Businessmen

The westbound Cromwell Road was jammed. A shunt and five drivers arguing in the middle and outside lanes meant nobody was going anywhere.
Johnny took a pull on his spliff. He'd seen the accident happen. If he could have been arsed, he'd have gone down and offered himself as a witness but he couldn't. Besides, it was much more fun watching the coppers, a riot in day-glo yellow vests, shout and wave as they directed the traffic.
"Very butch," said Johnny, stepping back into his kitchenette, "very Jennifer Justice."
Reaching the bathroom, he took another drag, coughed - stronger shit than usual - and threw the spliff in the loo where it expired with a hiss. The phone rang. Johnny shrugged the dressing gown from his shoulders, stepped into the bath and slipped under the water where he stayed for a moment or two before resurfacing.
The ringing had stopped.

* * * *

To his family, he was Jonathan, while his admirers knew him as Johnny Jet. His mates, however, called him Rita, like Rita Hayworth, because he always wrapped a towel round his head in a turban after he'd washed his hair.
Looking in the mirror, he unwound the towel and, turning this way and that, cast a seasoned eye over his naked figure. His legs were long and smooth, his peach of an arse was the perfect bubble butt - or so he'd been told - and his coffee coloured skin and jet black hair hinted at a hometown more exotic than Newport. His mum said he was like his dad - if she remembered him rightly. Dad, a travelling salesman peddling household goods round South Wales, had cleared off long before the birth, taking his supplies of polish and clothes pegs with him, but nobody had let Johnny forget the touch of tar in him. At school they'd called him Nescafe to which he'd been known to retort, 'that's Miss Nescafe to you!'

* * * *

Glo and Doris had been in the caff earlier but a burst of texting told Johnny they were done for the day.
Glo, Gary to all but his dearest friends, was on the bus to Parsons Green and a night of MTV babysitting his kid sister, and Doris, a Greek Cypriot with a penchant for Veuve Clicquot and Agent Provocateur, was back in Camden getting ready for a family wedding, smaning at his cousin wearing white and commenting on the groom. You're a tart, texted Johnny, flicking a look round the other tables.
'The Eye', not a day under sixty, sat at his usual table with a copy of the Standard and a coffee. And a roving eye. All the boys who frequented the caff knew he was looking for trade, a bit of business, and when Glo had dubbed him 'The Eye', they'd all shrieked with laughter.
Over by the door sat a newcomer, tall, brown haired and freshly dubbed the Fit Guy by Johnny who, from the moment he'd walked in, had shot enquiring glances in his direction.
Doris replied: who'd you have to fuck to get outta here? Johnny laughed then looked up from his phone.
The Fit Guy was looking at him.

* * * *

An hour later and the clientele had changed.
'The Eye' had taken himself off to God knows where and the Fit Guy had left too. In their place had come and gone a labourer, Brenda from the launderette and two women carrying over-stuffed shopping bags. Now there was just Johnny and Liam in his 501s and blue t-shirt.
"Shit!" said Liam, spilling his coffee. He pushed back from the table and stood up.
"Here." Johnny pulled tissues from his pocket to soak up the pool of creamy brown liquid.
"Fuckin' hate going out all messed up." Liam checked for damp patches then sat down again. "Got to look good for the punters."
At six foot, the darkly handsome Liam was the perfect Irish lad, gazing into his clients' eyes from over the top of a pint of the black stuff. It was an act he'd perfected in the three years since he'd left school and, at a going rate of a hundred and fifty an hour, he didn't feel inclined to tell anyone the closest he'd been to the Emerald Isle was listening to U2.
"Where is it tonight?"
"High Street Ken. His wife's away."
"A regular?"
Liam nodded. "Third time and he's very generous."
Lucky you, thought Johnny. "Old? Young?"
"Old. Forty, I guess. American and he loves the Oirish." Liam laughed. "Stupid prick."
Johnny sipped his coffee. Time was he'd had regular clients and a full diary but now it was casual pick-ups that made him most of his money. There were still those - he silently thanked Mister Takehashi and the assortment of Mister Smiths - who came back for more but, at nearly thirty and in a market that prized youth beyond all else, it was getting harder to compete with chickens like Liam.

