Milton crept toward the apartment door, trying to tread lightly so as not to make the ancient floorboards creak. It had taken weeks of false starts and lost leads, but he finally tracked down his target, and was close to fulfilling his contract. He flinched as the floor seemed to scream under his left foot. He had thought this whole assassin thing would be a lot easier. At least it looked like it in the movies. Really, it entailed much more waiting around in his car than he expected.
He finally reached the correct apartment. Well, he thought he did. Turns out his hand didn’t make the best notepad. He squinted at the scribbles, confirming that yes, this was the right place. He shifted his backpack, suddenly worried he had forgotten the rope. The client had been very particular – this had to look like a suicide. Milton shook his head, trying to pull himself together. Of course he had the rope; he had packed and repacked his supplies at least three times last night.
Finally, he took a deep breath, and prepared to break down the door.
Before he could even move, it flew open.
“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you coming in?”
Milton just stared. The woman before him was tall, imposing, and much more beautiful in person than through his binoculars. He just stood there, mouth open. And her voice! It was like smooth, thick honey, or the warm notes of a cello. It was like every word she said caressed his ears, and all he wanted to do was listen forever.
She sighed, then turned back into her apartment with a flounce. “When you get your brain back, shut the door.”
The scent of incense and candles drew Milton into the apartment, which was much more opulently furnished than the hallway implied. His eyes darted from one incredible sight to another. There were lush, overstuffed couches upholstered with red velvet, lamps made of glass that stained the floor with spots of vibrant light. The heavy curtains were closed, the room dim. Odds and ends covered the shelves, along with old books of every size. Milton almost had a heart attack when he saw the taxidermy bear in the corner, snarling and ready to lunge at him.
Finally, his eyes went back to the woman, who stood beside a cart full of bottles, filling a glass with dark wine.
“Can I offer you anything to drink?” she asked, gesturing to the bottle. “I prefer wine, but I have a little bit of everything. Top shelf, of course.”
“I- wha- um…”
She looked at him over her wineglass, eyebrows raised. “Is this your first time?”
Milton momentarily forgot why he was there. “First time doing what?”
“Killing someone,” she said, lightly. “I assume that’s why you are here.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, it is… How’d you know?” Milton was confused. This is not at all how it went in the movies. And this was supposed to be an easy job.
She sighed. “A woman in my position comes to expect such attempts.”
“A woman like, what?”
She stared at him, bemusement turning to slight concern. “Do you even know who I am?”
“Uh, yeah,” Milton said, trying to surreptitiously glance at his hand.
“Is it that hard to find a competent assassin anymore?” she asked the room, shaking her head and placing her wineglass carefully on a dainty side table. “I am Philomena Ronen, the opera singer.”
“Right, yeah, I knew that,” Milton mumbled.
Her brow creased slightly, but she didn’t say anything.
“Wait,” Milton said, “why would someone what to kill a singer?”
“An opera singer,” Philomena corrected. “And I can think of a few reasons.”
Milton frowned. “Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she mused, gracefully lounging on a chaise. “It could be a rival. Someone who isn’t quite as good as me, but thinks she is. Or she is jealous, of my voice, my status, my patrons.”
Her long, loose gown shifted as she reached for her wine glass, and he caught a glimpse of an ornate necklace tucked into the folds.
“Or,” she said, taking a small sip, “it could be one of my patrons. Someone who thinks he deserves more of my time or attention, or whose wife is angry about how much he spends on me.” She smiled.
Milton felt his knees buckle.
She chuckled. “Or, it could be that one of them realized he told me a little too much, and needs to make sure I don’t talk.” She tilted her head, considering him. “Any idea which is might be?”
“Uh…”
Philomena waved him off. “Of course you don’t, I apologize for putting you on the spot.”
Milton stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. He didn’t know what to do now. He didn’t think he could go through with it, but he also couldn’t go back to his client empty-handed (or corpseless). His eyes flicked around the room, hoping for some kind of sign, something that would tell him what to do.
He jumped when he realized Philomena was standing next to him. The plush rugs strewn across the floor had covered her footsteps.
“What’s your name?” she asked, softly. Her eyes were warm, and he wanted more than anything to make her happy.
“Milton.”
“Well, Milton, you seem a little lost.”
She seemed amused by what she had said, but Milton didn’t understand. He decided to remain silent, watching her.
“Milton, I know you are just here to do a job.”
He nodded.
“But, I am afraid you won’t be able to finish the task.”
He nodded again. “I know. I can’t kill you.”
Philomena shook her head, and reached up to softly touch his face. “No, you can’t.”
Milton felt something jab into his stomach. What had happened? Why did he hurt? Was the room spinning… He stumbled back, trying to steady himself. Why was he falling?
Philomena carefully guided him down to the floor, and held his head in her lap.
“I’m sorry about this, Milton,” she said, softly, brushing his hair to the side. “But I still have work to do, and I can’t have you giving away my location.”
Milton still didn’t know what was going on. His belly hurt, and his vision was getting spotty.
“I’m scared,” he whispered. “Where am I going?”
“Somewhere else, far from here,” she replied, and then she began to sing. He didn’t understand the words, but her voice was so achingly beautiful, so sweet and warm. He wasn’t worried anymore, and felt himself drift off to sleep.
Philomena sat with him, watched as he took his last, slow breath. She finished her song, then carefully placed his head on the ground. She tugged over one of the large rugs, wrapping his body tightly.
With a glance back at the rug, she walked over to another small end table, and picked up the handset to her old rotary phone. She dialed the familiar number, watching with some satisfaction every time the dial spun back. A man answered on the third ring.
“Obi,” she said, her voice infused with convincing joy. “I have a little favor to ask you. I spilled wine on that beautiful blue rug, and I’m afraid it’s quite ruined. Yes, of course, you read my mind – it will never be the same, I’m afraid, and seeing it at less than its full glory would just be too depressing. Thank you so much for offering to remove it for me. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Obi.”
She sighed as she hung up the phone. It was hard, knowing as much as she did about so many delicate things. But she had been walking this line for years, had foiled several such attempts to remove her. Philomena glanced at the baroque mirror leaning against the wall. She smiled, just for herself. It was a sharp, cruel expression, one she kept for herself. Yes, she thought, it will take much more than that to bring down this songbird.
Inspired by a writing prompt from Writing Prompt Generator.
© The Lightning Tower, 2020