stop. She went searching through the large closet, looked underneath the king-size bed, and tossed aside the tufted gold chairs. Nothing.

  The entire apartment was clean—no signs of life—except for another note written by Melissa Chin. It read:

  A day late, a dollar short, sorry for your miss. Better luck next time!

  Scowling, Tamar smashed the large flat-screen TV to the floor. Boiling over from rage, she crumpled the piece of paper into her fist. Someone knew she was coming, and she wondered who. Someone else was pulling the strings and making her look really bad to E.P. and the Commission. Every day Melissa Chin remained alive was a day of agony for Tamar.

  Leaving the apartment, Tamar had an afterthought before climbing into her car. She lifted her head and gazed up at the condo. It didn’t make sense.

  Could they be setting me up? Why?

  Maybe E.P. was messing with her head, fucking with her mind, making her chase a ghost. What if Melissa Chin is actually E.P.? Being intimate with Cristal, he could have known all the details about her life and mine.

  It made sense.

  She had to think. She had to be smart. There wasn’t any room for error. She removed a cigarette from her dwindling pack and lit it up, taking a much needed-pull of nicotine, allowing the tobacco to cool her nerves. She exhaled the smoke and lingered near her black Volvo, her conventional ride around Boston.

  She couldn’t dwell on Melissa Chin for long, since the Commission had assigned her to a new target, a Mexican drug lord named Hector Guzman.

  The last thing Tamar wanted was another drug lord to assassinate. She had killed so many of them, it was easy as swatting flies on the front porch in the south. Too easy. There was nothing praiseworthy about killing these stupid, gaudy men who thought hiding behind their goons and armor-plated vehicles made them untouchable.

  What Tamar craved was someone who mattered internationally; maybe taking out a president of a country, even the president of the United States. She wanted to leave her calling card globally, travel all over the world. Anywhere but America. Just as in the book Killer Dolls. E.P. had promised these things would come, but yet nothing. He wasn’t keeping his word. But she continued to be loyal to him and the organization.

  ...

  The Green Dragon was a fairly small place. During the day, sunshine poured in through the large windows, but it got noisy fast. Patriots and Celtics fans found it a popular Boston bar to hang out, drink, and root for the home team. The small Boston bar by the waterfront was filling up fast as it neared midnight, almost reaching full capacity. The balmy weather made sitting outside by the waters pleasant.

  The place was lively with the live band on the stage. The band was loud, soulful, and energetic as they performed one of their own songs, making the people dance and drink more. The lead singer was shirtless, heavily tattooed, and was moving around the stage animatedly, his vocals screaming into the microphone as he played his guitar.

  Hordes of college kids were there getting pissy drunk, and a few cute girls in their bohemian outfits and partying attitude were becoming extra friendly and flirtatious with the young and old males in the area.

  Tamar sat at the corner of the bar, downing a few vodka shots, removed from all the activity around her. She had a lot on her mind. She hated Boston with their ugly accents, confusing street layouts, bigotry, and terrible d
riving. But she wasn’t in any rush to leave right away.

  “Can I buy you another drink, beautiful?” a man asked from behind her. “It looks like you could use some company.”

  No matter how discreet Tamar tried to be, she was still a very pretty girl. She felt his hand against her waist, and he was already trying to massage her side without asking her first.

  She turned around on her barstool to take in his appearance. Gazing at her was a six foot two mammoth of a man—tall, black, and not so handsome. He had intense eyes, and his voice was deep and brooding. He could easily intimidate anyone in the room with his thuggish, hardcore appearance.

  Tamar deduced a few things about him. He had done some time in prison. He wore a sleeveless shirt, and his jailhouse tattoos were obvious and poorly done, and he probably didn’t do too well with the ladies, because he looked like he didn’t take no for an answer.

  She looked him up and down from head to toe. He was clad in stripes and plaid together and white socks with flip-flops.

  Ewwww!

  Despite his tacky appearance and rough pickup line, Tamar decided to give him the time of day. Bored, she wanted to make the best out of her trip to Boston.

  “You wanna be my company tonight?” she asked.

  “Hells, yeah,” he said. “A beautiful woman like you and a fine man like me? Shit, the magic we could make? Wicked!”

  He was corny, but he was keeping her somewhat entertained.

  “I’ll take another shot of vodka,” she said.

  “Vodka, huh? Okay.”

  He signaled for the bartender, and she ordered her drink.

  Tamar noticed a few ladies gawking her way, not with jealousy, but more like a warning, like they knew something about this guy she didn’t.