* * * *

Being a rent boy had been a nice little earner for Johnny when he'd first hit London, making him more than he ever did flipping burgers or pulling pints.
As a boy, whenever his failures were highlighted or his laziness condemned, his mum would clasp him to her bosom, telling him, 'God gives each of us a gift which we have to find.' Well, he'd found his behind a holiday camp chalet one night but it had taken a move to London to become himself and, at the age of seventeen, find his world.
Staring into the cracked mirror, he wondered what the punters saw in him. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been complimented, yet, like an actor remembering good reviews, the honey sweet words of his youth stayed with him.
But what, he asked himself, did the others think? His mates? What did they say? Glo and Doris and Liam? Did they laugh behind his back? Did they take the piss out of him?

* * * *

Liam was chatting to Skaterboi.
"Shit," muttered Johnny, coming out of the loo. Skaterboi, with his shaggy blond hair and cute looks, was the last person he wanted to see but he smiled - eyes and teeth, dear, eyes and teeth - and gave a cheery 'hiya'.
Skaterboi returned the smile. "Alright?"
"Fabulous," lied Johnny, sitting down. "You working?"
Skaterboi nodded. "You?"
"Not today." Johnny hadn't worked all week but he was fucked if he was going to tell Golden Boy that. "Just taking it easy."
"Cool." Skaterboi licked the coffee froth from his spoon and looked at Liam. "Yeah, well, they're all either skinny arsed teenagers or tall blonds and they're every-fuckin'-where. Victoria's like bloody Warsaw."
The influx of talent from Eastern Europe was harming trade. Polish lads were on the screw over Hackney way and up round Walthamstow, not to mention closer to home in Acton and Ealing, and their rates were low.
"There's some on with the agency," moaned Skaterboi.
"You doing much through them?" asked Johnny.
"Mainly foreigners and young marrieds. You?"
"Can't complain." Johnny's second lie inside a minute.
"There's this French guy who books me. We went to Paris for the weekend and he says we'll go again."
"Wicked." This from Liam.
The thought - introduce you to mother, did he? - ran through Johnny's mind but he didn't give voice to it. Skaterboi was the new kid on the block and everyone loved him. Everyone, that is, except Johnny who was irritated by his good looks and 'boy next door' manner. He wanted to reach across and slap his silly face. But he didn't. He thought of Felipe instead.
He'd initially taken Felipe for just another punter wanting a blow job, so he'd pocketed the fifty quid, delivered the goods and waltzed off into the night, but the young Spaniard had, to his surprise, become a regular fixture.
"What do you think, Rita?"
"What?"
Liam nodded at Skaterboi. "Him and this bloke."
"Oh, you want to watch him," said Johnny.
"Why?" asked Skaterboi.
"Well, he's flash, isn't he? Flash. I mean, all this taking you to Paris. What if he dumps you there?" Johnny aimed to fix the Bitch. "You'll be stranded. No money. Nothing. You'll be a poor little miss."
"Piss off!"
"You'll have to sell yourself to get the fare home. Know the French for 'want some business', do you?"
"Fuck off, you old queen!"

