Clean - Chapter One by Cindy Jacks

My cellphone buzzed—my handler, Mickey calling.

“Hello?”

“You set up for tonight, Della?”

“You know you’re the only person on the planet besides my shrink who calls me that.”

“Are you set?”

“Say it with me ‘DJ…Dee Jay.’”

“Are you set?”

“All work and no play, Mickey…And yes, I’m all set. Thank you for checking.”

“Angelo reported in. He’s on schedule.”

“Thanks for the update. I’m leaving now.”
Ugh—Angelo. Not my favorite hitter. His kills had a rude and abrupt vibe. At a stoplight on the way to the scene, I flipped through electronic dossier on my BlackBerry. The target was a high-level player in the Turkish opium market which meant there would be collateral damage in the form of his two bodyguards. Gone were the days of drug syndicates taking care of their own trash. Outsourcing had even reached the criminal world. That’s where my employer, the Agency, came in. Our specialty—dirty deeds, but not dirt-cheap.

Other than the extra bodies, there was nothing special about this job, a straight hose down and liquidation. The Liquidator I loved. Alkaline hydrolysis would turn the Turks into an environmentally friendly liquid the consistency and color of motor oil. The end result smelled only of ammonia and could be poured down any kitchen sink. If that isn’t poetic, I don’t know what is. As for the rest of target 47621, hospital-grade disinfectant and some elbow grease would make the hotel room good as new. He’d become just another missing traveler.

The wipe down procedure varied little once I made it to the scene. I’d spend a minimum of ten and as much as forty hours in the space to be cleaned which meant I always packed my twenty gigabyte mp3 player. First things first, I had to gain entry to the scene. In this case, a swanky hotel suite.

I walked through the lobby with my gear in a rolling suitcase. A business outfit and understated hair and makeup helped me blend in with the other guests. I had schematics of the security cameras and I made sure I avoided them. Looking at my shoes during an elevator ride had become a habit. Mickey would doctor the elevator and room key records in the hotel’s security log and insert a fake express check-out confirmation for the Turk, but gaps in video time stamps made investigators nervous. Assuming investigators would ever become involved which was unlikely. Druglords didn’t often file missing persons reports. Still, best to avoid the need to scrub video records if possible.

Once inside the suite, I changed into a jumpsuit, goggles, gloves, respirator and booties. So stylish. Actually I looked a bit like the Stay-Puff marshmallow man. Oh well. No one to impress here.

I surveyed the scene. Not too a big mess considering I had three corpses to process. Two in the heart, one in the head. Judging from the size of the holes, Angelo had gone with a twenty-two as he’d indicated he would in the project plan. So thoughtful of him. I didn’t have to dig bullets out of the carpets or the walls. All nine slugs should be safely contained inside the Turk and his goons. As they say, it’s not the size of the gun but the skill of the shooter. I rolled over the bodies to be sure there hadn’t been any through-and-throughs. A smile tugged at my lips; as I suspected not one bullet had made an exit wound.

Next, I bagged the guys. The target’s slim frame made maneuvering him easy enough; the body guards not so much. But with the right leverage I’d managed to wrangle all of them into the PVC sacks and drag them to the foyer without making a bigger mess of the blood pooled in the carpet.

I wet down the stained rug with a proprietary blend of solvent, disinfectant, and deodorizer. My compact wet/dry vac made short work of the bodily fluids and sealed the sludge in an airtight canister. The gadget was quieter than an electric toothbrush. The Agency equipped me with such wonderful toys. Already the room looked as though nothing sinister had occurred, but I had much left to do—Mop down the walls and hard surfaces, treat and vacuum the soft surfaces, and run the ozone machine to eliminate any residual odors. Then it was time to pack up and wait. And catch up on my favorite TV shows. Mickey had loaded CSI and Dexter on my portable video player.

At four in the morning, I placed a call asking Mickey to schedule the pick-up crew for six. The boys arrived right on time dressed in recycling center coveralls, packed the Turk and his guards into plastic bins and wheeled them out. Anyone who might catch a glimpse of my movers would feel warm and fuzzy that the hotel cared enough to go green.

“Meet you back at the airport,” I said, closing the door behind the crew.

I finished cleaning the foyer, made one last inspection and changed into my street clothes. Leaving the way I came, I pulled my rolling case behind me through the lobby and parking lot, out to my car.

From the hotel, I drove to a privately owned airport nearby. The Agency’s jet waited for me. I confirmed the movers had properly secured the bins containing the bodies in the cargo hold. We boarded the plane and I verified a cargo truck would be waiting for us when we landed.

