The Oligarch (Robert Martin Book 1) Page 3

  If you do this right, it’ll be a piece of cake. Are you with me buddy? No one but the thugs will be home. They usually sleep downstairs by the fireplace, one on either side of the room. Remember not to disturb one, they sleep with one finger on the trigger. If you startle them, it won’t be a pretty sight. You can do this buddy. I know you can.

  Surveillance cameras? Sure, there are cameras, but no one monitors those cameras. He doesn’t trust anyone but himself to monitor them. All you have to do is wear a mask, no one will be watching the cameras in the middle of the night. With a mask and gloves on, you won’t leave a trace. Just a shadow coming in and out. They won’t suspect you, but they’ll suspect everyone.

  Now let’s go over it one more time, okay buddy? Stay with me, look at me when I’m talking to you. My name? That’s not important right now. Just listen and follow directions. I’m your only chance to get through this thing. Think about your family. Your kids need you right now. Sure, you’re in a bit of a conundrum but that comes with the territory. Remember buddy, you chose this life; it didn’t choose you. You could have been a doctor or a lawyer. You could have even been a great writer. You used to like reading books and writing all kinds of crazy shit. Remember your 5th grade teacher, Mr. Davidson? He said you were a natural. He said you were going to make it big one day. But that’s all in the past.

  Buddy, we’re getting off topic. Forget the past, forget Charlie. Just focus on the task, the assignment. You’ve done this a million times. You’ve killed before. Don’t feel so guilty about it now. Those guys you killed were evil and this guy is the worst of the bunch. Okay, some of them weren’t so evil. Ron was a big mistake that shouldn’t have happened. Amanda, Arnold, Tom, Layla, Herand – innocent bystanders, think of them as collateral damage. Don’t be so hard on yourself, and never turn soft. Once you turn soft, then it’s over buddy. It’s over for you and the family. Think of your kids.

  You’re Robert Martin. Everyone knows your name. Everyone loves you.

  He, the assignment, is a top general in America with ties to the old world. The old country. I know you resent the old country, with their caviars and hardcore set ways. This guy is nothing but a lousy immigrant. The bosses from the old country keep him afloat, or else he’d be nothing but a common handyman. One of those guys that comes over to your place and fixes the cable. He’s no big shot. You’re a big shot, you’re Robert Martin. No old-world oligarch can come to our home turf and control us. I hate them buddy, I hate those lousy foreigners. Sure, I know, we have to be loyal to the cause and the family, otherwise it’ll all collapse. But the old ways of doing things are dead and gone. We’re two generations removed from the old country. The Eastern bloc. No more trading shoes for a pack of cigarettes. No more wandering, no more propaganda machine. No more mentions of the evil West. Things have changed and we need to change with the times. Think about it buddy. You’ll be champion of champions, and no one will blame you for the act. And once you’re done with the assignment, you’ll be called master class!

  Robert Martin, synonymous with the Wild West legends. You’re the next Billy the Kid, Wild Bill, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Never mind, you’re better than those guys. You’re a living legend.

  Now, take a deep breath and make yourself angry. You’ll need the anger to carry this one out. It’s not an easy one, I’ll admit, but it isn’t hard either. They think they’re better than you and I. They think they’re superior. But when they get here, fresh off the boat, they’re nothing. They need us to help them find work and a place to stay. And what happens when they make a few bucks? They start talking about the old country and how good it was. They start bossing us around. Acting like you and me are nobodies. Well I’m somebody! Are you somebody? I know you are, you’re Robert Martin. Communist pigs, socialists, evil scum bags. This is America buddy, and it’s time to return the power to someone from the old neighborhood. We won’t be controlled by the old country anymore. This is a democracy, and it’s about time we had a say in things.

  And once you finish the job, think about all the glory, the respect. Everyone will love you and you’ll be set for life buddy. Your kids will go to a top school and never worry about where the next meal is coming from. Your wife will love you even more with all the money you’ll be making. You can even afford to have a girl on the side. No more cheap hookers. No one can mess with you. Pretty soon you’ll be bossing Charlie around. No more crap work, no more scraps. You’ll be top dog. But what am I doing motivating you? You already know all this buddy. You’re the man! You’re Robert Martin! Everyone knows your name.

  So, let’s go over it one more time. In through the back door and up the stairs and then strangle him until he’s blue in the face. Once you feel the life go out from him, you let go and silently walk out from where you came. No one will know what happened until late in the afternoon. Remember, he sleeps in on Saturdays. After you’re done, you come back to the apartment and clean up. Then you go home to your wife and kids and have a barbecue. Call a few of the boys over, drink beer, and shots of tequila. Smile, a lot. Then when the call comes in, you’ll be too drunk to even react. And everyone else will be too drunk to even care. Stay low, pretend to mourn, and when you get the call from the big man himself, you go over and shake his hand and thank him for the opportunity.

  Alright, I think you’re all set buddy. Nothing to it. Follow my plan and all will be alright. Time to wake up and carry it out. It’s only Thursday, you have all day to get the plan just right. Wake up buddy! Wake up! And remember to kill the girl. No one can know about this and no one can know about the apartment. Keep it simple and clean.

  Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Robert!”

  6.

  “Wake up! I made breakfast. You’ve been sleeping for hours.”

  My eyes tried to focus on the popcorn ceiling.

  “Breakfast again?”

  “Breakfast should be every day. Most important meal of the day.”

  Why was she still here?

  I enjoyed her company.

  “Come on, rise and shine! It’s a beautiful Thursday morning.”

  She opened the blinds, letting in the sunlight. Everything turned a bright white. I put my hand up and shielded my eyes. Sitting up on the bed, I touched my face and felt a slight beard growing. A shave was needed, but I was too lazy at the moment. I stood up and stretched. Kristina waited in the bedroom while I dressed. This made me uncomfortable. I could feel her eyes fixated on my every move. I tried to ignore it. Young, woman, here, bedroom. How could I ignore it?

  “Alright, let’s have this breakfast of yours. What is it today?” I said.

  “We have sausages, pancakes, toasted bread, and orange juice.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No coffee, we’re all out and coffee is bad for you. Besides, you slept for like ten hours. You don’t need coffee, trust me.”

  “I need my coffee. You went through my wallet and bought yourself nourishment. The least you could have done is gotten some coffee.”

  “If you finish your breakfast we can go for a walk and I will get you coffee on the way.”

  Suddenly I’m reminded of my Mother?

  I ate.

  When I was finished, I put on my tennis shoes and a pair of track pants and a sweatshirt. It was a cool morning. The air was perfect. We walked up Brand Boulevard towards the Americana. I had a hot coffee and she grabbed herself a Cappuccino.

  “It’s nice out here, what’s this place called again?” she asked.

  “The Americana. It’s sort of nostalgic, that’s what it was built for. To make it look like the forties.”

  “You come here a lot?”

  “I do. I come here with my wife and kids nearly every weekend.”

  “Oh.”

  She seemed disappointed. A girl half my age, what was I supposed to say? Maybe I was reading the situation wrong? But I did enjoy her company and what she had to offer. It was comforting and for an instant I stopped thinking about the assignment. Then,
when it was time to leave, it hit me like an anvil falling on my head. Like in the old cartoons. Except this was no cartoon and the anvil left a permanent scare in my brain.

  “Pull yourself together Robert! What are you doing? Get rid of the girl.”

  There was the assignment to think about. The plan had to be perfect.

  We continued talking as we entered the book store.

  “You seem worried.”

  “I just need a drink, that’s all.”

  “You don’t need drink,” she said, “my father was an alcoholic.”

  “Shut up.”

  I almost grabbed my mouth to stop myself from blurting out the rest of what I had to say. But it came instantaneously.

  “You call me an alcoholic one more time, you fucking bitch, and I will cut your throat.”

  A few patrons at the store turned to look at us. I guess I was a bit loud.

  She looked at me with her sad blue eyes. I walked away.

  What am I doing?

  She followed me from behind and placed her hand on my shoulder. I turned around. She embraced me with all her strength and nearly knocked me over.

  What’s happening?

  “So much pain,” she said.

  I placed my arms around her and we remained in each other’s embrace for a long time. When she finally decided to pull away, I smiled at her. It was the only reaction I could think of. An awkward smile.

  I hope she didn’t notice the savageness of it.

  Tears formed in her eyes.

  “Come,” she grabbed my hand and led me away, “this is a book store, let me show you my favorite book.”

  Kristina stopped at the very end of the fiction book aisle. Then she pulled out a book and held it up for me.

  “Look,” she said, “this is called, ‘My Name is Aram,’ by William Saroyan. It’s my favorite book in the world. It’s about a boy growing up in the early part of the twentieth century, a series of stories the author wrote over time.”

  “So?”

  “A copy of this book was given to me as a gift by my uncle. It was an old copy from the library. We didn’t have much money, so most of the gifts my family gave to each other were of used things. This book was one of them. The library card was still inside when my uncle handed me the book for my twelfth birthday.”

  “I need more coffee.”

  “Are you listening? This is important, it will help you with what you must do. Your assignment. Then we can buy you more coffee.”

  “How do you know about my assignment?”

  “We all have an assignment in life.”

  Paranoia. My heart pumped a little faster. Did Charlie send her?”

  “Anyway,” she continued, “When I opened the book my uncle had gifted me, I found a library card inside with the stamped date, December 14, 1950. That was the last time the book had been checked out. Then it probably remained inside the library for a number of years, until someone noticed it and decided it wasn’t worth keeping around. Once it fell into my uncle’s hands, he decided to give it to me. My uncle probably didn’t even bother reading the cover of the book. It was old and thick and he probably thought I’d get some use out of it. And I did; it’s a good book, with wonderful stories. One story I really liked was about pomegranate trees. You know what a pomegranate is?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlie talks about them. They love pomegranates in the old country. Some sort of symbol about the red seeds and blood. I never understood it.