* * * *

He heard the same words, hours later, from some longhaired lad he'd cruised near the tube. They'd gone into an alley but, after hearing the price, the boy had done a runner.
Johnny told Dutch Martin about it over a vodka.
"Probably a virgin," said Martin.
"Or poor." Johnny scanned the bar for likely lads. He looked back and caught Martin giving some black guy the onceover. "Behave yourself."
"How can I? It might be true love."
"A quick shag in the loo more like."
They laughed.
"To you," said Martin, raising his glass. "Long may you reign over us."
"Cheeky cow."
"Wish me luck." Martin downed his vodka and manoeuvred through the throng to where the black guy was standing.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
Johnny looked round. A bald man, fat and over forty, smiled nervously at him.
Trade.
"That's sweet of you. Champagne, ta," said Johnny.
The man ordered two glasses of champagne then looked at Johnny. "I'm Kevin."
"Johnny. You local or from out of town?"
"From - out of town."
"So what brings you here?" Like we don't know, thought Johnny.
"Oh, well..." Kevin flashed what he took to be a winning smile and the conversation all but died until two glasses of bubbly materialised in front of them.
Johnny reached for his glass. "Cheers."
"Cheers." Kevin clinked glasses with Johnny.
"Ooh, is it a wedding?" came a voice tables away.
Kevin blushed. Probably thinking of the wife and two point four kids at home, thought Johnny as he touched him on the arm. "By the way, I charge."
"Charge?"
"I'm a renter. A rent boy," said Johnny, spotting the Fit Guy on the other side of the bar.
"Oh...I hadn't..."
The Fit Guy met Johnny's stare and held it.
"I'm sorry," Kevin blustered on, "but I didn't know."
Johnny tore his eyes back to Kevin. "What?"
"I didn't know you were a..." The words dried on Kevin's lips.
"Forget it then."
"Oh, well, I -"
"Look, if you're not interested, just fuck off."
"There's no need to -"
"Piss off."
Kevin, fearing the worst, backed away.
Johnny raised his voice and played to the audience. "I mean who'd want to be fucked by you? You know, Mother warned me about men like you. Here one day and gone the next and not a thought about me and the kiddies!" Laughter broke out. Kevin fled and the world and his boyfriend returned to drinking and chatting. Johnny necked his champagne and looked across the bar.
The Fit Guy had gone.

* * * *

Nobody responded to Johnny's sidelong looks as he meandered past the shops. Nobody joined him at the railings as cars, bound for the suburbs, drove by, and night buses ferried their dusky-faced passengers to minimum wage hell.
He set off for home. He was too old to hustle and he knew it. As a teenager it had been a lark, out on the streets with all his mates, but now it was depressing. He prayed that Felipe would send him money and he let the hope of it trickle through him like a strawberry daiquiri on a summer's evening. The first ten grand had gone in a flash but this time it'd be different, he told himself, and if it wasn't, there was always -
Shouting and swearing broke out somewhere ahead of him. Two drunks were pissing up the front of a shop window, roaring each other on to new heights.
Johnny crossed over and scuttled past on the other side.
As a lad, turning tricks in cinemas and on the back seats of family cars, he'd learnt not to ask questions, so Felipe was only one of many punters to him until he saw his picture in a discarded newspaper on the District Line. The caption named him as Raul Martinez but, to Johnny, he was Felipe.
Demanding more money didn't exactly work out - Felipe went to ground - though, weeks later, there'd been a package containing ten thousand in cash and a note saying, 'No more'. Martinez's shock return to Spain 'for family reasons' dominated the following Sunday's papers and, in an exclusive interview, he'd spoken of his desire to remain there.
By the time he'd done his money on drinks and dope, ciggies and clothes, was about the time Johnny saw Martinez and his bride-to-be splashed all over the glossies. He saw his chance and contacted Martinez's people, stating his terms and conditions. He was awaiting their reply.
The Fit Guy appeared from nowhere, glancing at Johnny as he paused to light a cigarette before slipping out of sight.
Johnny spurted towards the corner and watched the cigarette's firefly glow disappearing into the inky blackness of a courtyard. He tailed it down to where the Fit Guy was waiting.

* * * *

Kane stubbed the cigarette out, put the fag end in a small plastic bag and slipped it in his trouser pocket. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, bent down and checked the pulse.
Johnny Jet was dead.
The Client had assured Kane that the target would be easy and so it had proved. He had been dispatched with the minimum of fuss.
In Johnny's pockets, he found a mobile phone, keys, loose change, a cheap lighter, condoms and lube. He took the phone and the keys then pulled down the dead man's jeans and briefs and left the police to make their own conclusion.
With so litle to go on, any lurid headlines would soon be wrapped round fish and chips.