“May I get you a drink, Ms. Jordan?” the shiny, pert flight attendant asked.

“No, thank you.” I buckled my seatbelt and prepared for take off.

In a couple hours, the plane touched down at an airfield in a small Mexican border city. The Agency rented warehouse space there, no questions asked. Federal employees south of the border required fewer places before the decimal to ensure ‘no questions’ than those farther north.

The movers loaded the cargo truck and took off before me. Time to take my meds for the day. I washed down an antipsychotic and a mood stablizer with a bottle of water from the jet’s galley.
I settled into the Jeep left for me by the airfield. My phone buzzed—Mickey calling.

“Did you take your meds?” he asked.

“Just now.”

“Good.”

“You don’t have to check on me, I’m an adult.”

“Sometimes you forget when you’re working.”

“Thank you, Mickey. I remembered.”

I hung up before he had a chance to give me the usual pep talk about chemical imbalances and BPD. Borderline Personality Disorder. Apparently in Mickey’s book, this was something to be thankful for. At least I wasn’t a full on anti-social personality. There are no meds for that diagnosis. How lucky was I that my childhood marked with violence and sexual trauma had left me only on the borderline of being truly fucked up? Thank God for small favors.

All cynicism aside, the medication did help tame mood swings and impulsivity. Plus the Agency required that I submit to monthly drug testing to ensure I continued to take my medication. When at home, I saw a therapist twice a week that specialized in BPD, all covered by the Agency. Who said private security companies couldn’t have a heart?

I pulled into the processing facility, made sure the movers had delivered the body to the Mickey for liquidation and paid them off.

“Look forward to working with you again, Ma’am,” the largest guy in the group said. I’d done many a job with him and still didn’t know his name. Nor did he know mine.

Starving, I went straight to the kitchen. A can of beef stew and instant rice made a quick satisfying meal. After I’d finished eating, I popped my head through the doorway. “Is the Turk-shake ready?”

“Oh Della, inappropriate.” Mickey grimaced at me. His angelic round face, blond curls, and full, pink lips didn’t match his masculine voice.

“But funny?”

He acquiesced. “But funny. And no, the Liquidator isn’t finished its cycle yet.”

Sweet little Mickey. He’d taken it upon himself to point out my inappropriate emotional responses. Though why he felt the need to do this was beyond me since I couldn’t do my job if I had appropriate feelings about murder and gore. With his sense of decorum, I didn’t understand why he chose to help me in my macabre enterprise.

“Call me when it is. I’m going to take a nap,” I said.

“Hey before you go, I wanted to ask you, do you like Michael Buble?”

That his gaze couldn’t alight anywhere for more than three seconds told me he’d worked up the courage to ask me this question, but I couldn’t resist a little fun.

I set my jaw and squinted at him. “Why would you ask me about Michael Buble? Of all the singers in the world?”

“I-I don’t know. Actually, I have two tickets for next weekend.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“No. No. Not at all. I have two tickets you can use. If you want. You know, you can have them both. Unless you want me to go with you.”

I walked over to him and wound one of his curls around my index finger. “I’d love to go with you.”

“You would?”

“Yeah, I have this recurring dream about you, me, and Michael Buble. That’s why I was surprised you brought him up.”

“Really?”

“In the dream, I have you handcuffed to this very desk chair. Michael Buble is playing in the background.” I leaned over to whisper in his ear. “And I’ve just slit your throat.”

The color drained from his face and he fumbled to push away from me. His hands trembled a bit.

I covered my mouth with my palm to suppress a laugh. “Mickey, I’m kidding. I don’t even know any Michael Buble songs.”

“Inappropriate. Really not cool.” He glared at me.

“But funny?”

“No, Della. Not funny.”

“Sorry.” I blew him a kiss then went to the back room for a nap. Mickey wouldn’t speak to me again for at least a few weeks, other than for work purposes. He wouldn’t think of my little ruse as doing him a favor. Kind, well-adjusted, normal—he deserved better than the likes of me.

I felt as though I’d just closed my eyes when Mickey’s voice on the intercom roused me. Checking my watch, I saw I’d been asleep for several hours.

“Liquidation and disposal complete,” he said.

“Thanks.”

I picked up my phone and dialed the cell assigned to Angelo for this job. “Your laundry is clean,” I said, yawning at the same time.

“Bueno. I’ll transfer your fee right now. Same account?”

“Same account. Pleasure doing business with you.”

Ending the call, I trudged out of the makeshift bunk. Another day, another fifty grand. Time to fly home.