  “The story is about a boy named Aram and his uncle. His uncle had a vision that he’d grow a pomegranate tree farm and introduce it to America. The only land he could afford was out in the California desert. He needed irrigation and good soil and the right temperature to grow the trees. The uncle spent years trying to get it all just right to grow the trees. And no matter what obstacles he came across, he would not give up on his dream. Finally, after years of trying, his trees blossomed and sprouted big juicy pomegranates. The uncle packed them in crates and shipped them out to be sold, and you know what happened when the crates arrived at the markets?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, no one knew what they were. No one took the time to open them up and try the

  pomegranates. So, the moral is that good things are everywhere, you just have to look.”

  “You’re a dreamer girl. And you need to go home and so do I. I have work to do.”

  I tried walking away but she grabbed my hand. I stopped and turned around.

  “Look inside,” she whispered, “read the stories.”

  She held out the book.

  “I need a drink.”

  “No! No more drinks.”

  “Just coffee. Don’t worry your sad little pomegranate heart. I told you, I get irritated without my coffee in the morning.”

  I hurried out of the book store. Outside the air seemed cooler now. Kristina followed me from behind. I paid no attention to her. I needed to be back at the apartment to plan out everything. I crossed the street and quickened my pace. A short time later I was back inside the apartment. I slammed the door behind me. I took my shoes off and sat on the couch. Kristina knocked on the front door. I stayed motionless in my position. She slowly pushed the door open.

  “I have work to do,” I said.

  She was beginning to irritate me. Who was she? A drifter? A runaway? Some abused girl who didn’t want to go home? I wanted to ask, but asking would mean I’d have to pretend to give a shit.

  “Am I annoying you?” she asked.

  “No, but I need to go on with my day. I have things to do, I have to plan out my work. I’m a very busy man. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I am annoying you.”

  I stood up and approached her.

  “I’m a very busy man.”

  “Just say it, if I am annoying you, I’ll leave. But I want to help you Robert. You need to open up to me. Tell me everything. Sometimes when we bottle things inside it only gets worse.”

  She walked over to me and tried to give me a hug, I pushed her away and grabbed her by the throat.

  “You should have minded your own business.”

  She grabbed my hand on her neck. My fingers dug deeper into her skin. And there she was. This helpless creature who thought the world needed saving. I was far from being saved. Robert Martin needs no saving. He’s a goner. And I’ve accepted that. My eyes fixated on her neck. Her skin became red and I could see the veins inside my arms start to pop. What would it mean to end her now? Would I care? Would I feel remorse? But I don’t kill unless I have an assignment. Each body taken by my hands from this world has a price on it. And no one has yet to pay me for her life. So, no, I wasn’t going to kill her. Robert Martin does feel remorse. I’m not all empty inside.

  I loosened my grip and she fell to the floor gasping for air.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I get irritated without my coffee in the morning.”

  7.

  Bless me father for I have sinned. I wish I was Catholic. I’d go to a church and utter those words and tell the priest everything. I’d tell him about all the people I’ve harmed and all the people I was going to harm. The priest would give me some advice and then tell me to repeat a few Hail Mary prayers and all would be fine. At least that’s what the mobster movies told me. What do I know about Catholics? What do I know about religion? The only Hail Mary I knew was this assignment. Instead of taking my time and making my way up the ranks, I was attempting to go for it all. I’m making a football reference, of course.

  I am to be Robert Martin.

  It’s time for me to come clean. You should know the real me. Maybe you’ve already figured it out. I am Robert Martin. I am Robert Martin the killer. The one who was hired to complete an assignment. I hate to call it a mission impossible, but it certain seems to be exactly that. Hired to kill, hired to cause chaos and disorder. Hired to kill the oligarch, or as Charlie likes to call him, the boss.

  But I don’t want to kill this man. I fear th
is man. I want to run away from this man called the oligarch.

  They can never find me at the apartment.

  Oligarch!

  The pain in my head and the lingering pressure inside my eyeballs became worse. I needed a drink. A shot of tequila, bourbon, whiskey, cognac, vodka, brandy. Hell, I might even take a bottle of beer. All liquor was gone. Kristine had tossed it all away. There was too much pain inside me to kill her. Never touch another man’s liquor stash, that was my motto in life, everything else was open season.

  I stopped worrying about the girl and who she was. We hadn’t spoken for a few hours now; she lay on the couch with her arms folded and staring at the ceiling. Even with watery eyes, and pouches forming under her eyeballs from all the crying, she was beautiful. She was also young, kind of sexy, and annoying as hell. I didn’t hate her or love her. But she was still here, even after I nearly choked the life out her.

  I pressed on. The assignment, the mission, a drink. I paced back and forth then walked into the bathroom. Kristine paid no attention to me. Without any alcohol around, I nearly drank the bottle of mouthwash. I must have one underneath the bathroom sink. Success! I did have one. I took out the large green bottle of mouth wash and drank. It was unbearable. I spit out most of it, some of it reached my stomach. The inside of my mouth burned and tingled at the same time. I sat on the toilet trying to collect myself. Then the shaking and ticks started. My eye sockets began to twitch. I lit a smoke and puffed away. Then I smoked another one, and another one, and another one. A fresh pack gone within the hour. I felt sick but functional.

  Why am I so scared? Robert Martin has no fear.

  This was stupidity. No one touches the Oligarchs. They are invisible men all the way at the top. And I was being asked to kill one.