Henry Lombard Smythe, lived on the thirty-eighth. The doorman gave me a nod as I entered and was smart enough not to hassle me—the tattoo on my neck usually takes care of that. A quick high-speed elevator ride and one ridiculously easy to pick deadbolt later, I was inside. No one around, so I made myself at home. High-end furniture, abstract art, views of the city out giant plate-glass windows from damn near every side of the apartment.
The photographs told the story; they usually do. I could check it all out on the pink sheet—date of birth, marital status, kids—but I’ve always gotten the most complete profile of my clients from the things they choose to put in frames.
There’s Smythe—middle-aged, hair receding, a good set of teeth—next to a bottle blonde with great curves, both in scuba gear down in Fiji. Another of him on a ski slope somewhere in the Alps, next to a slim brunette who’s holding on to his elbow like it’s the last thing keeping her from falling off the mountain. Mixed throughout, photos of Smythe and a little girl, aging randomly. In one picture, she’s in pigtails and they’re at the circus; in another she’s dealing with her first bout of acne and the look in her eyes says hurry up and take the damn picture already. These, combined with the swinging bachelor pad, made it clear: A divorcé with disposable income, choosing to spend his newfound single lifestyle traveling the world and making a general fool of himself with women way too young for him.
I would have made myself more comfortable—put my feet up, checked to see what kind of video setup he had going—when I heard the elevator bell ding ding, followed by a pair of footsteps stumbling down the hall. The uncontrolled laughter of the inebriated rang out as the lock began to turn, so I pulled my Taser and stepped back into the shadows of the darkened flat. It’s always better when you can make an entrance.
They came in already half undressed. His shirt unbuttoned, her skirt hiked to the waist. Hands roaming everywhere. From the outfit I figured out pretty quick that she was a working girl, and not one of the registered ladies from the red light. I waited until she had his pants down around his ankles—I know, not much of a fair fight there—and nearly started her business. His eyelids fluttered as he leaned against the wall, expecting a wash of pleasure.
“Mr. Smythe,” I said calmly, separating from the shadows. “I’m from the Credit Union.”
That got his eyes open real quick. He stumbled to the side, tripping over his pants, barely staying upright. The hooker stayed on her knees, shuffling backwards, keeping low. Smart girl.
“Fuck. Holy fuck—” Smythe stammered. “Wait, I can pay.”
“Sorry,” I said. “That’s not my department.” I raised the Taser and took steady aim. “I’m legally bound to ask you if you’d like an ambulance on standby, though you will be unable to secure another artiforg from the Credit Union in replacement.”
“Wait,” he said again, “don’t—”
That’s as far as he got before my Taser darts slammed into his chest and released their electricity. He went down twitching, and I stayed clear until he was down for the count. Back then, I was always careful about safety.
It didn’t take long to pull out the extractors and scalpels I needed for the job, and I’d barely made my first incision when something soft yet heavy whacked me upside the head. I turned to find the hooker, legs wobbly and eyes red with drink, standing over me, swinging her purse in my direction. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” she slurred.
“Jesus, lady,” I said, fending off her feeble blows, “Why you gotta bust my balls? I’m not here for you. Let a guy do his job.”
She was all of nineteen, twenty years old, I could see that now, not much older than Smythe’s own daughter, and she was scared. All she had to do was walk out. Hell, she probably already had her cash—it would be the easiest job she’d see all week. But sometimes people do stupid things when the see the Tasers and the scalpels and the tattoo. Sometimes they get in the way. Kind of a shame, really.
She hit me with the purse again. Wasting my time, more than anything else. I hopped to my feet and grabbed her by the shoulders, pressing her firmly up against the nearest wall. I could smell the alcohol