* * * *

Towels lay on the floor next to the unmade bed. Unwashed mugs and plates gathered mould in the kitchen sink. The bathroom was a supermarket of disposable razors, shampoos, gels and cosmetics. Kane grimaced - welcome to the world of Johnny Jet - and moved to the living room where the dvds were as predictable as the cds.
His instructions had been to find and remove any phones and computers. The Client's words, 'there won't be anything else', were right. With just a couple of chairs and a coffee table in it, the room had all the warmth of a doctor's waiting room minus the back issues of 'Country Life'.
The bedroom held no surprises either: a few porn mags proudly boasting Europe's best lads; a bit of dope on the bedside table; t-shirts and silk shirts hung neatly next to pressed trousers and a school uniform; and, in the chest of drawers amongst the socks, briefs and thongs, a pair of silk stockings and a suspender belt.
Kane found the laptop under the bed.

* * * *

Half an hour later he was a mile away, walking steadily east, carrying the laptop in its case.
It had been a rewarding day. With no foreign travel involved, he'd charged his standard fee of a hundred thousand pounds: twenty-five per cent up front with the rest being paid into his offshore account upon completion. No tax. No national insurance. All he had to do was call the Client and confirm the termination of the target.
He waited at the kerb for the red man to go green.
He'd undertaken fifteen such jobs in a little over four years - three in the U.S., five in France and Spain, with the remainder forming an archipelago of unexplained death from Israel to Indonesia. This had been his first home job and he'd come to like the shorter commute to work. No inter-continental flights meant more time with his kids if his ex allowed him access.
The green man cleared him to cross.

* * * *

A milk float trundled past as Kane called Geneva from a booth.
He let the phone ring three times and hung up before repeating the procedure. The third time he waited until it was picked up.
"Oliver?"
"Who did you say?"
"I'm sorry, I've made a mistake," replied Kane, ending the call. Twenty-four hours and the money would be his. He made another call then stepped outside to wait for the mini-cab to arrive.
Kane liked to keep things simple. In Denver, having thrown a banker from the top of his bank, he'd casually joined the bystanders gawping at the human ratatouille on the street and then slipped away through the crowd when the police showed up. He'd gone three blocks before the first wailing ambulance had shot past him, just another executive on his way to lunch.
This job had been no different. Despite being clocked by CCTV, he knew that by the time the coppers looked at the tapes, he'd be his natural blond again and his clothes would have been dispersed through charity shops across the Home Counties.
The key, he told the Client and, he assumed, the Client told his clients, was planning and patience. His London debut had gone well because he'd learnt the target's routine and discovered his weaknesses. After that, it had just been a matter of luring Johnny Jet to his own personal Ground Zero.

* * * *

The mini-cab driver, more at home in downtown Vilnius than London, drove off. Kane reckoned the chances of the man recognising him were slim and, if he did, he was probably unlicensed, so talking to the boys in blue was even less likely. He bought a coffee and a paper and settled down to wait for his train as the day's first eager beavers bustled across the concourse.
He'd been killing people for years. In Afghanistan, in Iraq, indeed wherever his masters had ordered him, he'd gone and done his duty and done it well. But they'd let him go - some pen pusher's decision - and he'd found himself on Civvy Street and struggling. And then someone had remembered his name and passed it on to somebody else who spoke to another party who had drawn his details to the attention of a man who invited him for a drink. Not in a club, not in some select bar up West, but in a Stepney boozer. Kane had laughed. He hadn't minded, he hadn't given a fuck in fact. All he'd wanted was work and money. And the Client, exquisitely out of place on the Commercial Road, had offered him exactly that: an in and out job north of Barcelona, the target a man the wrong side of seventy. No questions asked and forty grand in a numbered account, thank you very much. They'd shaken hands on the deal there and then.
Three months later, there'd been a job in France - some general or other - and Kane doubled his money by making it look like a car crash.
He never knew who ultimately benefitted from his work. All he got was information relevant to the target, so whoever wanted them dead was unknown to him. At times he'd suspected he was doing some government's dirty work but other jobs had felt very personal. Either way it didn't matter to him, it was just business.
"You see him last night?"
Kane lowered his paper. A young man, a Scot, nodded at the back page. "Scored two beauties and made the third."
Kane looked at the photo of a footballer kissing a medal.
"He's on ten million a year," continued the Scot, "and that's before he's even kicked a ball, the lucky bastard."
Raul Martinez smiled at Kane from the back page.
"Mind you," said the Scot, "it'll be over tomorrow if gets a serious injury - or something."