“Hey Tommy, toss me that bat.” This job must have been high paid. We never use the bat. Never. Regardless of whom he was, my job was plain and simple, hand Jimmy the tools from his bag and clean up after him. Perhaps this man was another snitch, or maybe he just disrespected the wrong people. It didn’t matter. It never mattered. There was no need for an explanation. We thrived for the kill, but above all else, the money. Yeah, name us what you will- hitmen, assassins, contract killers.  It makes no difference. We have no identities. We are never the same twice. We feel no emotion. We ask no questions. As far as the law is concerned, we haven’t ever committed a crime.

I would like to say what we do has a deeper meaning that was useful to society, but now I can’t. I am tired of this. I have been in the game for only 5 years. I can’t help it. I feel as though we are doing something wrong.  Look at me, calling murder a game.  Am I too soft for this job? How about you ask Mr. Robertson? In case you haven’t read the press in the past three years; I’ll tell you the story.

            December 12, 1935. I’m freezing my balls off. It’s nearly 2 A.M. I am 19 and just met Jimmy.  He told me he would show me a good time. He knew I was the fighting type. So…yeah. Jimmy brings me to this chap.  He says to me “This guy right here, yes him, he says he saw Ol’ John killing Pauly boy last night. Do you think he saw it?” I stood in amazement. I stuttered back, “I… uh I.. No he didn’t.”

I mean what else should I, a kid, say to Jimmy.  Jimmy stands about six feet, two hundred fifty pounds. Well then Jimmy thinks to himself for a second and responds “No.  He didn’t. Teach him a lesson.” My heart sunk. I understood what he meant. This was not an ordinary school lesson. I had to kill the man. 

This doesn’t happen often. I am just an apprentice. A week into my training I get my first hit.  I was shocked.  Oh, I forgot to mention, Mr. Robertson was tied down and already bloodied by Jimmy.  Jimmy pulled out the tools he wanted me to use. My first hit. I still had emotions. I knew if I didn’t finish him off Jimmy would have me bleeding out in front of Mr. Robertson, and then proceed to do his job.

A vegetable peeler. A monkey wrench. A piece of glass. A rusty melon baller. A hammer.  One by one Jimmy laid the tools out on his velvet handkerchief. I was expected to use these each in individual terms to inflict as much pain as possible.  I thought if I should sacrifice myself for this stranger, but I realized Jimmy would do the job if I didn’t.  His figure haunts me to this day. He cried for his mother as the melon baller approached his eye. I knew he couldn’t last much longer. Jimmy had a maniacal grin on his face. He could tell it hurt me. It hurt me more than words could describe.  I broke down. Jimmy understood I had done all I could, and with what seemed a flick of the wrist, a .44 caliber round rocketed into Mr. Robertson’s chest. The deed had been done.  Time passed. In what seemed a blink of an eye, Jimmy got rid of Mr. Robertson. He left him on the man’s friggin doorstep. There was no evidence. That is what I learned. The newspapers erupted off the presses with the gruesome murder descriptions, all accountable to my doing. We left Chicago for New York where work was more “promising”.

Jimmy tried to console me. He’d tell me the man was bad. I had done the world a good deed. All that same old bullshit, ya know, to make me feel good.  The beginning of my emotional brainwashing was set in place. I accepted the lies. I was destined to be a contract killer.