Free Hour of the Assassins by Andrew Kaplan

thought, the dumb prick could use a few classes from Koenig, the Company’s shadow and unarmed combat instructor. He explicitly ignored Brown Jacket and inwardly sighed. He would have to take him out right after dinner. The guy looked strong enough to be trouble, so he would have to do it quickly, he decided as he paid the pretty miniskirted waitress. Her eyes widened slightly as he peeled off one of the hundred-dollar bills from his roll. She smiled brightly, trying to expose her molars as she bent over to hand him his change, giving him the benefit of her cleavage all the way to the nipples. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a twenty-dollar tip. Maybe later, he told himself, and gave her saucy rump an affectionate pat as he got up to leave.
    A spectacular rose-and-violet sunset splashed across the sky, like a giant reflection of the glittering neon that was lighting up all over the Strip, as he drove through the swarming evening traffic to the Pussy Cat A-Go-Go.
    Catty-corner from the Pussy Cat, a white stucco chalet blazed with the neon invitation:
    Wedding Chapel
    Marriage License Information
    Parking In Rear.
    Next to the chapel was a storefront lawyer’s office, with a large sign advertising, “Divorce. Uncontested Only $25.” Caine grinned and headed into the Pussy Cat.
    The large dark bar was relatively empty, since the band didn’t come on till 10:00 P.M. It took a minute for Caine’s eyes to become accustomed to the dim red light. He ordered a Coors from a red-cheeked bartender with a yellow bow tie and left the change on the bar.
    Why is it bars are always dark? Caine wondered. Maybe people feel safer that way. Maybe it’s so they can observe other people while they think that their own faces are safely hidden. While he waited, certain that Brown Jacket would have to come in to see if he was meeting anybody, he checked out the location of the men’s room and the emergency exit.
    At the other end of the bar two businessmen, the only other customers, were talking about how somebody named Roger didn’t know a goddamned thing about the business. There was some discussion of Roger’s connections. It couldn’t be his brains, they agreed sagely, and argued over which of them should pay for the next round. Just then Brown Jacket came in, blinking blindly for a few seconds while his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
    Brown Jacket sat at the other end of the bar, near the two businessmen, and ordered a bourbon and branch. When Caine was certain that Brown Jacket had made him, he glanced nervously at his watch a few times, as though he were waiting for someone, and headed for the men’s room.
    He stood waiting in front of the urinal, his hands in front of him. At last Brown Jacket stumbled in anxiously and, seeing Caine alone, quickly made for the urinal next to him.
    â€œThat beer just goes right through you,” Caine drawled amiably. He noted the tail’s shoulders relax a bit as he flushed the urinal.
    â€œYeah, I know what you—”
    Brown Jacket never finished the sentence, for Caine, stepping quickly behind him, had thrown his right arm around the man’s throat. As he leaned his weight against the back of Brown Jacket’s knees, forcing him down, Caine shoved his left hand against the back of the head, smashing the startled face into the urinal. The sound of flushing water covered the man’s gasp. Caine grabbed a fistful of hair and hauled the dazed man into one of the cubicles and slammed him onto the seat. He locked the door and unfolded the pocketknife. Brown Jacket sat there stunned, his nose broken and mouth bleeding. Caine grabbed the hair to keep the man’s head still and pricked one of the half-closed eyelids with the knife point. Catching his breath, he said softly:
    â€œI’m only going to ask you three times. If I don’t get the answer I want the first time, I’m going to cut out your left eye. The second time I take the